The Pelican I Remember

My Alaskan Waters Trilogy of historical Christian novels is set in Southeast Alaska, where I grew up in the fifties. As a child, I spent all of my summers visiting my grandparents, who pastored the only church in Pelican, a fishing village on Chichagof Island between Juneau and Sitka. I have fond memories of that town, and it is featured in my first book in this series, Till the Storm Passes By.

Pelican in 1953 ©AnnaLee Conti

The following is a piece I wrote years ago for a writing course. The assignment was to write a description. I wrote about Pelican as I remembered it.

"What a nasty southeaster!" grumbled the old fisherman as I passed him on the boardwalk.

"The worst we're had all summer," I agreed. The rain beat down on me, trickled down my neck, and ran off my nose. "An umbrella's useless in wind like this."

Pelican from the air

Activity had nearly ceased as I trudged down the main street of Pelican. By "main street" I mean a boardwalk that was about fifteen feet wide, built on creosoted, barnacled pilings over the waters of Lizianski Inlet. The houses and buildings also perched precariously on piling on either side of the boardwalk. The town stretched about a mile, curving with the rocky cliffs to which Pelican tenaciously clung. The tide ebbed and flowed under the town.

The red wagon in which my suitcase rested clattered and splattered as I pulled it over the rough, slippery boards toward the post office where the Alaska Coastal Airlines office was located. The rain continued to pound me mercilessly. Occasionally, lightning flashed. I counted the seconds to the thunder roll.

The fog was so thick I could not see the red light that flashed on the buoy at the entrance to the harbor. Seagulls swooped overhead like tiny white phantoms in the fog. The wind was tangy with salt water and fish slime. The odor of rotten eggs from low tide still pervaded the air.

A raven cawed frantically just above me. I jumped. As I glanced up to see what was the matter, my right foot skidded out from under me on the slippery walk and down I thudded. Icy water soaked through my clothing before I could scramble to my feet.

A few yards farther, I passed the two local bars. Raucous laughter rang out above the throb of the juke box. The weather-bound fishermen had nowhere else to spend their time and money. One old leather-faced fisherman in a black slicker tottered out of one tavern toward the other as I passed.

I slopped on through the rain toward the post office. Soon, the boat harbor became visible through the fog. The trollers and seiners rolled and twisted in their moorings as the choppy waves caught them, and the wind rattled their tall poles.

The tiny skiffs tied to the close end of the float were half filled with water. Except for several fishermen securing their boats, the float was vacant. Even the youngsters, who seldom left their favorite fishing spots except to eat and sleep, were missing.

Farther on, I passed the little firehouse, which sheltered the smallest fire engine I'd ever seen, and approached Pelican's only bakery. Even old Wobbly had closed up shop today, and I missed the familiar aroma of fresh bread.

Next to the bakery stood the little white schoolhouse, which would open in a few weeks. The empty swings in the playground twisted in the wind. Part of the chicken wire fence, which had broken away, grated back and forth as each gust of wind hit it.

The Standard Oil dock and the salmon cannery opposite the school were closed until they could get more fish. No cheery "hello" rang out from the Filipinos who drove the jitneys, carrying loads of canned salmon to storage until the next Alaska Steamship freighter came in. The cannery's cookhouse, Pelican's only restaurant, was also closed until the storm passed.

The docks around the fish house and cold storage plant just ahead were vacant. Yesterday's fish had been cleaned and stored in ice, and now only a faint fishy odor clung to the deserted building.

Pelican boat harbor today

To my right was the post office, located next to the small general store and the offices of the Pelican Cold Storage Company. I grabbed my suitcase and dashed inside. By this time, I was thoroughly soaked and chilled to the bone.

Before I could ask the agent when the Alaska Coastal Grumman "Goose" was due in, through the static on the radio a voice cackled, "Due to lack of visibility, Alaska Coastal flight 2 now turning back to Juneau. Over and out."

"When will Pelican ever get telephones?" I grumbled.

Pelican Church in the fifties

Today, Pelican has telephones and televisions, and the Grumman "Goose" no longer flies there. The church, where we lived in the attached living quarters, still sits atop the hill above the cold storage plant, but the little trees now tower above it blocking the wonderful view of the inlet we loved to enjoy. City hall now occupies the old school building and the school has moved to a modern building at the other end of the boardwalk. The cannery is closed. Sports fishing and tourism are the main industries now. It's still a great place to visit.



Check out my Alaskan Waters Trilogy on Amazon. Book 3, Beside Still Waters, available in e-book, coming soon in paperback.

Beavertail Lighthouse--My Inspiration

In 1948, when I was two-and-a-half years old, my family sailed up the Inside Passage of Alaska on my uncle Byron Personeus' gospel mission boat, the Fairtide II, to begin missions work. Throughout my childhood, I lived on the water in towns such as Juneau, Pelican, and Seward.

Maybe that's why I've always felt a special connection with the restless waves of the sea. In seventh grade, I choose to memorize John Masefield's poem, "Sea Fever," for an assignment in school. I can still recite most of it.

A few months after our wedding in Valdez, Alaska, also on the water, in June of 1967, my husband, Bob, went on active duty in the Army. On our second anniversary, he left for a year-long tour in the Vietnam War.

Then, we were sent to Rhode Island, where he commanded a small Army detachment that provided high-level security for 250 civilian personnel at the facility where the strategic world map was made.

Aerial of Beavertail Courtesy Google.com

That's when we discovered Beavertail Lighthouse at the southern end of Conanicut Island in the mouth of Narragansett Bay, a body of water which nearly cuts the state in half. Whenever we could get away, we headed south to Beavertail.

After our son was born, we'd bundle him up in his stroller and walk around the point on the one-lane gravel road. If the wind was too strong or it was raining--the best times to watch the surf crash against the the rocks, we'd sit in the car.

After two years, we were transferred from Rhode Island to Arizona. Then, Bob resigned his commission to study for the ministry in Springfield, Missouri. But always we longed for the sea.

In 1977, we returned to the East Coast to start a church in Upstate New York. Whenever we could get away, we drove to Rhode Island to visit Beavertail. For the past 25 years, that is where we've spent every wedding anniversary.

When we first get out of the car, the scent of salt water and blooming wild roses mingle in the wind. We climb down to our favorite spot where we love to sit on the rocks just above the water.

The ever-changing sea always fascinates me. Silently, I recite "Sea Fever." The breakers churn in endless succession against the rocks. Strangely, the restless sea and the mesmerizing rhythm of the surging waves soothe my spirit.

Waves at Beavertail Courtesy Google.com

The crashing surf foams and hisses as the waves charge against the rocks, explode into spray, and tumble into tidal pools, fracturing their tranquility. White threads of foam lace the ebbing waves like delicate embroidery on tapestries of blue and teal and gray.

Seagulls scream overhead. One suddenly swoops down to pluck a tiny, wriggling crab from a nearby tidal pool in the rocks and carries it to a higher boulder. There, it pecks vigorously at it to break its shell. Another gull lands nearby, stretches its neck, beak open, and squawks its request for a share in the meager meal.

The Author at Beavertail

The breeze flings spray from a crashing wave, wetting my face. The sun hides behind a puffy cloud, and I feel a chill. Just when I decide to put on my jacket, sunbeams spill out and warmth envelopes me again.

Beavertail is where the idea for my Alaskan Waters series was born. The nearby town of Jamestown is the opening setting for the first scenes in Till the Storm Passes By, and Beavertail plays a key role. The colors of the sea became Evie's favorites, the sea a recurring theme.

With time for ideas to free fall, the plot settled into place along with the sequence for the series of novels.

Once again, as our anniversary nears, my thoughts turn to Beavertail. "I must go down to the sea again; to the lonely sea and the sky...."


 About Beavertail

The lighthouse received its name from the beaver-like shape of the island, with its tail at the southern end. Beavertail was the third lighthouse (after Boston Harbor and Nantucket) to be built in the American Colonies. The southern point of Conanicut Island is open to the onslaught of the Atlantic Ocean on three sides. Winter storms and hurricanes make it extremely treacherous to ships trying to make harbor in Newport or Providence and was notorious for shipwrecks.

The lighthouse itself, rebuilt in 1863, a square granite tower, is not the most picturesque of lighthouses. Today, Beavertail is a state park with a paved road. Its popularity lies in the fact that it is easily accessible with numerous parking areas from which one can view the waves even when its too stormy to leave one's car.


Till the Storm Passes By, Book One in my Alaskan Waters series of historical novels, can be purchased in trade paperback or e-book at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or go to my website, http://annaleeconti.com/books.html, for other options. A Star to Steer By, Book Two, is also available, and I'm currently working on Book Three, Beside Still Waters.

Frontiers of Faith

America has always had a frontier. Frontiers have shaped our attitudes. If things didn't work out where we were, we could always go west. Alaska has been called America's "Last Frontier." But where do we go from there? Space challenges us as a new frontier. Men have even walked on the moon. As a frontier, space seems endless, but that frontier is only open to a select few.

One frontier, however, is open to everyone--the frontier of faith. New frontiers of faith open daily to be explored and conquered. This true pioneering experience is available for each one who is not content with the mundane but wants to keep exploring the depths of Christ. You will never run out of frontiers of faith in your lifetime because God is infinite.

Two people who have done more to shape my faith and challenge me to explore the frontiers of my faith were my maternal grandparents, Charles C. and Florence L. Personeus, pioneer Assemblies of God missionaries to Alaska from 1917 to 1982. In the pages of Frontiers of Faith, I want to introduce you to my grandparents, their walk of faith, the lessons they learned, the challenges they faced. Just as these two pioneers of faith challenged me to explore the frontiers of my faith, I hope you will be challenged to do the same.

Available at www.annaleeconti.com

I first knew I would write this book when I was working in an editorial capacity at the Assemblies of God Headquarters in Springfield, Missouri, in 1973, while my husband was in Bible college and seminary. My grandparents were visiting us, and Grandma placed a packet in my hands, saying, "Many people have asked me to write our story, but I'm too old to see it through by myself. So I'm placing all my written accounts in your hands to do with as you think best." (Before she died in 1985, I was able to read the rough draft of this book to her and Grandpa.)

Grandma enriched my childhood with her wonderful storytelling, keeping everyone spellbound with her vivid descriptions of their early days in Alaska. As I began to read through her written accounts, I discovered a wealth of material richer than the Alaska-Juneau Gold Mine, which produced over three billion dollars worth of gold at 1980 prices. But how could I best tell their story? I began looking for a recurring theme in the Personeuses' lives. And it wasn't hard to find.

The one thing that stood out in all their experiences was their simple, childlike faith in taking God at His Word, especially in the area of divine healing. At the age of 87, Grandma had written, "I have never taken an aspirin in my life. I have found that prayer works better every time." And she wrote from firsthand experiences of many serious illnesses and injuries. Her statement demonstrates the quality of their faith. It was more than mere words; it was faith in action.

As I studied their accounts of healing and living by faith, I began to see the lessons God had taught them through their experiences. I recognized principles that could perhaps be of help to others who are seeking to walk by faith. Through their stories, I hope to pass on to you some of these principles for exploring and conquering the frontiers of your faith, as I introduce to you two of God's faithful people, who pioneered the Assemblies of God in Alaska, America's "Last Frontier."

In 1917, when the Personeuses first joined the newly formed General Council of the Assemblies of God, Eudorus N. Bell, one of the early leaders, asked, "When you get to Alaska and find it hard, cold, and discouraging, will you stick?"

"We'll stick," they replied.

And "stick" they did. Long after those early leaders had gone on to their eternal reward, the Personeuses ministered faithfully in Alaska for 65 years. In that time they saw the Assemblies of God in Alaska grow from one struggling mission in Juneau to more than 80 churches and missions stations from Ketchikan to Barrow.

--Preface to Frontiers of Faith by AnnaLee Conti c 2002. All rights reserved.