8:00 P.M.

Andrew's aunt has three houses on Lopez. We stayed in one of them—well, the exercise room above the garage of one of them—over the weekend.

By chance, it was a household of 60-year-old women gaily drinking wine and eating summer holiday food. They were unabashed and matronly, and they cared for us so.

The main house sits on a narrow peninsula in the heart of things, a long stone's throw from the fireworks stage for the island's show. In fact, the house is about 50 feet within the safety perimeter. When the show began, the bursts showered directly above our heads—very exciting—and sizzled into the bay feet in front of and slightly to the north of the house. Almost immediately fires sprouted on the grassland on the northern shore. A few more bursts thrust from the pipes, but then the show abruptly ended and we watched as the flames on the yonder shore lengthened and strode toward the houses there. Black smoke leapt over the trees and roved toward Orcas. Firetrucks arrived, one by one, for at least an hour. Every firetruck on the island came to try to contain it. Before we went to bed, the fire was mostly out. Some driftwood still burned hotly, but the grass only steamed.

Now we're in the ferry line. The car has been here since 2pm; we have been here less than that. A guy drove a car backwards off the ferry at the Anacortes dock. Stopped ferry flow for a while on perhaps the busiest day of the year.