The Island Where Shop Class Never Ends

Adults at play on Bainbridge Island

Bainbridge Island lies on a major fault, but during my short stay there everyone seemed completely blameless.

In fact, the people of Bainbridge are almost uniformly nice—and polite, thoughtful and conscientious. On my final full day there, I felt compelled to ask our AirBnB host what the islanders had done with all the crabby people. She just laughed and looked straight at me.

There are two ways to access Bainbridge Island. You can take the Washington State ferry that departs from Pier 52 in downtown Seattle or drive onto the island via Highway 305 from the mainland. I chose the ferry because it seemed to be the most classic and respectful way to approach the island.

We arrived at night after flying into Seattle. The ferry is enormous—it felt more like boarding a barge—and it rumbled into motion right at the appointed time. The massive engines churned the water like a powerful KitchenAid blender and the ferry skimmed across Puget Sound. It first aimed left of Bainbridge’s port where Rockaway Beach Park is located, but ultimately took a rather sharp right turn and cut its engines as it floated into Winslow Inlet before docking at the Ferry Terminal.

For the first time ever, we had an AirBnB proprietor awaiting our arrival. We had attempted to decline her kind offer because her home is a short walk from the Ferry Terminal, but she insisted that it was raining. She rebuffed our gentle protests that it was unnecessary and insisted on taking us to the Town & Country supermarket for provisions even though it was fairly late at night.

A bomb cyclone had struck the prior day. The market and many of the local homes were operating on generators, giving a survivalist vibe to our arrival.

We were immediately struck by the unusual chatter at the supermarket. A woman had placed an assemblage of loose vegetables on the checkout conveyor belt. I was impressed by the healthy procession of carrots, radishes, onions, cucumbers, and tomatoes. She’ll live to be at least a hundred, I thought.

I was not the only one harboring the impression that her food selections were insanely virtuous.

“Carol, you’re making me feel bad again. You’ve gotta get some Pringles or Cheetos to give me some cover,” said the cashier.

“Oh Shirley!” said Carol as she turned slightly red. “You’re really something. But you know I’ve gotta take care of this one little body of mine or my dad will give me hell, not to mention my hubby.”

“Eating a few Starbursts in your garage won’t kill you sweetie,” said Shirley as she typed in the product codes on her register with one hand.

“I know that. But my dad wants to hike Lake Serene Trail and see the Bridle Veil Falls with me next weekend, and I’ve gotta be in shape for that.”

“Isn’t he like seventy now, darling?” Shirley was placing Carol’s veggies in her canvas Save the Whales bag.

“Seventy-one actually. But last week he did a twelve mile trek on Gothic Basin Trail up to Foggy Lake. Pretty dang steep sections there even for a young dude. And muddy as hell in the low lying parts.”

“Tell me about it,” said Shirley, pecking away at the keys.

“Does some crazy hike every day. Comes home covered head to toe with dirt. Jenny lives in the laundry room washing his mud-caked clothes, saint that she is. Eats oatmeal when he returns. He’s at his high school weight.”

“That’s completely sick Carol. Just like you!” Shirley replied, as Carol tapped her credit card on the square and grabbed her canvas whale bag.

“Toodolooo!” said Carol.

The two women grinned at each other like Cheshire cats in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland as Carol walked off.

“Billy, Billy, Billy! How are you? Can you believe that Carol?” said Shirley as she grabbed a bag of dried split peas from the belt and glanced at next-shopper-in-line, who sported a red man bun and long beard.

The adjoining lines had similar friendly banter going on. It was not bonding due to the partial loss of power that ignited the camaraderie that I was witnessing. There was a genuine friendliness toward fellow islanders and their families.

A short time later we were in our host’s eerily-silent electric vehicle getting an unscripted tour of some of the quaint streets including a museum and various restaurants and shops that comprised the core of Bainbridge Island’s Winslow area. Our host offered to give us a private tour of the BARN, which we initially thought was odd because typically you just open the large latch and see the stables, loft, and piles of hay inside. But hey, what did we know, maybe she had some extra cool barn and horses and cows to pet?

It turned out that our host was referring to the Bainbridge Artisan Resource Network (BARN). One thing Bainbridge Island does not lack is moneyed people. Some made their fortune in finance, and others in the many large companies in the area such as Boeing, Amazon and Starbucks. There are also many tech entrepreneurs. The island features a mix of work at home business folks and retirees, some on the younger side. BARN was their collective invention.

Bainbridge Island is roughly the size of Manhattan and the land use planning is superb, with a mix of parks, preserves and well-controlled development that has protected most of the natural beauty of its rolling hills and ravines. It is a very green island, an oasis in a drying world.

As we neared her AirBnB, she received a call.

“When you gonna come play tomorrow?” the caller said with a gleeful voice.

“Not sure. The day after tomorrow. Maybe 10ish.”

“I cannot wait. Playtime! See you then sister” said the female voice on the other end.

“You betcha.”

The next day we spent exploring the main commercial area of Bainbridge Island as well as the waterfront. The boats congregated in Eagle Harbor rocked on the blue water, as if the waves were new mothers swaddling them with a lullaby.

We walked the network of wooden wharves, and admired the persistence of the seagulls as they hunted for fish and crabs. We tried to hike in several of the parks along the coast of Puget Sound, but didn’t get far as the storm of the previous day had flooded all the paths. There was standing water in our way like some sort of aquatic protest against our intended invasion.

Off the coast, hulking vessels of various sizes and colors glided by, lugging tons of cargo across Puget Sound into the port of Seattle. Helen of Troy might have had a face that launched a thousand ships, but Americans clicking on Amazon powered freighters holding millions of bar-coded containers.

We eventually meandered over to the main street of Winslow for lunch. Afterwards we found ourselves in an art gallery which showcased paintings and drawings by local artists. Upon complimenting the style of a beautiful watercolor of a gardener pruning a plum tree, the gallery owner whispered,”Well I am glad you like it since the artist is standing right behind you!” This triggered a congenial conversation with an extremely talented local Bainbridge artist, Martha Rogers. I aspired to fit into the polite culture.

That afternoon, we had similarly pleasant conversations with people at bookstores, a throng of do-gooders selling calendars to raise money for those in need, and the waiter in the restaurant at which we enjoyed flavorful artisanal pizza. We were now two days in from arrival and still we had heard nary an unpleasant word.

The weather each day was overcast and cool with a generous cloud cover. But it was not cold and uncomfortable. It was if the heavens had decided to protect us from the sun by blocking its strongest rays and covering us with a cloak of fine mist.

As I searched for sleep that night, I thought about the adventure we would experience the following morning during our BARN tour. My interest had been further piqued by seeing a BARN advertisement at a downtown establishment.

Our host materialized right on time in the morning to chauffeur us to BARN in her self-appointed role as our voluntary docent. It is typically a good sign when, without any urging on your part, someone takes time out of their day to show you something.

Our hostess did not wait till we arrived at the BARN facility to share some history. The construction of BARN was entirely privately funded with millions of dollars raised by residents of Bainbridge Island. About two-thirds of members are retirees. The Island abounds with people who wish that high school recess or shop class had never ended. They are social but they want to be artsy while hanging out together—as if to say, “You are my friend, but friendship is not enough; We need to be doing something cool together.”

The setting for that coolness is a large piece of wooded acreage with a modern, central building on it. The outside is simple and angular and does not betray the secret of the magnitude of advanced workshops within. The only hints that this is not an office building comes in the array of vents and discharge conduits that allow heat and wood byproducts such as shavings and sawdust to be expelled for recycling.

The inside was like a well-designed, modern high school except rather than classrooms, there are predominantly studios—such as wood, metal, jewelry, fiber arts, welding, and the list goes on and on.

The islanders indeed come to BARN to play. They assemble in groups, typically of two and three, wearing protective glasses and literally talking shop. It’s like the world has excised all the kids who knew what they were doing in shop or metalwork class, aged them by two to five decades, and dropped them into the building. In the wood shop, they make anything from furniture to complex cutting boards to violins.

Whatever they are doing, the BARN residents seem happily obsessed by their craft and the environs in which they fixate on it. For example, our host told a story about how in one of the craft studios, a BARN team realized that a window placed high on the wall became obstructed by some of the exhaust pipes that had to be installed for the machinery. It is apparently a sin at BARN to fail to take matters into your own hands—literally. The team members huddled and together their brains conspired to construct a remote-controlled, hydraulic system that opens and closes the window on command.

In my estimation, the nicest aspect of BARN is that people are just having plain old, undeniable fun, making new friends and hanging out with old friends. For the introverts, there is a ready-made excuse of “I’ve got to go work on my project at the BARN.” For the extroverts, there is just the “Let’s go play” text or phone call.

Another noticeable feature of the BARN is that all of the many studios have well-maintained machines, no clutter even while in use, and are impeccably clean despite being a place where wood, metal, fiber and other materials are being cut, ground, polished, finished, and painted. Our host explained that the rules are strict and “the leaders” set aside specific hours for clean up. Even those who might be sloppy at home cannot get away with it here.

The cadres of BARN members are like the original crew of Star Trek. They are serious about their mission (of learning and having fun), respect their fellow members, believe the safety and cleanliness rules are important, and know that learning or enhancing skills is important to their well-being.

They also seem to relish the fact that most of them had no significant prior skill in the trade which they are learning or refining. Our host loves to make beautiful metal outdoor sculptures of woodpeckers and wading birds using advanced welding skills and is a leader in the welding shop. When I asked her if she was a welder or engineer in her career prior to retiring, she looked at me like I was dense. “Hah! Absolutely not!” she said with a chuckle.

During our tour of the BARN studios, we saw a poster to the upcoming BARN bazaar that coming Saturday. We heard snippets of conversation about “Are you going to the bazaar?” and “Are you selling at the bazaar?” or “So you’re volunteering at the food station this year?” We also encountered a few residents such as a woman using a 3D printing machine to make Christmas ornaments who indicated that they were working overtime this week to get ready to sell their wares at the bazaar. We resolved to walk several miles from our AirBnB to the BARN that Saturday morning to experience the event that there was so much buzz about.

It was a cross between an art exhibit, show-and-tell, and a social mixer. Residents sold ornate, hand-made cutting boards and bowls, paintings, greeting cards, Christmas ornaments, jewelry, tools, clothing, and other wares that they had painstakingly crafted with their hands or the machines in their shops. Without exception, they were all beautifully designed and well-made.

But as with touring the studios, the best thing was witnessing the joy. There is a happiness in producing objects that others desire—knowing that there is a value to them and to the labor one puts into creating them. That delight was evident everywhere in the grins of both the sellers and the buyers.

The Vashon Glacier created Bainbridge Island by scooping rock and mud out of Puget Sound to make its own handcrafted gem worthy of displaying to the world. The Suquamish tribe made the island their home until 1855—the same year that Walt Whitman first published Leaves of Grass—when it ceded the island to the United States government via the Treaty of Point Elliott. When you view the beautiful tree-covered, craggy coastline, you must admire the glacier’s handiwork.

It was not long before we boarded the massive ferry that powered out of Winslow inlet and headed toward Seattle. The winds howled off the bow as if to advise us that we were making a mistake by departing. A seagull flew overhead at considerable height and dropped something orange that skittered across the deck in front of me. It was the severed section of a crab leg.

I must confess that my reaction to my experience in watching retired folks master new skills at a high level at BARN was to remember—for possibly the hundredth time in my life—that the only “C” I received in high school was in wood shop. Perhaps there is hope for me after all.

I have carried the scar of the scarlet letter “C” for life, and I was admittedly ill-tempered for a full day after I received my report card on Long Island so many decades ago. Obviously, judging from my host’s reaction to my question about where they have put all the crabby people, the very nice residents of Bainbridge Island had instantly picked up on that and—as the ferry pushed me toward Seattle—I had my answer.