Page 11
Emmy, the park ranger
I shift my bulletproof vest so it’s not digging into my hip, then straighten my jacket as I watch the ferry drift toward the dock. Dustin hops off the boat and ties it to the metal landing below the pier. After he secures the boat, he finds me and salutes. I wave back, pointing to where I’ll meet the campers. Sam, the interpretive ranger on duty, is waiting on the road at the end of the pier for the day-trippers. We switch off greeting jobs like we alternate everything on this island. I watch as Dustin grabs the fuel box from Sienna. While there’s more turnover at Island Packers, the company that runs the ferry to the island, than there is with rangers and volunteers, I make a point to learn all their names. After Dustin places the fuel box in the alcove on the plank, he reaches back for a propane grill tank, then another. Four in total. I’ve never seen the Packers allow so much gas on the ferry.
As the passengers amble off the boat, I keep an eye out for the school group, my main charges for the weekend. I can always tell from the visitors’ appearance what kind of ride it’s been. Today, more than a few look like they’ve regurgitated their breakfast. I’m surprised Island Packers didn’t cancel the ferry. They do their best to get boats out, though. The last thing they want is anyone who’s supposed to be leaving stuck on the island.
The campers wait on the aluminum dock, as the day-trippers scamper up to the pier, faces awed with the wonder that overcomes everyone who visits Limuw, the Chumash’s name for this island. Even I am shattered by the allure of this place, my second home—or first, since I spend more days on the island than off. Its majesty refuses acclimation, a persistent paradox that this ruggedly gorgeous and remote island exists a mere twenty miles off the coast of Ventura. I signal the day-trippers down to Sam and say hi to Phil and Randy, two of our volunteers, as they follow the masses down the pier. It’s easy to scoff at the volunteers, retirees who take a course for three months, slap on a green fleece with a national park patch, and think they are our equivalents. Truth is, we can’t run the island without them. They help with visitor communication, trail maintenance, and outreach back on the mainland. The whole park system functions on volunteers.
The campers form a line up the ramp to the dock, some stepping to the side to retrieve their cylinders from the fuel box. I clock the school group right away, the swarm of children. Some of the girls are dressed in crop tops and sparkly sneakers like they’re seventeen, headed for a club rather than a campsite. We often have school groups on the island. They’re usually day-trippers who hire the island adventure staff to lead them on hikes. We get our share of church groups and high schools that stay for a night or two. In my three years here, this is the first time we’ve had an elementary school stay over. A quick scan tells me that there are twenty-three kids in the group, at least six clearly younger than the masses, and four teenagers. Siblings, I assume, of the third graders who make up the bulk of the group. One of the teenagers tries to look physically pained at being here, but I see his eyes dart up the cliffs, the little prick of a smile at the sight of other teens skipping rocks on the beach. There’s no such thing as too cool on Limuw. No one is inured to its beauty.
One woman motions the children up the gangplank. She’s younger than the other mothers by a decade, with light-brown hair and a wide, pretty face. Maybe she’s a second wife? Or a third? As she takes the rear of the line of children, she scans the pier.
“Over here,” I call to her.
The children gather around me, some of their mothers close behind, clocking the gun at my hip. Visitors are always surprised by the presence of my vest, my body cam, and my service weapon. I’m not the type of park ranger they are used to seeing at other, larger parks, where their interactions are with the interpretive rangers, not law enforcement. At most parks, LEOs are reserved for accidents and emergencies. Criminal activity, not strolls along the bluffs and welcome speeches. It unnerves visitors to see rangers like me, a reminder that they haven’t left society’s ills behind on the mainland. That something bad could happen here too.
To be clear, nothing bad happens here. We have a joke: Accidents aren’t allowed on Santa Cruz. Help is a boat or helicopter away. Help besides me, that is, the only medic on the island. Sure, I’ve bandaged my share of broken ankles. I’ve stitched up a forehead, sutured cuts on arms and legs. In three years, that’s been the worst of it. It helps that the kind of campers who want to come to a remote island tend to be highly competent.
“If I could get everyone checked in.” I wave my clipboard to get their attention.
The younger woman walks over to me with her own clipboard. “I’m checking in for the Chester School group. We reserved”—she runs her finger down the front page of her clipboard—“the upper loop? Am I saying that right?”
“Yes. There’s two separate campgrounds at Scorpion, the lower and upper loop. The upper loop is where we host larger groups.”
“I’m Stella. I’m with the school.” She holds her hand out to me, and I shake it.
“Emmy. I’m the LEO on the island. Visitor and Research Protection.” There’s a saying we learn at the Academy: We protect the park from the people, the people from the park, and the people from the people. That’s always the worst kind of harm, the damage we can cause to each other.
“A ranger cop?” she teases.
“Hopefully heavier on the ranger than the cop part.” I smile. It’s a difficult balance to strike, reminding visitors that laws still exist here and, if necessary, I will enforce them. Generally, we look the other way, so long as folks take their joints down to the beach and haul their glass bottles off the island with them. I want them to see me as a resource, a fellow nature lover who happens to have a service weapon but has no intention of using it.
I’d never planned on becoming law enforcement, but it’s the fastest path into the park service, if you can stomach it. Most people who want to be rangers aren’t much for law and order, or Blue Lives Matter, so there’s always more need for LEOs than interpretive rangers. I figured I’d pay my dues, ticketing people for littering at Yosemite or Zion. Instead, I stumbled upon the sweetest gig in the system. On the Channel Islands, I don’t have to deal with the enforcement challenges of bigger parks. No smugglers or arsonists. No hunters or lost hikers who can’t be found within a few hours. Even in the parks department, this life isn’t for everyone. We work an 8-6 schedule: eight days living on the island followed by six off, although the day you return to mainland is for laundry and the day before you leave again is full of last-minute prep, so really it’s a 10-4. I don’t know how Ranger Sam does it with a family. It’s perfect for me, though.
“I’m hopefully more heavy on the camper than teacher this weekend too.” She smiles. Right away I know she’ll be my point person to this group, not only because she’s been tasked with it but because I feel an immediate kinship with her.
“I’m going to need each family’s name to make sure we account for everyone.”
We begin to cross-reference our lists. There are fifty campers in total—thirteen families, plus Stella, and two other men she explains are their cooks. I thought I’d seen everything. Private chefs? That’s a first.
“We’re missing one from our group. Mona Watson. I think she’s coming on the next boat.”
I make a note as we continue to check them all in.
The campers who are lined up along the metal ramp begin to brigade their gear, shoulder to shoulder, one backpack and cooler at a time. There’s more baggage than usual for a single boatload. That happens with larger groups. As the smaller groups grab their stuff, they make their way to me.
“Hang tight for a few minutes, and we’ll go over the ground rules,” I tell them.
More campers make a semicircle around me until the crew stomps up to the pier, a sign that all the visitors have exited the boat.
Three men linger on the dock, reviewing a large pile of coolers, the grill tanks, and crates of food.
“You can start without them,” one of the fathers says, hugging two boys to him. “Otherwise, we’ll be waiting all day.”
I wait a few more seconds to see if he’s right. The men have no intention of hurrying. When the stocky one with dark hair turns to face us, the sight of him steals my breath. It’s Raymond Zhao. We don’t get a lot of celebrities on the island, or if we do, I don’t recognize them. Even I know Raymond Zhao. When I’m not on the island, I am an avid TV binger. Cooking shows mostly. Knives Up is my favorite. When my attention shifts back to the father who was advising me not to wait, he shakes his head, amused, familiar with the realization that has just unfolded inside me.
The other campers are getting antsy to begin their adventure, so I decide to start without Raymond Zhao.
“Hi, everyone, I’m Ranger Emmy. Before we get started, I want you to make sure you have everything you brought for the trip. Once the boat leaves, you won’t be able to get it back.”
