I’m sitting in a plastic chair in Pelican’s public laundry. The place has charts tacked to the walls, a space heater in the corner, and coin-op showers, mostly for fisherfolk coming in off of boats. It’s a warm place with a roof and power outlets, a bookshelf in the corner that’s about half and half Nora Roberts and Clive Cussler, none of them new.

Our seaplane to Juneau was supposed to depart here four hours ago, but the pilot turned…