Searching Seattle: As far as I could go

(First appeared in The Baldwin Times for Gulf Coast Media, May 22, 2026.)

A view of the Seattle waterfront and Public Market at sunrise from a hotel rooftop. (Photos by Wayne Smith.)

By Wayne Smith

Gulf Coast Media Contributor

“In the pines, in the pines, where the sun never shines …”

My dad used to sing those words when I was a boy.

Not loudly. Just every now and then, usually sitting on the tailgate of his truck near the backside of property he owned outside Florence in the Three Forks community, surrounded by pine trees and dirt roads and dogs chasing rabbits through the woods.

Maybe those woods reminded him of growing up around Anderson, Alabama before the war.

At the time, I never thought much about where the song came from.

Earlier this month, I found myself standing in Seattle, Washington — nearly 2,500 miles from those Alabama pines — and somehow hearing echoes of the same song again.

That wasn’t part of the plan.

The trip itself centered around Bremerton Naval Hospital, where my father had been hospitalized during World War II after serving aboard the USS Idaho in the Pacific. The deeper I’ve gotten into writing my upcoming book, Caledonia and Me, the more I felt pulled toward tracing some of those footsteps for myself.

So I went.

Seattle greeted me with something unexpected: sunshine.

The shipyard on the Bremerton waterfront, located across Puget Sound from Seattle.

Everybody talks about Seattle rain. Gray skies. Clouds. Gloom. But my first day there felt almost cinematic. Seventy-seven degrees. Blue skies over Puget Sound. Ferries crossing the water. Pike Place Market buzzing with life. Street musicians playing beneath the glow of the Public Market sign.

There was a visit to T-Mobile Park that night, where the Braves played home run derby with the Mariners, before eventually losing 5-4.

There was another story discovered just ahead of the game — one of Liza Subik and her quest to visit all 30 Major League ballparks. Liza, 37, has Stage 4 breast cancer and in January was given an estimated six months to live. She threw out the first pitch to her best friend, Kerri Domingo, who has dedicated herself to taking Liza on the ballpark journey.

Her story is one of inspiration, one of refusing to stay down when you get knocked down.

And for a little while, Seattle didn’t feel heavy at all.

Then came Bremerton.

Cold. Gray. Damp. Quiet.

Exactly what I imagined the Pacific Northwest would feel like.

And honestly, exactly what the emotional weight of the day required.

I drove through towering cedar and pine trees on my way there, and all I could think about was Dad. The smell of pines has a way of doing that to me.

After a ferry ride across Puget Sound and about a 30-minute drive, I saw the blue sign — Bremerton Naval Hospital. I had made it, with just seeing the sign itself bringing a wave of emotion over me.

I made it to the naval hospital entrance, though not much farther. Emails had gone unanswered. Phone calls not returned. Security concerns and active military operations made access limited.

I understood.

I was able to get my dad’s Official Military Personnel File — 41 pages of military service dates, physical exams, medical survey reports, promotions and more — details of every step of his World War II service in the Navy.

Still, it left me with a feeling that would follow me throughout the trip: I could only get so close.

Before taking the ferry back to Seattle, I was able to see the Navy shipyard from Manetee Bridge — these waters would carry my dad into the Pacific Theater of World War II.

That feeling stayed with me later in the week when I drove to Viretta Park, home of the Kurt Cobain Memorial Bench.

I knew music would be a part of my trip — the history of it in Seattle — from Jimi Hendrix to Heart, through the grunge era of Nirvana, Soundgarden, Pearl Jam. But this wasn’t some grunge pilgrimage. At least not initially.

But while driving there, Nirvana’s “Come As You Are” came on through Spotify, one of those strange little timing moments life occasionally hands you.

At the park itself, visitors from around the world had left handwritten notes, flowers, photographs and messages on a weathered wooden bench tucked beneath the trees. Beyond a fence stood the house associated with Cobain’s death in 1994, partially visible but mostly obscured.

Again: inaccessible.

Again: only getting so close.

Not fully understanding Dorinda’s absence — a year after cancer took her from me.

Unable to fully reach my dad — and tell him about his three great-grandchildren he or my mom never got to meet.

That’s when the trip began shifting into something larger than history research.

Later that day, while walking through Seattle’s Museum of Pop Culture and seeing Nirvana exhibits and Cobain memorabilia, something suddenly clicked in my mind.

Dad’s song.

“In the Pines.”

The same old folk song that eventually became Nirvana’s haunting MTV Unplugged performance of “Where Did You Sleep Last Night.”

Suddenly, these seemingly disconnected worlds began overlapping:

An Alabama sailor born in the early 1920s.

A Seattle musician born in 1967.

Backwoods folk music.

Pacific Northwest grunge.

And somehow the same themes carried through both — loneliness, distance, wandering, sorrow, searching.

I stopped walking for a second.

Dad used to sing that song.

That old song had traveled decades and thousands of miles before eventually finding me standing there in Seattle. The bluegrass version of the song was made famous by Bill Monroe in the early 1940s, so there’s no doubt dad sang it on the old battleship more than eight decades ago.

I doubt Dad ever heard Nirvana’s version of the song. His music was bluegrass and country, not Seattle grunge. But loneliness sounds similar across generations.

But there was something about a 20-year-old sailor who was lonely and far away from home that connected with me — Cobain died at 27, alone. A sad story, whether it was his depression, the inability to cope with overnight fame, or both.

And seeing the Cobain bench, the truth is, this trip became about far more than I expected.

I thought I was chasing my father’s wartime footsteps. Instead, Seattle kept handing me atmosphere instead of answers.

Pine trees. Gray water. Ferries.

Music. Distance. Memory.

And maybe that’s fitting.

Maybe we never fully reach the people we love once time places them beyond us. Maybe we only get glimpses — partial views through fences, fragments of stories, old records, songs carried forward through generations.

Maybe that’s all history really is.

As far as we can go.

But between Bremerton, Seattle and those towering pines, I realized something else. The search itself matters. And sometimes the stories we discover along the way wind up revealing more than the destination ever could.

I went to Seattle and the Pacific Northwest attempting to trace my father’s footsteps — learn more about what I inherited, including a genetic walking disorder. And in search of a 20-year-old, chiseled sailor who I didn’t know. He was 40 when I was born, far removed from the USS Idaho and the Pacific Theater of World War II.

Later in his life, dad talked more about his Navy days. Liberty. Working in the boiler room five decks below water. Places like ’Frisco, Australia and New Caledonia — the latter being the place where his nickname was derived. He recalled seeing the flag raised at Iwo Jima. He was honorably discharged shortly after that battle — shellshock was the reason.

The trip was worth it even though I didn’t get to walk the halls of that naval hospital.

On my last night in Seattle, I sat on the rooftop of my hotel, fires burning in gas stoves for warmth against the spring chill of the waterfront. I felt so alone.

But I had done it.

I did walk through the pines.

I did go as far as I could go.

The Kurt Cobain Memorial Bench in Viretta Park, Seattle, Washington, where he spent some of his final days.

A sign marks the entrance to Naval Hospital Bremerton, where the author’s father was hospitalized during World War II.