I recently had the opportunity to visit a cannery on the coast. Before I saw the building, the smell of fish filled the air, blending with the sound of the crashing ocean in the near distance.

As I approached, they directed me to the side that opened up to the Pacific Ocean, waiting for today’s catch. Its cold metal frame, adorned in rust and peeling steel-blue paint, welcomed me in through its large roll-up doors.

Immediately inside were inspection tables completing quick quality checks, while forklifts and pallet jacks worked hard moving bins of iced fish from the boats into the building. The area smelled of ocean and brine, not rot. It was a strong smell, but to a seafood lover, like myself, it was a pleasant smell.

An older gentleman, wearing gray neoprene knee boots over a fluorescent orange jumpsuit, greeted me with a guest badge and my own pair of knee boots. After a few safety instructions, he led me through the building, explaining the age of the building and the operation. Reminding me from time to time to be careful on the wet cement floors and to watch out for the large drains. Water always runs to keep things clean.

We didn’t visit the wash and trim lines, cold rooms, or the canning line. Instead, the gentleman led me to what I’d come to see, the old cannery. Built in the late 1800s, it was constructed out of wood directly on pilings above the water. You could still hear water moving underneath the floor. The remaining rooms were lined with high windows. You couldn’t see out due to the fog, but they offered some comforting light on a sunny day. A few hanging bulbs flickered overhead. These were strategically placed so workers would have enough light on dark early mornings or stormy days.

The main room was drafty, very damp, and had salt air corroded walls. It gave the room an eerie, long forgotten feel. Between the steady drum of water under the floorboards, the dripping pipes, and the flickering, swinging lights, I could now visualize the villain in my story and those he had abducted, trapped in this room. The captives would feel small, forgotten, as this part of the building felt like it could swallow you. Anyone trying to escape would have to navigate the rotting floorboards and the slippery, rusted catwalk which led you past the old, large boilers and abandoned machinery. The environment itself would bring the captives fear, but it would embolden the abductor.

I was now ready to write. Part of me wanted to drag a chair over to one of those old tables and start writing. However, the age and hazards of the room convinced me to find a safer spot. It felt great leaving with my notebook full and my imagination on overdrive. My story was finally ready to move forward, and I couldn’t get back to my resort room fast enough. Let the writing begin!!