On the Ferry

The motors start, loud and powerful. It kicks up green foam around the tar-blackened pillars of wood. It’s my favorite moment; the surging forth of the great ship. It’s a short moment where I can stand still and feel the driving shudder travel up my body, see the docks recede slowly and watch the dark waters expand slowly all around. Just for a moment I close my eyes and there is no land only the sea and there is no destination, only the horizon.

But standing across from me is my co-worker Paul, dressed similarly in the same bright green reflecting jacket and making a joke about passengers actually walking off the edge this time. So I snap out of it and being a diligent ferry employee, attend to the tying off of safety lines and completion of all busy work before heading up to mid-deck. I’ve been on the Sahachewan for five years; know the curving lines of its inner belly; the fresh smell of its trademark white and green paint; the feel of the pitted and eroded gunmetal that is her bones. My workplace is the early morning quiet of solitary commuters sitting alone staring out windows dotted with sea-spray. It’s the flow of endless cars passing by, and I, like Moses parting, directing this metal flow to their proper spots. And the sun. At what other job-site can a man be so exposed to the entirety of a beautiful sunrise or a dying, passionate sunset? During my lunch breaks or rare times of “safety patrol” I go to stand on one of the jutting observation decks. In times of sunset I find myself there with a few other solitary souls, watching the dying sun set over the Pugent Sound. There`s a darkness that settles down on the sea then, clouding over the shapes of far-off islands and it even mutes the sharp lines of the restless sea. Only the fiery orange of an illuminated sky and the dripping molten strip of fire in the sea remain.

After quitting time I disembark on Vashon and stand at the pier watching the ferry chug off, growing smaller. I always feel like a passenger then, like it took me somewhere and now I`m back. I`ve got a little cabin down by the water, so close I can hear the waves break in the darkness or in the pre-dawn as I wake. I put on my uniform and bicycle down to work and think, as I do every day, about that first surge away from land and the fresh feel of a boundless ocean and a hint of adventure.