Ferry Tale

I was born and raised in a family with a modestly sized farm we all pitched in on.  Later I moved to a moderately sized city where I met my partner, Joseph.  And still later, we moved to a very modestly sized island in Puget Sound.  So I went from the rural life to the city life and now I live in limbo.  My island is nestled in between two ferry rides (three if you count the two directions from the north end, but we never use that way).  One takes you back to the modestly sized city we moved from and the other takes you to the city where I work.  And in between is our little rural island. 

At the time, moving away from the city life was a breeze; a breath of fresh air.  I found myself suddenly able to see the stars after living amongst apartment buildings under a dome of phosphorescent light.  I had forgotten the stars, and how much the meant to me.  My dad and I used to just look at them.  Back in Idaho, where I am from, the January nights become frozen spectacles of light.  The stars seem so bright and so vivid, you can almost reach out and touch them.  I always imagined they were so cold that they would burn your fingers, but that may have been the frost bite nipping while Dad and I were out under that vast dome of sky. 

The stars were one of the many signs that Joseph and I had made the right move, renting a farm house, and moving onto a five acre plot of land with a crumbling old farm house and a couple of out buildings on it.  Living here has been a blessing in many ways.  But living here was made easier by the fact that I found a job for myself on the island and no longer had to ride the ferry.  Now that it has become a part of my daily commute again, I find myself desperately wishing for the time I spend on the commute back. 

Take for instance, last night: a good friend of mine from work was having a birthday party and Joseph and I had to leave just when the party was warming up into a karaoke extravaganza.  But that is ferry life.  Where ever you need to go, you have to add an hour and a half (two if you’re smart and don’t want to miss the ferry) to each end of your trip.  The ferry schedule becomes a sort of oracle that tells you how long you have to spend in each place you go.  If you run off on a wonderful vacation, get away for a week or two, and come back home, I guarantee you that a ferry is waiting for you and it’s going to be a bear of a ferry to get onto. 

When we first took a trip out to look at our island, Joseph (who might have some obsessive tendencies, and who loves me dearly) started feeling that we might sink on our little trip.  He insisted that I wear a life preserver.  I refused.  I was not going to walk around a boat full of strangers wearing a life preserver.  But I could see that this was distressing to my man and I care about his feelings so I came up with a compromise.  I would put the life preserver in a back pack and I would wear the back pack at all times.  He agreed to this.  And looking back at it, both of us laugh about it.  The ferry is full of life preservers.  Most bench seats have them stored underneath them.  There are whole bins full of them on every deck.  But that’s what phobias do.  They are by definition irrational little fears.  (Don’t get me started on my phobias.  Sasquatch can wait for another blog.) 

We pay to live where we live three times.  We pay the taxes that support the ferries.  (Thank you, fellow tax payers.)  We pay the ferry tolls.  (Which are not reduced in any way shape or form for residents.  And in tourist seasons we pay inflated rates like everyone else.) And we pay with our time.  So often (especially around the holidays and the tourist seasons) the ferry workers become grumpy.  I understand.  Their job is a lot of customer service coupled with dealing with drivers commuting 100% of the time.  Could you imagine if your 9-5 job was nothing but putting up with idiots on your commute?  And because they are state employees, what the ferry workers say and do may as well come directly from the mouths of gods who control your destiny.  You will and you must park where they say, drive where they say, get on when they say, leave when they say.  But what ferry workers don’t seem to understand is that they are holding our homes ransom.  We must put up with them, we can’t get home otherwise.  It’s all give and no take.  I wonder how many of them (once they get off of the ferry) actually have to take a ferry after they punch out to get home.  I’m sure if they did, they might be a little more patient with elderly ladies who can’t seem to make a sharp turn to fit into their allotted spot.  They might smile more.  They might make more friends among us. 

But for now, the ferry system is nibbling the ends of my life away.  Joseph and I have discussed it several times over, and when our lease is up, we will be moving off of the island.  I’m not sure how I can adjust to life away from our little dream of a farm house.  I’m not sure if I will be able to see the stars when I get to where we are going.  But they say variety is the spice of life, and not knowing where I am going is part of our adventure!