Shipmates and Shipwrecks

Stepping on to a ferry is similar to getting onto an airplane. Work ceases. Phone calls are usually dropped, Wi-Fi usually a rare and precious commodity. Car engines are turned off, breaths are taken, and there are no options of escape once that ferry leaves its dock. What feels like minutes translates to hours as the landscape outside—imagine anything surrounded by endless blue—moves by you, ambivalent to your presence.

The Anacortes ferry in the San Juan Islands of Washington State exists to torture. Most ferry-goers are tourists: elderly couples on vacation with their elderly friends, young families with their young children, honeymooners with their young marriage, and my family—seemingly the only exception to the rule. There are two options: abandon ship (ship in this case meaning vehicular transportation) or sit in an endless line of cars, wasting gas and contributing to the ozone problem. When traveling with grandparents and an oblivious little brother, the obvious choice is to hoof it. Because that’s the true Washington State Tourist way.

The passenger deck isn’t memorable. Tile floors, dingy and dull under the fluorescent light; windows trying hard to be glass but giving up their secrets with the angular graffitied names carved into their plastic; benches made out of particle board disguised as wood. It’s similar to every sitcom in the 80’s that had an episode that takes place in an airport lounge. Really, the passenger level is just as bleak, and chances of an upgrade a decade or two are slim to none.

Hints of the 21st century are placed in inconspicuous locations. There is a plain looking sign declaring “Wi-Fi Hot Spot” hanging on a large post in the middle of the cafeteria. Next to the vending machine that dispenses good old Seattle oil (coffee) is a bright Coca-Cola machine. Some of the benches in the bow even look reupholstered! What’s really telling of the decade, however, is the virtual choir of digital sounds: chirps, beeps, rings, dings, sometimes even voices. Technology, though it has remained in the Dark Ages on the ferry, is not banned from boarding the ship. Why approach the newspaper bin in the corner when you can play video games on a 3-inch screen?

My personal favorite part of the trip rests outside of the metal walls. Through the doors at the front of the lounge is a covered seating area, filled with benches you’d typically find in backyards. The slats are old and weather-beaten, but they are sturdy and rarely occupied. It’s here my grandfather sits reading the paper, next to my grandmother who is almost religiously ripping coupons from the pages he has read. His straw hat is firmly on his head, and not a curl is out of place on hers. The large windows allow them to view the water that jumps quickly out of the way of the massive piece of machinery. My grandfather’s always been an adventurous guy, but after his surgery his adventure is this—sitting on a ferry, reading the newspaper, and watching the water in front of him.

To my left is my dad, with a camera looped around his wrist. He’s clutching the rail, but not leaning over. The guy grew up here and is still in awe of its beauty—and I can’t fault him that. Over the rail, past the choppy blue-grey, is green. The trees are so thick, even the smallest islands are impossible to see over. The land is so untamed and pure you can feel it in the air. You just know that you are surrounded by true nature. Occasionally a boat will cruise by; sometimes it’s a million-dollar yacht. But they can’t detract from the raw power of nature behind them. And the driftwood on the beach is a good reminder of the raw power beneath us.

My dad turns and says something to me, and I nod my head like I understand. The wind is so loud I can only hear myself breathe. I don’t see the trees moving, so I assume it’s from the speed of the ferry. Its size is tricky. I have to keep reminding myself. I make my way to the deck. The metal floor is warped. It is obvious there have been screws knocked out and attempts made to flatten it. I’m not a chemistry major, but this probably has to do with that nature thing again. The floor has clearly been painted over many times, probably in trying to hide the damage. I can see different colors of paint all over the chipped surface beneath my feet. The boat rocks a little too much to my liking, and I shoot back to the wall. The bench is bolted here, I’ll just tie myself down with my shoelaces.

The Anacortes ferry is similar to many others. The ride times may differ, but the cast and crew is pretty standard. The only other time I’ve experienced differently is on the Bremerton ferry into Seattle. It was the last ferry of the night, and the harbor glowed. As we neared the dock, I could look down into the water and see the jellyfish illuminated by the large safety lights above. They speckled the water in a ghostly way. The dock was illuminated in orange, and the city behind it was nothing more than round spots of lights on the horizon.

During the day the experience is a little different. The boat is a little more crowded. Before the ship docks there is a low rumble as half the passengers start their engines, and I flashback to watching the Indy 500 with my uncle. Soon there is a distinct, sharp smell of exhaust as it finds its way into the clean air. Instead of the warm glow of the city there is a bright glare from the roofs of the buildings in Friday Harbor. As soon as I step outside I smell the ocean. The seaweed, the wet sand, the salt, and the car exhaust all mix together. It causes me to choke but it will always be a scent I can recall.

The ramp still makes that hollow noise as I walk over it, though, and I am reminded all at once that the ocean is still much larger than I am.