Ferry

I whisked off Bea and her cousin Eliora to Grandma-across-the-water this morning.  The weather turned from heavy grey to ghastly--rain and wind whipping about the trees and filling the parking lots with freezing puddles.  At ten-thirty the oldest ferry, The Hayak, moored agape, waiting for cars.  I felt grumpy, stunned by a cold and overwhelmed by my morning, but the ferry, as usual, worked some sort of healing enchantment on me so when we'd reached the other side and Edmonds was just as dark and grey and even windier than the peninsula from whence we'd came, I felt considerably more cheerful.

Unlike my ferry experience on the coast of Kenya growing up, where walk-ons, cars, lorries, bikes and motorcycles flooded in (dangerously crowding as close to each other as possible) as soon as the gate was down, Washington ferries are a study in order--a dance with parts and movements.  Bikes and motorcycles first, then one line of cars, then another, each up their own ramps to park.  Then you can clamber out and climb up one of the enclosed metal staircases to the passenger decks and cabin.  We generally ride as walk-ons, so we've already walked up the long walkway, enclosed in glass to encourage good views of the harbor and mountains beyond.  Then we nod or smile to the friendly ferry staff standing out on deck and step into the warmth of the enclosed ferry decks.  Inside, the ferry is wonderfully pleasant: facing booths, some with tables in between, generally in three different connected sections; clean, spacious restrooms where commuters line up at mirrored counters to finish their toilettes; a dining area with food and drink, including popcorn and alcohol (the entire ferry is lined with big windows); two flanking outdoor wrap-around decks that are wonderful places to feel the wind, look for sea animals, and take photos of Seattle and the mountains, if you're lucky enough to have a clear day.  Upstairs there's the top deck, all outdoor except for seating areas screened by glass; we don't often go up there unless it's summer or we're seeking a blustery, good-to-be-alive thrill.

On the windy upper deck with Isabella, my niece

On the upper deck: Bea, Isabella, Lilia, with another ferry passing us behind

Popcorn Break in the Passenger Cabin with our visiting Texas cousins

Leaving Seattle behind

Mt. Rainier rising ghostly and huge

Sailboat and looove on the Seattle-Bainbridge ferry

One night over the holidays, Martin and I ventured out on the deck in the dark.  We put up our hoods and sidled up to the railing.  All was dark except for the distant lights of Kingston approaching quickly in the distance.  I don't know if I've made myself clear, but the ferry is huge--not as gargantuan, of course, as the barges that we often see in the distance, stacked with a rainbow of shipping containers (like train cars), but massive enough that you generally don't feel any movement at all unless the Sound is considerably choppy.  Sailboats give wide berth and only the birds fly close, seagulls and terns and, if you're really lucky, near shore, seals or sea lions (I've yet to see whales though they do appear!).

That evening we gazed down to the water churning high and frothy--the engines must be amazingly powerful--and suddenly, in the darkness, seemingly from the tips of the waves, white shapes began rising around us.  In the beam of the ferry's headlamps, we saw them--plump, grey-and-white gulls, leaving their dark water beds and scattering as we plowed through the dark.  Their outstretched wings were wonderful.  It was like watching snow--all the chaos of movement accompanied by lovely, surprising silence.

I rarely encounter such a moment of joy, though about a week later, I experienced another, also on the ferry.  I recorded it the next day in this e-mail:

We opened the last of our Christmas cards on the ferry coming home from Edmonds, where my parents live--the last sweet breath of a good holiday!  As we were boarding the ferry, I saw something large and sleek moving through the water.  It was a windy day and the wind itself was sweeping the water in waves, and I wondered if I had just imagined an animal.  But just before the ferry disembarked across the Sound, we saw the body again--too small to be an Orca, too big to be a seal.  Elspeth scuttled over to the poster on the wall and confirmed what we'd been thinking--we were watching a sea lion!  It crested the water and plunged back in, smooth as honey and glistening all over.  Sea lions and seals both have black, liquid eyes, so friendly and trusting, almost like a cow's or a dog's.  The sea lion was over seven or eight feet long and plump and graceful and strong.  We lost him for a minute but then he surfaced again on the other side of the ferry--he must have ducked underneath and swam like mad before the engines started.  We lost him again and then we were on our way to peninsula where we live--a familiar journey now but one that ever delights us.  We sat down and ate gingersnaps and finished our last Christmas cards, and we felt utterly surrounded and filled by goodness.

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My favorite: a sunlit path across the water

On the way back from Edmonds today the girls ate their Grandma-picnic--juice and bags of popcorn, and once again, though I was tired and recovering from a headache, the ferry ride did me great good.  This time it was fairly crowded.  In Kingston, the weather was as filthy as it had been all day--there's another storm system with rain and wind--but the long walk out to the parking lot was still festooned with a million lights, so many that whole flower beds and the bandstand looked like a Light Brite with glowing pointillist crabs and herons and octopi.  We skirted the puddles and I packed the girls back into the car, and then we drove back home.

The ferry is somewhat spendy--eight dollars per walk-on adult for a round-trip and more for cars of course--but I think it is one of my favorite parts about our new lives here.  Expanse of water on all sides!  The delight never wears thin.