Photo by S.W. Cosgrove
For 25 years, I lived on an island 7.73 nautical miles from downtown Seattle, a 35-minute ferry ride.
I loved the ferry. I hated the ferry.
I drank coffee on the ferry. I drank wine on the ferry.
I took the ferry to work, to concerts, to restaurants, to clubs, to stores, to hospitals – and back.
People were born on the ferry. People died on the ferry. People committed suicide on the ferry.
I laughed on the ferry. I cried on the ferry.
I socialized on the ferry. I socially isolated on the ferry.
When I could not bear to converse with others, I put in my ear pods and walked the top deck, listening to music. Ahmad Jamal. Dave Brubeck. Tchaikovsky. Puccini. Butterfield Blues Band. The Rolling Stones.
I heard about 9/11 on the ferry. I heard about the Oklahoma federal center bombing on the ferry.
I miss the ferry. I never want to ride the ferry again. Except on nights like these.