The Island of Living

It had been a short ride, an easy one.  We had only enough time to push the bike onto the ferry with all seven of the load’s cars, pay our fare, and breathe the salt filled waves before we were docking on the other side of the crossing.  It was a ferry ride to an ocean, but it was the shortest ferry ride of my experience. I’ve been on a 45 minute ride and a 2.5 hour ride but this six minute ride was short enough we could’ve swam the crossing (but not with a bicycle built for two on board).

He stood up above the deck, surveying his domain.

In every description I’ve ever seen, a sea captain is described in almost the same way:  grizzled, hairy, stern, and in tune with the water.  Our boat’s captain was the prorotype for all those descriptions.  He might have only had a short crossing to oversee, his daily challenges might not have included life-threatening stormy gails on the high seas, but his full white beard, is well-worn hat, and his sharp (almost grumpy) eyes made me confident in his seamanship.

Fake it till you make it, is the motto in some circles.  And even if this captain was faking it, he had *made it* in my mind.

We rode the bike off the boat, made one right hand turn, and started pedaling.  For mile after mile, we wound around the island, counting eagles, spotting wood peckers, watching the ocean, waving to fishermen.  It was cold.  We were hungry.  The wind was harsh. We didn’t pack lunch.

But we found our very own little corner of island living.

A thirty five minute drive. A six minute ferry ride.  A border crossing.

Easy. Breezy. Beatiful.

(We only biked half the island; next time we’ll bike the whole thing.  And maybe next time we’ll go on a day when the island’s library is open.  Yes, it has a library.)

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