Eventually, after trials and tribulations worthy of a Homeric epic, we reached the ferry terminal. If I'm to use previous guy's trips as a barometer for what this journey meant, it's pretty much the equivalent of a man walking on the face of the moon. And yet, there we were, standing down by the sound at the bottom of the world's largest ramp. The ramp to the ferry terminal was at roughly an 80 degree angle. We thought about getting a Sherpa or a cab to take us to the top but trudged onward next to families going home, balloons in their hands and smiles on their faces.
Naturally we just missed the ferry to Bainbridge Island and have an hour to kill in the ferry terminal. The ferry terminal is kind of like a run down arcade, a shoddy red carpet propels you towards the ticket counter, and the rest of the room, which technically should look nice because of its view out onto the water, isn't all that nice because the windows are uniformly dirty, which gives the water a grey and washed out look.
The majority of the trip is spent trying to charge iPhones. We have a number of conversations about why the phones won't charge in our house, ranging from complaints at the VRBO owner trying to skimp money, to higher minded speculations about possible legislation passed by the progressive people of Seattle to limit electricity. My friend comes back from taking dramamine and sits down at the bar. I order something with bitters, and several different kinds of alcohol. On the board it looks like the sort of drink that you'd get drunk on without even noticing, but the drinks are only passable. Though the bar tender is friendly and allows my friend to charge his iPhone while we sit in this strange ferry terminal, a place between places, like Calvino might have described in a very boring version of Invisible Cities.
Eventually our ship comes in, and we don our sailor's outfits and get aboard the ship. Mid way through our walk on the shore I proclaimed to my friend T that I wasn't going to take any more pictures of the ferris wheel. "I've shot it from nearly every angle. I'm going to have dreams for decades after about that particular ferris wheel. I'm done."
As soon as the ship, which is a generous term, it's more like a giant four decker island that just happens to locomote. It has all the choppiness and sway and movement of a sidewalk, leaves port it becomes clear looking out on the contrails lying behind us that I'm going to need to take a picture of the ferris wheel, which is now illuminated in purple. And, as my friend M points out, I can take a picture of the Seattle Space Needle through the spokes of the ferris wheel. And, after completing that task, he points out that I can take a picture of the ferris wheel when the boat gets far enough out that will make it appear to be a single line as opposed to a dimensional wheel. I could take a whole class on taking pictures of this Ferris wheel. My friend gives me crap for taking pictures of the Ferris wheel, but I can't let him steal the moment that we're having together, this wheel and I. The real Space Needle and point of reference in Seattle.
When I returned, a friend of mine asked what my favorite part of the trip was, and I told her that it was this particular moment, the four of us standing on the deck of a large boat, the wind brisk but mild, the water a beautiful sheet of glass. The moment was rich in aesthetic beauty--some long lost memory of human ancestry, taking in the view from above, and, because we were there, because there wasn't anywhere else that we could possibly be, we talked in the way that old friends talk about things present, things past, and things future.
On the way back, my friend tells a story about a recent wedding. Apparently a drunk person, hoping to have a good time, threw himself off the boat and had to be rescued, a feat which cost him 40,000 dollars, so I suppose I erred above when I said that we could not be anywhere else. We could have been flying towards the water, feeling the rush of the air and the gut punch of the water, waiting on someone to save us and charge us money for the favor.
I've never considered jumping off a ship. Largely because I'm afraid of heights, danger, water, and have also sharks, all of which strike me as very reasonable fears. Though if someone else were to ask me if they should be afraid of the water or sharks I'd assure them that sharks almost never attack humans, which makes the water safe, and as long as you're standing on a perfectly good and sound structure or only jumping from say, a high dive, heights are fine as well. If that person asked me then to jump in the water I'd say fine, but I'd be worried about the sharks and maybe get out after fifteen minutes or so and sit on the hot sand, skin cooking, thinking about how lucky I was that I wasn't eaten by sharks.Though I'd wave to everyone else out on the water, swimming around and admiring a colony of seals, assuring them with my wave that they were fine out there despite all the sharks, which are unlikely to bother them anyway, though I suspect they are likely to bother me.
The water is almost purple the blue is so deep. We walk the length of the boat and stand out front where the wind is at gale force. I'd read somewhere that I could see the mountains on this boat ride, but in the distance are clouds, which make the mountains only an imaginary place on this journey, a place holder in my mind, like an image of God as yet unrealized, though I've seen mountains. For a while, we talk about Olympic National Park, just how far away it is. Someone checks the Google map and figures out that we're four ferry rides away from freedom. We agree that we're likely to die in the elements, even in September, but it would go down in the lore of the guy's trips. The other four guys, the survivors, would always secretly regret not wandering off course and ending up in the wilderness roasting each other for sustenance.
In the headiness of the trip, we discuss future trips. We say that maybe we should do two separate guy's trips, four people in one place and four people in another. Then, when that gets to be too much, four separate guy's trips with two people on each trip. And finally, when all else has worn thin, we'll travel to eight distinct cities, and text each other from across the country to say how things are going. In this way, perhaps we'd finally make it to Memphis, to New Orleans, to Athens and beyond. The most common joke though is that we're still splitting things eight ways. No matter what we talk about, food, lodging, a ferry ride, eventually someone says, "Well, it is cheaper because we're still splitting things 8 ways." It's the one joke that you miss when you're not on the guy's trip, and it's the one that is constantly made at your expense. "I'll send you the bill." Some day I'm going to send some of my friends a bill for five thousand dollars, though I'll probably wait until a funeral because I dislike confrontation.
The ship takes half an hour to cross from one shore to another. The girl on the bench told me to go to Vashon Island rather than Bainbridge, but I don't trust her. I'm glad that we're here on this tiny island, walking off a ship amongst strangers, not really sure what we're doing, or what we'll do, but sure that we're here for a reason, temporarily stranded on the rim of a large blue glass.
you should have gone to orcas island to see patty and Raymond and have some great pizza!
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