PLACES
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Lummi Island Ferry: 2/5/99The road through the reserve was cluttered with fallen trees; all of them victim to the gusting winds tunneling through the Strait of Juan de Fuca. The meteorologist’s AM sermon branded the gales “storm force, 50-80 knots” and declared a small craft warning like any idiot could correlate. Not everyone studies barometric pressure. But at least he said it like he knew it, which is more than speculation over a brisk second quarter.
Everything was clear at peninsula. Tope blue skies broke through the unsavory clouds and brought out the orange in tree shards left from the chainsaws of neighbors that look out for one another. And besides, the liability is googly. When the road turned to ferry dock, everything shot out. Sea foam from sea level flying in formation, cutting a light, flaky pastry of a silhouette across the dim winter sky. And the channel between land and island was/was/was. Was the invert option in PhotoShop. Editing the Sahara, the yellows turn to blues and the blowing sand turns to a chaotic mist. This swirling through the channel.
Come ferry, hell and high water. Become hell, ferry and high water. Become high water, ferry and hell. The Whatcom Chief has been running about 45 times a day since 1969. The trip is usually only five minutes. The 20-car ovular deck is filled in summer with visitors and bikers (two separate parties) on day leave from Seattle or Vancouver. And friends visiting for any number of American holidays. Being near a reserve, the fireworks are cheap n’ plenty n’ legal. But in the winter, the ferry is reserved for the supposed 615 residents of Lummi Island.
On Friday afternoon at 1:06 p.m. there were three cars. The ferry looked tired when it docked. The three staff looked dizzy as they waved the cars on with an assumed wand. It has this raven-like native art all about it’s tower (see picture to understand shape) and the bird just jumped in those waters. Chains securing all orifices, the ferry breaks into the open seas, where giant swells are threatening from all sides, but specifically from the south (the ferry crossing westerly from the east). Think of a compass. This was the deck moving 25 degrees down the X-axis and then 22 along the Y. Waves crashed on the cars and then washed off the flat deck. When things grew really out of control, Captain Ernie, who is also fire chief, simply put the boat in neutral. All the passengers put on their windshield wipers to see the next wave that might wipe out their lives. That one might sweep their car off its bearings, whipping it through the chains and into the ocean, where the car will sink and the passenger will not be able to fight the pressure before they are forced by water into the leg rests underneath the glove compartment, where the bloated remains of their body might be found by coast guard/search and rescue in a couple of days. Or maybe they make it and drive off on the other end feeling quite nauseous.
The way back is another story. Elation from making it turns to trepidation for making it back. The line is long because the Chief is incapacitated. Salt stains every single car. And the girls in all rearview mirrors all look like docile little satanettes. One even spelt “F-U-C-K” in the window mist. At the store adjacent to the island’s ferry dock, the community congregates. They speculate. This was the worst storm since, and that is a fact. And coffee is selling nearly as quickly as the fresh cookies. The coffee is fresher but it doesn’t taste like anyone made it. Or at least cared about making it. That being the impressions from the faces of those tasting it birdslurp by birdslurp. When the ferry loads, they all load back to their cars to shuffle up another ten notches in the line. And then back to the store.
And then back to the action. Silver 1998 Honda Civic is filled with paper junk and cassette music. The guy driving it has a liver disorder and obviously hasn’t seen so much daylight-had so much exposure-since the summer. His music plays on even after he’s loaded onto the ferry. The engine is off, but the battery is fueling the windshield wipers. This so that he can see waves of death and deconstruct the withered woman behind him. All the cars are bumping each other because they are sliding marginally about the deck. And at level 35 the tape starts to play. Songs of praise as played and sung by Will Oldham six months ago in Amsterdam.
"I have made thee polestar of my life
Though my sea is gone and my stars dark
Still I see the path
Ola mercy"
The end of the peel...
... though my sea is gone
