The 6.20 sailing to Bainbridge Island.
I’ve decided to come into main cabin area on at least one of the day’s trips. I came in last Thursday to use the head and was lured to the forward dinning area by the sound of someone playing Celtic chanties on the fiddle. A young boy in his late teens played, apologizing for all of the requests he did not know as the open case at his feet slowly filled with money. The nearby children and their parents danced the entire time. I couldn’t help absorb the sense of community.
The past three weeks I have sat in the bay reading Watership Down to contrast my recent undertaking. As much as I love having more time to read in a day especially during my commute, I find that people watching in the cabin is just as entertaining if not educational. Then again I always have. My favorite lunches during school were those spent in the parking lot of 711 watching the patrons come and go.
The Bremmerton to Seattle passes on our port side shortly after the routine safety message played. I read recently that some people felt that the speakers on board were far to quiet especially for those hard of hearing. Down below the opposite is true. The blaring warning message from a local news personality cuts through my the sound of my radio and air tearing me from my sleep.
The galley smells of stale popcorn and the commuters isolate themselves as I do, locked into their computers. Others read their papers, The Sound Crossing with headphones in ear another The Seattle Times. Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina. I’ve thought of reading Tolstoy, always having the mind that it was something that I should do as if it were required of my to partake in our society. He’s on one of my many to read lists of classic literature, though I may get around to Dostoevsky first. As I finish the final parts of Watership Down I appreciate some of the connections to Lost early in the book. What interested me most about the novel was trying to connect it to Sawyer’s mind as he read it while stranded on the island and watching the rest of the crew accordingly. I immediately noticed the word Hrududu, the sound a tractor or any motor vehicle makes from it’s engine. Hrududu Factory comes to mind, which was one of the projects on the Shmat label by a guy in Los Angeles. Years ago when we were living in San Diego Matthew came out for a visit. Eager to be in the Southern California sun he was greeted by two weeks of June Gloom in it’s stead. Through the powers of the internet we all drove up to Los Angeles to attend a back yard party of people we’d never formally met. The trip was interesting and through social networking sites we kept in touch for a while. Then there was the war and more important things came along I suppose, though I imagine Matthew has spoken to him more frequently than I have.
The ferry rocks as we cross the wake of a passing ship. To our starboard side the Bainbridge to Seattle crossing passes. I don’t even know what vessel I am on, something that I usually notice as it I mostly find myself on the MV Tacoma. Our speed decreases as we make our turn into the island. To the south is Blake Island where I spent my weekend camping. A place so wonderful that it would solely justify owning a boat. A small boat that I have day dreamed about since first sailing the waters of the Floridian panhandle and later seeing determined skippers battle the November gales in the Straight of Juan de Fucca.
Conversations onboard are a bit quieter now as I imagine people have run out of things to say in their anticipation of going ashore. Some make their way back to their cares as the captain walks past to my left. A man in a green shirt mimics a musical instrament as his comanions make a sort of bovine sound. We make our final turn into Eagle Harbor. More people stand up as I and return below.
