FERRY TALES:
AT THE HELM
Dispatch #4 from an undercover Washington State Ferries deckhand
WRITTEN BY ALBERT A. SHORR
ILLUSTRATIONS BY JED JUDT
The small, mighty Kennewick is currently working the ferry run between Port Townsend and Keystone Harbor, next to the “town” of Coupeville on Whidbey Island. When the weather’s nice, it’s the perfect route for day dreamers looking for a vacation from the vacation town of Port Townsend, where the deer don’t fear cars, because no one would dream of hurting them. Port Townsend is the Northwest hub for stunning wooden boats, and if you leave town without overhearing a conversation about some inane boat part, you’re in the wrong place. Heated debates about the construction of a new local pool and about sail canvas eventually get old, so the Kennewick offers a diesel-powered getaway.
Arriving in Keystone Harbor, as you sail past the hill of Fort Ebey with its light green stalks of grass waving a million tiny hands to greet you, a pot-bellied OS named Tommy will kindly save you from the overplayed arrival announcement of the regular ferry. His energetic tenor rings out: “Attention passengers. We are now arriving in beautiful mysterious haunted Keystone Harbor. Please gather all your personal belongings, muster your party, and prepare to disembark. If you walked on the vessel today, please make your way down the car deck. You will be walking off before the traffic, so it’s important to head down in a timely fashion. Drivers, return to your vehicles at this time. Thank you for sailing with us today aboard the Kennewick. Keystone! All ashore!”
One particularly shiny spring day, long little clouds are drifting over Whidbey Island’s blue sky. I’m standing at the inshore window of the Kennewick watching the cars roll off. We just finished our first crossing of the day and the boat is already pristine. I sweep chunks of pretzel neatly into my black bin. I feel the green liquid we use for cleaning tables drying on my blue nitrile gloves. The day is delightful, but I’m replaying an irritating interaction that happened on the way over, feeling a little sorry for myself.
Because walk-ons load via the car deck on the Kennewick, all passengers enter the cabin from below. They pull themselves up the stairs, winded and disoriented as they arrive on the bright main deck. I was wiping tables as one of the first groups arrived, and I felt their eyes on me immediately. I kept working. Brushing off crumbs first, then spraying a substantial mist, finally painting a thick pattern across the table with a blue paper cloth. The eyes were still on me and I felt figures looming. Three older folks were making their way to my freshly cleaned table. “Thank you so much!” said a tiny gray lady among them, trying to catch my eye. The trio slid into the booth before I was done. I nodded, forcing a small smile onto my face. Through a pair of round red glasses, the woman extended three coffee cups and asked, “Oh honey, would you mind taking this trash for me?” Stunned, I took the cups and walked the three feet to the bins to dump their trash. Okay rude… But I mean… they don’t know what this job is. As I put some distance between us, I overheard one of the men. “You know, the other day, Charlie was talking about joining the ferries, but I was really hoping he would get a real job.”
I hope I don’t need to say more about why that interaction made me angry. But over-enthusiastic thank yous bother me just as much, and I can’t point to why. It might be the simple fact of their overenthusiasm. Maybe I just hate attention that much. I don’t watch you in your cubicle, so please don’t stare at me. There is certainly a part of me that hopes to never see my friends while I’m working. I am a little ashamed. I hope I can learn to accept a genuine thank you one day. I know a former employee of Chick-Fil-A now at the ferries who always answers a thank you with “My pleasure,” which you could extrapolate to, “Cleaning your toilets is my pleasure.”
This job is great practice for letting go of ego and letting go of shame. I’ve done many different jobs in my life. I’ll admit that I thrive in any culture that takes advantage of those who work too hard. But that’s not WSF. (And I don’t think many of my other coworkers are writing a monthly undercover column after their ten-hour shifts.) At WSF, I stride leisurely in my uncomfortable and unflattering uniform brushing little curly hairs off urinal edges. I embrace the culture of sloth, sitting in the day room twiddling my thumbs while the boat is moving. I watch as my coworker drags a mop behind her, sopping oil from painted concrete. Work is a nice break from all the tasks and demands of life. And still I get in trouble for working too much. Maybe I should get a “real job.” Maybe Charlie’s elder clique would offer me a crumb of respect.
But sometimes, I get to drive the boat.
On this perfect spring day aboard the Kennewick, I’m pretty over working at the ferries. Dispatch had assigned me twice in a row to Mukilteo/Clinton, my least favorite ferry route. Muk’s crossing is around thirteen minutes, so it might take you six round trips to finish your dinner. Best of luck with that. This route’s sterile boats are ruled by dynasty families who pass down their pride like biological magnification. With each generation, self-esteem grows, eventually becoming toxic. If it wasn’t already toxic. Two days of this have me kicking gravel with my head down.
The morning of my third assignment, I walked the short dock to the red-and-white gate arm at Port Townsend’s ferry landing. I stopped to peek at the jade water. It barely cheered me. I repeated to myself: I can do this. It’s a beautiful day. I can do this. But those tactless people stomped right through my pep talk’s cute little stick house of optimism.
After five minutes of moping by the Whidbey window, I decide to go visit Herbert, the chief mate, in the pilothouse. As I climb the steep staircase, the slow drip of conversation grows louder.
“Knock knock,” I announce myself nervously. “Is it okay if I just stand here awkwardly and observe?” I ask.
“Well,” Herbert starts sternly. His chunky form faces the forward-angled windows in his pageboy cap, his hands in his pockets. “I’ll allow it, but only if you promise to be as awkward as possible.” I chuckle, relieved.
The quartermaster, Scott, is at the helm. A rigging knife and marlin spike hang from his side in a leather sheath, revealing his competence as a true sailor. He chimes in pleasantly without turning his round silver lenses away from the water, “Oh! Well! I better not mess up. Maybe someone else should drive. Anyone would be a better example.”
“Have you driven this thing yet, Albert?” Herbert asks.
“Not yet. I heard the Kwa-di Tabils are hard to drive,” I reply.
“Oh they aren’t that bad. Maybe a bit squirrely. People love to whine. I think it’s mostly just this route. Going into the hole in Keystone is pretty scary the first few times. Anyway, why don’t you come up here next time we leave Coupeville and you can have a wheel?”
“Are you sure? That would be… awesome. Thank you.”
“Sure thing. I’m sure Scott’s tired of driving this route anyway, aren’t you, Scott?”
Scott puts his hands up. “I won’t say no to an extra break.”
“Come up a few minutes before we leave so you can see the transfer process,” Herbert instructs me.
“Great, will do,” I nod.
The conversation lulls back to a lazy pace as we all watch the water sparkle. Guitar riffs straight out of the ’80s screech from Herbet’s speaker. Soon we’re arriving. Herbert takes the helm.
He keys his mic, “Dock. Boat. Yellow.”
“Okay, Kennewick. Port Townsend standing by. Yellow ops,” the radio breathes back.
Herbert sighs. “All these years of working the dock and Pip still won’t break character.”
As the boat noses gently into a hug of pilings at the Port Townsend dock, I say “thank you” again and dash sideways down the stairs. I grab a broom and make my way speedily aft, boosted by the prospect of something new, something kind of big. The fake cheese spread that’s smeared across three tables and two benches doesn’t bother me one bit.
With the prospect of navigating ahead of me, the swirling hole of water to the left of the dock in Keystone looks juicier, the cliff looks more majestic. I clean. I wander. I watch. As the bosun squeezes the last few cars on the boat, I zoom to the bow and up the pilothouse stairs.
“Hello!” I say on my way up.
“Hello,” Herbert answers. “Okay. So. First let’s call the other pilothouse and the engineers. Hit this switch and say, ‘Ready offshore.’’’
“Ready offshore,” I say, and hear the confirmation from the pilothouse and the engine room.
“Okay. Do you hear that buzzing? That’s the other end giving you propulsion and steering. See the light? Turn that switch to accept.”
I do as I’m told and say what I do. “Taking propulsion, steering.”
“Now wiggle the helm a bit to make sure steering is working.”
I turn the swiveling handle that functions as the wheel, “Looks good to me.”
“Great, now let’s go handle four on the throttle.”
Heart racing, I push the lever forward to the green number four. The big old girl gains speed as we head straight out of the tiny harbor. The beach seems way too close, but Herbert is relaxed. I can clearly make out two figures on the cliffside watching. The Kennewick starts to shake a bit, then settles into a smooth trot. The water widens around us.
“Now, let's go to handle eight, then come left to two-one-two.”
I push the throttle all the way forward then move the rudder to the left. I watch the compass spin and settle, spin and settle. As I get close to 212°, I ease the rudder indicator back toward zero. “That’s two-one-two,” I say. And Herbert replies, confirming the heading. The warm soup of conversation sloshes around. I steer to the crooked teeth of the Olympic Mountains across the water while Herbert, Scott, and I get to know each other. The question “What did you do before?” plagues the entire fleet, but it especially lingers in the pilothouse. It’s a test. If you can answer these questions and stay on course, you’re not a total idiot. Maybe you’re mate material. And I’m sure there are bonus points if you are in the portion of the workforce with any maritime experience.
We push across a swirling line of current, we make a turn, and I struggle to get the boat aiming at the paper mill. We pass Port Hudson Harbor, the Northwest Maritime Center, the skeleton of a gray whale named Gunther. Then Herbert says, “Okay, I guess I better take it from here. Nice job Albert.” He steps in and clicks the radio for the engineers and the dock.
“Hey Pip, we’re back. Yellow ops.”
“Thank you, Kennewick. Port Townsend is standing by. Yellow ops.” Pip, so regal. So serious.
I stand behind Herbert, watching as he switches the boat into a special mode that allows the propellor to change directions. He slows us down. I try to look over his shoulder. I study the subtle turns he’s making, adjusting speed and direction for both bow and stern. As we pass the first bundle of pilings, Mark utters the speed, “four point eight,” and Harold acknowledges by repeating it. The bow starts to churn a foamy cascade of water as we slow, and the boat bumps into the dock. We wiggle around a bit, and eventually settle right in the middle. Herbert picks up his radio and Pip is already lowering the bridge.
“We’re in. Back to green.” A beautiful landing, and for me, a cue to get back to work.
“Thank you so much,” I say. Then I race down the stairs. I make sure there are no more creatures of any kind in the cabin and begin tidying furiously. I pause. I watch a truck towing a giant salmon sculpture drive off. Then walk-ons dot the bridge. I grab a fresh rag and a bottle full of green juice. I brush crumbs to the floor. I erase tiny handprints of grease. I scratch off a piece of gum left between a pleather cushion and the wall. As the stairs fill with passengers, I feel eyes on me again. This time I don’t care. I’m still smiling. These people have no idea that I, Ordinary Albert Shorr, just drove hundreds of people in this big boat across a lot of moving water. I keep cleaning well after we’re underway. Tommy walks past and fakes a punch. “Take a break, Al,” he says.
This job can lead to a terrible ego. Have you ever stopped to consider why we so revere pilots of all types? I think a lot of pilots could stand to be a bit more humble, and that a lot of sanitation workers and city bus drivers could stand to be a bit more proud. They deserve to be the celebrities that toddlers revere. The vessel and cargo might differ, but the job is the same: to drive. And still, as much as I want to ignore the public's contempt, I think I do want the job that adults think is “better.” I want the job that adults think is “real.” At least, I want a job with minimal exposure to pubic hair.
I stow my broom in the nearest corner and head to the crew galley. Fair game on the table is a box of crusty, day-and-a-half-old donuts. I cut a chocolate one in half and walk to a porthole. I gaze out, beaming, devouring the sweet treat in two bites. Chewing with my mouth wide open. MAN that was cool. I wonder if it ever gets old. Maybe one day I’ll say, “I drive the Washington State Ferries,” and mean it. Maybe I’ll be an Ordinary forever. I shrug and grab the other half of the donut. I burst through the doors onto a gloriously blinding sundeck day and gulp it down. Nothing to do but be an Ordinary for now.
-Al. A Shorr
If you enjoyed the illustrations, check out Jed Judt’s website and Instagram.
Al A. Shorr’s identity is one secret we will never tell! But yes, Albert is a real-life employee of the Washington State Ferries.
Mark your calendar for August 19, 2026. CHUM News will be hosting a real-life event with Jed and Al in attendance! (Albert will be in disguise.)
Fill out the email form below to get “Ferry Tales” and other CHUM dispatches in your inbox once a month. And consider supporting CHUM through a monthly paid subscription so we can improve the rate we pay contributors + share more cool Seattle-area stories. Perks galore!