FERRY TALES:
THE SUMMER DAY
Dispatch #5 from an undercover Washington State Ferries deckhand
WRITTEN BY ALBERT A. SHORR
ILLUSTRATIONS BY KATE CLARK
It’s Saturday and I’m sitting with Larry at the back of the Wenatchee, staring out at the gentle swirl of wake, steeling myself for a sunny Saturday on the Bainbridge route. As the sun sets later each day, the hordes of humanity that board the green flotilla grow. Summer has arrived. I’m giving myself a pep talk and trying to photosynthesize through the glass while Larry scrolls. A middle-aged lady approaches, and I turn up my jaw to welcome her question.
“Hi. I was on the Kingston boat last night and I’m wondering if you know what happened. When we got to Edmonds, we saw three state troopers drive on and then we waited and waited. Eventually the troopers drove off and it seemed like maybe someone drove a passenger’s car off. Do you have any idea what happened?”
“Hm. I haven’t heard about anything yet, but we did have a weird one here last night,” I reply.
“Sounds like a dooey to me,” Larry cuts in, not looking up from his phone.
“Really?” This seems to excite her. She begins to smile.
“Oh yeah it kind of happens a lot,” I explain. “So, yesterday we had an extremely inebriated girl drag herself onto the boat and then collapse by the stairs outside of the pickle fork. It’s always hard to say what exactly is going on, but alcohol was definitely part of it.”
Larry chimes in, making brief eye contact with her now: “Ferry workers almost get hit by drunk drivers all the time. But they only decide to put it in the paper occasionally. Sorry ma’am, we haven’t gotten that download yet. Ask us tomorrow.”
I feel the boat waggle, unmoored. The chime rings and the canned welcome message fills the speakers. I peel myself from the slump and walk with Larry to the day room. Larry goes straight to the fridge. He holds his phone up to his face with his right hand. He is chewing, smacking, mouth wide open. Larry opens the fridge door with his left hand and sticks his face fully inside.
“Are you calling someone to find out about Kingston?” I ask.
“Yeah I’m calling Elmer.”
Bobby walks in and takes off his state-issued navy bucket hat, revealing a glorious shiny bald head. Bobby lives in Queen Anne. He’s a former truck driver turned Seattlelite, and, well, I’ll tell you more in an episode coming soon.
“What are you lookin’ for, Larry?” he teases, as Larry digs through the fridge, pulling out a package of sliced cheese, a half-eaten pie. Both items have been claimed by other watches, marked with Sharpie.
“Just lookin’,” he says.
The route from Bainbridge Island to Seattle is one of the easiest to acquire when bidding for a watch, because your average ferry worker wants nothing to do with it. They’d rather stare at the wall on an empty boat full of dust bunnies than deal with the public. They want order and peace. They’ll accept boredom. I get that. Moving people between Seattle and the idyllic, bordering-on-fake, town of Winslow on Bainbridge is an exhausting feat. Each boat can hold over 200 cars and the passenger count maxes out around 1,700. Have you ever been on a boat with 1,700 people? It’s a real tinned-fish situation. Some summer days we reach those numbers every other sailing. But I like it. Something interesting is always bound to happen. Bainbridge is the big leagues. Put me in, coach.
I notice Aiden, an aloof OS, in the corner by the trash.
“How are you?” I ask him.
“Oh… I’m… great,” he says, turning his head toward me in slow motion. “I’m on 4 mgs of Adavans.”
“Oh.” I say, glancing at Bobby. Noted. Aiden’s got a lot going on, though I don’t actually know what it is. I do know that he’s brilliant, an aerospace engineer. I often try to ask him about it, because I’m a huge nerd, but it just irritates him. Once he told me he screwed up his life and his brother convinced him that working for the ferries was a fine second chance.
I step out of the second mate’s office to walk a lap. A sunglass-clad woman shuffles toward me holding out a black bag with a dog brush clipped on. She informs me very seriously that she has been brushing her dog upstairs. She asks if there is a way she can get rid of the hair, offering the bag to me. She almost touches me with it. I step out of the way and open the lid of the trashcan right next to her. She looks at me for the first time, then starts to unload soft black clumps. She misses a few times and a clump or two floats to the shoulder of a woman doing a puzzle a few feet away, who turns around, looking disgusted. I walk away, unable to contain a grin. Before I know it we’re docked in Seattle, and I’m sweeping my side, calling out “all ashore” at the lingering passengers.
As I reach the galley, a shrill voice whines, “Albert, is it time to go home yet?” Oh no. Oversharing Kirsten, one of the cooks, is plopped at the edge of a bench.
“Hi Kirsten. How are you?” I say.
“Horrible. Yesterday my boyfriend was being so annoying, he wouldn’t let me use his car, so I was ignoring him all day. And then today he just drove off without saying anything. And then our manager just yelled at me for talking too much about my private life. Like what the hell? I just want to go home, Albert.”
I mumble something about being sorry and sweep salt and popcorn from my zone in the galley faster than I ever have. I feel so awkward and also, I really have to keep it moving. I manage to get out of earshot, but maybe I pretend not to hear as she asks me if the day is over yet. I call it clear. I clean and listen to the radio chatter. Dead battery in the upper wing, north side. Dead battery in the tunnel. Dead battery in the lower wing, south side. A hattrick! I find gum under one of the little side tables. A rare gem. A real vintage move. Somehow I am disappointed that it’s white versus Hubba Bubba powder pink. Still, what luck! I peel it off. So satisfying! I find three cups of coffee, one iced. I find the remnants of one whole lunch, tray and all. I find a water bottle, also disappointingly white, and a pair of bedazzled sunglasses. I make a pit stop at the lost and found.
The radio buzzes again, “Okay, Seattle, we still can’t get this car started. We’re gonna need the Bull to push it off.” Every terminal is equipped with a rusty little putt-putt vehicle that we mostly use to cart off hundreds of bags of trash. It has a cute tire nose, providing a barrier when it has to nudge off a car.
“Copy that. Joe, can you grab the Bull?”
“Yeah Cheryl, copy that. Hopping on the Bull now, Wenatchee.”
Hmm. I wonder how late we are now. One dead battery and that’s it. Ten minutes behind. Finally we start the new load. The second mate comes over the radio: “Seattle, what are these flashers?” Passengers often request accommodation for parking near the elevator or a car deck restroom. ABs do their best to make this happen. The toll booth tells the terminal, and the terminal tells the car deck by radio, and by asking folks to turn on their hazards. This works out ninety-nine percent of the time, but every now and then it turns into a game of telephone.
“Yeah he wouldn’t give us a straight answer. He said he thinks it looks cool?”
“Slow down!” yell three of the ABs in the tunnel. Their voices echo up to the pickle fork. Larry and I look down. A big black truck is barreling toward the front of the boat, screeching to a halt before one of the restrooms. An AB jumps out of the way.
On this crossing, I sit in the dayroom and stare at the sparkling water through the crack in the door. The lucky AB tells us, “He for sure wanted to hit me. And I asked if he needed help with anything, but he hobbled out of his car with a crutch and screamed, ‘I need the fucking bathroom! And if I had my prosthetic leg I’d hit you over the head with it!’”
As I sweep my side in Bainbridge, back at the dock, I notice some ladies with full cups of wine. I boot them once. I keep going. I circle back and boot them twice. On the third pass, they finally start moving. Last ones off the boat.
Except over the radio I hear, “We’re still looking for the driver of a white Nissan Altima.” Someone definitely left their car on the boat and walked off. The terminal makes an announcement and a few minutes later, they materialize. A well-dressed pair walks shamelessly down the overhead, and I escort them to their car. I walk quickly and they drag behind. Last ones off the boat by twenty minutes. And so we load again.
Over the radio Aiden calls for assistance on the pickle fork, “Wenatchee cabin I think we have uh… um a medical issue on the pickle fork? Uh… if anyone is available to assist or to relieve me...”
“I’m on it,” I reply. I jog to the dayroom and grab the medical bag. I love this shit. When I arrive, a large red-haired man is holding a hand under his chin. Two small children appear to be with him. At fairly regular intervals he exclaims, “OOOWWAAARRGGGG!” and when I ask him what’s going on he tells me that he bit his tongue. He’s fighting the pain, and sometimes, he loses. Aiden just nods with wide eyes and points to a pool of blood on the deck.
“I’ll come back to help with that,” I say. Then I turn to the man: “Ouch. We can’t stitch you up on board. And I’m not allowed to give you anything for pain. Do you want us to call an ambulance?” He shakes his head. “Okay. Can you walk?” He nods. “I think we should go to the second mate’s office. Follow me.” We all settle in as much as we can with the intermittent screaming. I unzip the med bag and hand over a huge wad of gauze. I look at the cut, shaped perfectly like a wavy line of teeth and covering most of his tongue and ask if he needs anything else. Ice?
“No, no, this is okay,” he insists. I get out the forms. WSF loves paperwork. The story the forms tell is that he tripped on the walkway and his little girl somehow pushed his arm up to his chin. His tongue was in the wrong place and CHOMP. As far as “emergencies” go, this is a weird one. I notice that the little boy is holding one of his fingers with an exaggerated frown.
“Is everyone else okay?” I ask, looking at him. He holds out his finger telling me he cut it. There is nothing there, but I give him a bandaid and he seems relieved. The second mate walks in as we’re wrapping up, and thanks me for handling it. He presses the button. The announcement plays. On the way back to Seattle, I sit in the dayroom and watch the illuminated water again. I wonder about the little boy, what else his tender soul needs. I wonder about his sister. I wonder if I could have done more, found out more, helped more. Then I wonder if I’m imagining that they needed more. I shovel chips into my mouth, not realizing I’ve eaten a quarter of the bag.
Now we’re really late and the cap asks over the PA for everyone’s cooperation in a quick disembarkation. A passenger mutters about how they would have appreciated a quick onload. I watch another passenger ask three different employees why we boarded late. They all put their own pizazz into the same answer. I guess he’s expecting to be lied to.
Trash trip! We send an AB off with a trailer stacked high with dripping bags. One falls off and the Bull driver growls in frustration. The rest of the cars roll off while the Bull driver unloads the trash at the terminal. And when the boat is empty again, the second mate requests, “Okay Seattle, we’re ready for the Bull… again.” Squeezing a few more bags through a sliver between a large truck and the wall to get to the trash nook on the car deck, I try not to feel despair. It’s always so much waste from only one boat in only one day. This is the first time I’ve seen them make two runs. I sprint upstairs. I think about the Great Pacific Garbage Patch while Aiden and I mop the entire north side as fast as we can. Someone spilled an entire milkshake, leaving chocolate footprints from stern to bow. Now I’m sweating in this floating greenhouse.
A friend I really don’t want to see texts me to ask if I’m on the Wenatchee. I sneak up to the active pilothouse to hide. Just past Duwamish Head, the quartermaster points out a tiny dark shadow as we all stare through polarized lenses and shades into a blaring low sun.
The chief mate runs to the helm and waves open arms up and down in cartoon motion. “KAKAYER DEAD AHEAD! RIGHT TWENTY! RIGHT TWENTY FIVE! RIGHT THIRTY!” As we pass safely, treating the foolish adventurer to our massive wake, we all notice that it isn’t even a kayak. It’s an inflatable paddle board. Reader, I beg you. Please don’t paddle in the shipping lanes.
As we pull into Bainbridge, I’m waiting on the pickle fork to escort a youth orchestra onto the boat. We shove chairs out of the way, music stands appear, and they begin the musical scribble of tuning. We get underway and the safety announcement seems to last forever. Then they play, offering, dare I say it, peace. Bobby decides that the pressure washing on the pickle fork must be finished, so I watch his neon yellow hood bob out the window behind their smart black outfits. The crew cycles through the cabin to enjoy the concert. The strings bring us into Seattle. We offload and reload without incident. On the way back, even the captain comes down to listen.
Then Larry spots a tall black fin. “Orca!” A few passengers follow his pointing hand to the starboard side of the boat. More follow, until they are out of sight. The kids play on, seriously. But then I feel the engines slow. Stop. Just off to port I see three more black triangles. And now the masses have spotted them as well. Crowds rush upstairs and to the pickle fork. Phones fly out of pockets and purses. The orchestra stops, and the young faces turn toward the window. They are dedicated, waiting to be dismissed. For permission to experience the wonder. Eventually, they receive it, and they join the crowd. I can’t believe this is happening. Larry always jokes about seeing them right at the end of a shift, hoping to milk the clock for two hours of overtime. The orcas have upstaged the orchestra.
I go outside for my own view. I glance down at the car deck and see a figure with the shiny blue cotton candy package on their head. It’s time to go home.
After days like this one, I think I could survive one summer of Bainbridge runs. It would be fun, until it’s not. And then maybe I’ll go out to the San Juan Islands. I think that’s the closest I might ever get to a summer day like Mary Oliver’s. At least the chaos is inspiring. At least I’m getting overtime. When you’re onboard, maybe you’ll get to see a transient orca calf. Maybe you’ll nearly bite your tongue off. Or maybe you’ll just end up with tufts of cat fur on your shoulders. Anything can happen.
-Al A. Shorr
If you enjoyed the illustrations, check out Kate Clark’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.
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!