The slow ferry between the islands

The last ferry of the evening left the harbor just as the lamps along the quay were being lit. It was an old ferry, painted white with a blue stripe along its side, and it moved at its own unhurried pace between the islands, calling at one small dock and then another, all through the night.

Nell had a seat on the upper deck, near the back, where a wooden bench ran along the rail under a canvas awning. She had a thick coat and a woollen hat and a flask of cocoa, and she had nowhere she needed to be until morning.

The ferry pulled away from the quay with a long low note from its horn. The engine hummed deep below the deck, a sound she felt more than heard, a steady warm vibration in the wooden bench and the soles of her feet. The harbor lights slid slowly behind them, growing smaller, until they were only a scatter of gold at the edge of the dark water.

The sea was calm tonight. Its surface was smooth and dark, and the ferry’s wake spread out behind it in two long silver lines that stretched back and back until they melted into the night. The air smelled of salt and rope and, faintly, of the cocoa in her flask.

She unscrewed the cap and poured a little into the cup. The steam rose into the cool air. She held it close to her face and breathed in the warm chocolate smell, and sipped.

Out on the water, the islands came and went. Each one was a low dark shape against the stars, with a few lights clustered near the shore. The ferry would slow as it drew near, and the engine’s hum would soften, and it would ease up to a little wooden dock where someone stood waiting with a lantern. A few people would step off, or on. A rope would be thrown and caught and thrown back. Someone would call a quiet goodnight. And then the ferry would pull away again, and the island would slip back into the dark.

Nell liked watching this. It was always the same, and always a little different. A man with a bicycle. A woman with a basket of eggs. An old dog who walked down the gangway on his own and sat on the dock as if he did this every night, which perhaps he did.

After the fourth island, the ferry was nearly empty. Nell moved to the end of the bench, where it was most sheltered, and tucked her feet up under her. The canvas awning moved gently above her in the breeze, making a soft flapping sound, like a sail on a quiet day.

The engine hummed. The water whispered along the hull. The stars were bright and many above the dark sea.

She finished her cocoa and screwed the cap back on the flask. She pulled her hat down over her ears and her coat collar up around her chin. The bench was warm from the engine below. The ferry rocked, very slightly, in a long slow rhythm, as if it too were breathing.

Another island slid past, its lights low and golden. Nell watched it go.

Her eyes were heavy. The hum of the engine had become part of her, steady and deep.

The ferry moved on through the night, from island to island, slow and sure.

And on the upper deck, wrapped in her coat, Nell slept.