Aboard the Ferry

The wind blows so fiercely that I stumble. I hold on to the railing for dear life. My sister heaves herself up next to me with the force of the wind pulling her backward.
Our hair slashes across our teary eyed faces. My grandpa stands still in the wind, unmoving. So this was it, the front of the ferry, going towards Bainbridge Island from Seattle.
So many years ago we had been on this very ferry, I scarcely remember it. I had forgotten the harsh wind, the loud horn, and the car port down below. I stagger away from the front and enter into the inside seating area. It was clam, quiet, warm. I go over to the stuffed seat and sink into them, stretching my feet. Relaxing, I grab my water bottle and gulp it down.
Eventually, my family maneuver their way in to join me, their hair askew. My mother and sister take a few minutes trying to smooth their hair down. Choosing to keep his sunglasses on, my dad leans back and closes his eyes. At least I think he did. Grandpa continues to drink the coffee that I failed to finish. Soon the ferry starts tooting its horn.
My family gets up and trudges down to the Mercedes. We take our positions. I squeeze into the middle. The ship comes to a lurching stop. After waiting for the ok, we drive off onto the island. We say goodbye to the ferry. Only to say hello again when it comes back to pick us up.



Abigail Schmidt