Midnight Mutterings | Friday ferry

||| MIDNIGHT MUTTERINGS by JACKIE BATES |||

For the first time in the thirty five years I’ve lived on Orcas Island, a ferry person yelled at me. It was this afternoon. I’m pretty sympathetic to ferry workers. It’s a hard job. Ferries are understaffed. Sometimes riders are rude, unthinking, and otherwise make things difficult for the workers. Apparently, today I was one of those people.

I was not rude. I was not careless. I was not oblivious. And yet, I definitely offended a ferry worker. It doesn’t really matter that it was inadvertent on my part. So here’s what happened (from my viewpoint).

Lovely sunny day. Mid-afternoon. I arrived at the toll booth on time for my reservation with a valid ticket which I showed to the toll person on my phone. Was told to get in Lane 10, which I did. Meant the ferry was likely full as I am usually directed to Lane 13 or 12. The fact that Lane 10 for Orcas Island was unusual was verified by the woman behind me who asked me to confirm that I was, indeed, in line for Orcas Island. I did not recognize her and did not ask her name. Not that I’m usually unfriendly. I was just already deep into answering a few texts that were (at the time) important to me.

Time went by. A fair amount of time. So much time that the ferry to Friday Harbor loaded before the ferry to Orcas, even though the Orcas ferry was scheduled for an earlier departure. Finally the Orcas ferry was announced as ready for boarding. Late. I didn’t pay attention to the time as after 35 years, I know things change. While I don’t know the reason for today’s late departure, I wasn’t disturbed, impatient or in any way concerned. And I didn’t spend any energy on how that might have affected the ferry workers, but it may have. A late ferry can stress both the riders and the workers. And the workers may have been deemed guilty by riders for the late ferry. I don’t know. But I do know it can happen. Lane 10 did load after Lanes 13 and 12. Which is reasonable. And certainly not the fault of the individual ferry worker. This particular day I wasn’t perturbed. Didn’t have to be anywhere at a particular time. Had a sandwich, a Thermos of hot tea and some Trader Joe’s chocolate, so I was comfortable.

As I said, it was very sunny. Bright. Sun in my eyes when it was my turn to board. And I didn’t do the thing my father taught me when I was learning to drive. Which was probably before you were born, long before there was such a thing as Drivers Ed in the schools. My father, an engineer by trade and temperament was quick to look to solutions and rarely given to defeat by circumstances. So he said when you are driving and heading from bright sunlight into a dark section of road, such as a tunnel, just close one eye some minutes before you enter the dark space. Then when you enter, open that eye and the pupil will not have stayed contracted, and you can see well in the relative dark as your pupil is open and can use what light there is in the relative dark. It works. (Of course, it doesn’t work (or need to) if you are driving in the dark before you enter the dark space as your pupils are already as open as they are going to be in another dark space.

Well, with my advanced age, I am already noticing I don’t see as well in the dark as I did earlier in my my life. It’s a fact, even though I don’t like it. But not a fact that affected my behavior today. Today, I just didn’t think about the fact I wouldn’t be able to see well in the relative dark of the ferry.

So today, when I drove from the bright sun onto the relatively dark ferry, I could see the ferry worker directing traffic. I could see his arms moving, but I could not see his hands and where he was pointing. I could not see where he was directing me (which I later learned was the middle lane in the back of the middle section of the ferry. So I ended up closer to the right side of the ferry. The worker gestured more emphatically. I could see, could understand his frustration, but not see his hands in the dark through my side window. He came closer, more emphatic. He shouted to follow his hands. I said meekly, and probably too softly, that I could not see his hands, to please tell me where I should go. He came closer and louder, but not more helpful. And I finally understood that he wanted me in the middle lane. I was already parked awkwardly, at an angle, in the middle lane. He came closer and indicated for me to back up. ‘Lots of room to back up,’ he said. I tried to follow his directions, but still was awkwardly at an angle. He came closer. I said, I was sorry, I hadn’t been able to see his hands. (And I still hadn’t realized, remembered that I had needed to close one eye in order to see the directions. I was just impressed that other people could see.

The worker came closer and again I said I hadn’t been able to see his directions. That I was sorry. That I was trying. He said, ’Well, your did a pretty poor job of it.’ I’m sure he could have worded his complaint much more colorfully, and I was grateful for his restraint. I did the whole ride at that awkward angle and wished I dared correct my position, especially after my vision improved after I’d been in the relative darkness long enough for my pupils to widen.

As I was one of the last cars to board, the ferry soon left Anacortes, and I was still feeling embarrassed and resentful that I was awkwardly parked. And annoyed at the worker, who hadn’t been willing to tell me what to do instead of just waving his arms more animatedly. Now, of course, I am embarrassed that I hadn’t prevented the problem in the first place, by doing what my father had taught me so long ago. The woman who had asked me if, indeed, Lane 10 was going to Orcas was surely behind me all this time, but I did not feel up to complaining to her about the impatient ferry worker or asking her if she had had difficulty seeing in the relative darkness after driving on the ferry. As she was clearly much younger than I am, she likely did not share my difficulty.

I was answering a text from a friend who had recently moved from Orcas Island, and complaining about my plight, still not having realized my problem was slowly adjusting pupils, not an impatient ferry worker. Meanwhile, another car behind me had its alarm going off, screaming while it’s light were blinking. I assumed my lights were on as my new-to-me car is all electric with automatic lights. Of course those lights weren’t helpful to me in my situation as the worker was not in front of my car, but to the side, which prevented my lights from showing him clearly. In any case, my text to my friend included my embarrassment, my frustration, and my resentment. I wrote that my cheeks had only a trace of injustice tears, but that I still was not going to share my chocolate with the ferry worker, not even a few pre-licked-for-spite, squares.

(When I’m in an awkward situation, I often resort to pathetic humor, which I usually keep to myself, but not this time.) I mentioned it’s almost time to renew my driver’s license, which was very old due to online automatic renewal during Covid. I mentioned that I now weighed twenty pounds less and was three inches shorter than what my license says. And I’m no longer blond. It was only later that I realized that even if I did have a road test, it wouldn’t likely include driving from bright sunlight onto a dark ferry.

I said nothing about how grateful I was that the ferry worker had tempered his words in his criticism.

Now, about whether it’s safe for me to drive at night: Well, it don’t seem to have any difficulty driving where it is fairly light, as in town or on the freeway with the lines of headlights. But maybe there are circumstances that are less advisable, where it’s fully dark and only my own headlights light up the road, but leave the deer that appear on the side of the road in the dark before suddenly appearing directly in front of my car.

And for the ferry worker, he has a hard job and he was doing his very best in unusual circumstances, just as we all are. And I had one more lesson in learning to accept my lessening physical limitations and a reminder to heed what my father taught me so long ago.