The Crossing

The interior of the ferry is warmer than the deck, the air thick with the smell of diesel and something else, something greasy and comforting. Your stomach rumbles, a reminder that you haven’t eaten since breakfast. You follow the scent down a narrow corridor, past the rows of plastic seats, to a small, crowded café near the stern.

The smell hits you full force as you step inside—coffee, fried food, the sweet tang of syrup. It’s overwhelming after the clean salt air of the deck, but there’s something comforting about it too, a reminder of ordinary things in the midst of so much emotional turmoil. You join the short queue, scanning the simple menu board above the counter. The offerings are basic—sandwiches, pastries, a few hot dishes—but right now, anything sounds good.

The woman behind the counter gives you a friendly smile as you approach. She’s middle-aged, with kind eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor. “What can I get for you, love?”

You order a coffee and a bacon sandwich, your voice sounding rough and unused to your own ears. The woman nods, busying herself with the coffee machine. You watch her work, the simple domesticity of the scene a stark contrast to the turmoil inside you.

“Rough crossing?” she asks, her voice raised to be heard over the hiss of the espresso machine.

You shake your head. “Not too bad. Just needed a break from the wind.”

She nods sagely. “It can wear you down, that wind. Gets in your bones.” She slides a steaming paper cup across the counter to you. “Coffee’s hot. Be careful.”

You murmur your thanks, paying with cash and accepting the warm, greasy sandwich she hands you. The smell of bacon is intoxicating, and you realize suddenly how hungry you really are.

You find a small table by the window, the plastic surface sticky under your fingertips. The café is quiet, just a few other passengers scattered at tables, absorbed in their phones or staring out at the sea. You slide into the booth, setting your coffee and sandwich down in front of you.

The coffee is bitter but hot, and you sip it slowly, letting the heat seep into your bones. The sandwich is greasy and delicious, the bacon crisp and salty on your tongue. For a few minutes, you just eat, focusing on the simple, physical act of chewing and swallowing. It’s a relief to think about nothing but the taste of the food, the warmth of the coffee in your hands.

Outside the window, the sea rolls past, endless and hypnotic. The water is calmer here, closer to the island, the waves gentle swells instead of churning whitecaps. You watch the way the light plays over the surface, shifting and changing with each movement of the ferry.

As you eat, a memory surfaces, unbidden but welcome. You see your father, younger, healthier, his face split in a wide grin. You’re on a ferry much like this one, the deck rolling beneath your feet. You’re young, maybe eight or nine, your hand small in his larger one.

“Watch, Morgan,” he says, his voice warm with excitement. He pulls a smooth, flat stone from his pocket, weighing it in his hand. “The trick is in the wrist. Like this.”

He demonstrates, his arm a blur as he sends the stone skipping across the surface of the water. It bounces once, twice, three times before sinking beneath the waves. He turns to you, his eyes sparkling with pride and challenge. “Your turn.”

You mimic his stance, your tongue poking out between your lips as you concentrate. The stone feels heavy in your hand, the surface smooth and cool. You wind up, your arm moving in what you hope is the right arc, and let the stone fly.

It hits the water with a splash and immediately sinks. You stare at the spot where it disappeared, disappointment a heavy weight in your chest.

Your father just laughs, a deep, booming sound that echoes across the deck. “Don’t worry, kiddo,” he says, ruffling your hair. “It takes practice. We’ll keep trying.”

And you do. For the rest of the crossing, you practice, your father patient and encouraging beside you. By the time the island comes into view, you’ve managed a respectable two skips, your pride burning bright in your chest.

“You’ve got it!” your father crows, sweeping you up in a hug that lifts your feet off the deck. “I knew you could do it!”

The memory is so vivid, so real, that for a moment you can almost feel his arms around you, smell the familiar scent of his aftershave. A lump forms in your throat, sudden and painful. You blink hard, staring out at the sea until the blur in your eyes clears.

The café is quiet around you, the other passengers lost in their own thoughts. You take another sip of your cooling coffee, the bitterness a welcome anchor in the present. The memory fades, but the warmth of it lingers, a small, bright spot in the midst of your grief.

You crumple the paper wrapper from your sandwich, the grease staining your fingers. The ferry rolls gently beneath you, the island looming ever closer through the window. You know you can’t hide out here forever, that Ash is waiting for you on the dock. But for now, just for a few more minutes, you let yourself sit, watching the waves and holding the memory of your father close.

You take one last look at the endless blue before turning away from the railing. The wind’s chill has seeped into your bones, and the thought of a warm, quiet space pulls you inside.

The ferry’s interior is a stark contrast to the wild openness of the deck. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a sterile glow on the rows of plastic seats. The air smells faintly of diesel and stale popcorn. You find a spot near the back, away from the handful of other passengers scattered throughout the cabin.

You sink into the seat, the vinyl cool against your skin even through your clothes. The rumble of the engine vibrates up through the floor, a steady, almost comforting rhythm. For a moment, you just sit there, letting the quiet wash over you. It’s a relief to be out of the wind, away from the constant reminder of the sea’s vastness.

Your fingers find their way into your wallet, tracing the worn leather edge. You know what you’re looking for, what you always seem to reach for in moments like this. The ticket stub is tucked into a small pocket inside, softened with age and handling. You pull it out, the paper rough against your fingertips.

It’s just a simple rectangle of cardstock, the ink slightly faded. A ferry ticket, just like the one in your own pocket. But this one belongs to your father. Or it would have, if he’d ever gotten the chance to use it.

The memory comes rushing back, sharp and vivid. You see him in the hospital bed, the stark white sheets a painful contrast to his sallow skin. The machines around him beep and whir, a constant soundtrack to those final days. He’d been frail, so different from the strong, vibrant man you’d known all your life. But his eyes, when he turned them toward you, were as bright and intense as ever.

He’d pressed this ticket into your hand one afternoon, his fingers trembling slightly. “I was going to take the ferry out to see Ash,” he’d said, his voice raspy with exertion. “Had it all planned. But then...” He’d trailed off, waving a hand vaguely at the hospital room around him.

You’d nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. You knew how much he’d been looking forward to that trip, to spending time with Ash on the island. It was a connection to his own childhood, to the summers he’d spent there as a boy. He’d spun so many stories about that place, painting it in your mind as a kind of paradise, wild and beautiful and free.

“I want you to have it,” he’d said, closing your fingers around the ticket stub. “Keep it. Maybe... maybe you’ll make the trip for me, someday.”

You’d promised you would, the words thick in your throat. It had felt like such a small thing, a token gesture in the face of the enormity of his illness. But now, holding that ticket in your hand as the ferry carries you toward the island, it feels like so much more.

The stub is warm now, warmed by your skin. You turn it over in your fingers, tracing the faded ink. It’s just a piece of paper, and yet it feels like a tether to your father, to that hospital room, to the promise you made.

Another memory surfaces, sharp and bright. His hand in yours, his grip surprisingly strong despite the weakness of his body. He’d squeezed your fingers, hard, his eyes locked on yours. “I’m proud of you, Morgan,” he’d whispered. “So proud of who you are.”