When the kids were little, a ferry ride was something that happened only occasionally, and always in the middle of a long trip. The ferry was an event within an event. A mini-adventure on the way to our destination.
And anyone who travels with little kids knows that preparing for such a trip requires equal parts stamina and strategy.
My strategy focused on packing. My goal was to have all the things, and also to pack them in such a way that they were easily accessible. So the Tylenol couldn’t go in the suitcase with all of the other medicine. It needed to be in the car bag, in the front seat, where I could reach it.
And the car bag was too big to bring up on the ferry with all the children and baby carriers and such, so I needed a ferry backpack, which I would strap to my body while I used my arms to carry more important things, like my actual children.
Our ferry backpack contained: beverages ranging from bottles to juiceboxes. Crayons. Coloring books. Cards. Diapers and wipes. Snacks. A blanket. My wallet. Books. Another bottle of Tylenol.
Part of the adventure was that you never knew exactly how the Ferry ride was going to go. There were too many variables.
Would the kids be asleep when we pulled on? Would we let them sleep? Was it worth it to wake them? Would they freak out because they missed the boat ride? Or freak out because we just woke them up?
Would the boat be crowded? Our wobbly toddlers would want to use their little legs after hours trapped in a car seat.
Would we get to the upper deck quickly enough to grab a seat with a table? The table is CLUTCH with small children.
Would the weather cooperate? Would it be too cold or too hot? Does everyone have a sweatshirt?
Would they want to be on the deck? Would we lose our table seat if we brought them up to the deck?
Would somebody throw a tantrum? Stumble and fall? Spill their drink?
One parent stayed at the table at all times, to make sure nobody else grabbed it. One parent walked around with whatever kid needed to move. We went to the restroom in shifts. We firmly explained that we were NOT buying $3 bags of potato chips for everyone when we had OUR OWN potato chips in the Ferry bag.
Despite all of the potential pitfalls, most often, the ferry ride was magical. I remember holding my youngest, walking up from the car, his chubby little fingers pointing out at the boats in the distance, and the wind blowing through his fine, blonde hair. His eyes lit up. “Boat, mama. Boat.” “Yeah baby, boat. We’re ON a boat, too.” His eyes opened wide in disbelief. With his limited vocabulary, he managed to relay his confusion. “Car on da boat???”
Another time, my shy, animal-obsessed baby was clinging to my leg, wobbly and scared. We didn’t get a table that time, and were trying to juggle snacks and bathroom breaks with the Ferry bag on a curved seat between us. And someone passed with their German Shepherd on a leash. “Doggie,” my child whispered, pulling at my sleeve. And a kind stranger sat across from us, allowing my nervous kid to spend nearly the whole ride, sitting on the dirty floor, petting this patient, gentle creature.
Sometimes we’d play cards or color. Eventually, the kids learned that they loved the top deck. They’d sit next to me on the bench, pointing out the massive homes or the sailboats, or the colors in the clouds. We’d take pictures with the backdrop of the water meeting the sky and then we’d hurry back to our minivan to continue our adventure.
It was a ton of work, but it was magical. You know… like parenting.
************
All of that came rushing back to me yesterday, on our most recent ferry ride. This time, there were only three of us; my husband, myself, and our youngest. Everyone else had their own plans, because children grow, as we’re all aware. I don’t know why it still takes me by surprise.
We got up early. Jack showered and let the dogs out. I got dressed and tossed a crochet hook and a skein of yarn in my oversized purse. My son threw on a sweatshirt and climbed into the backseat with his phone in his pocket and his headphones in his ears. We stopped for coffee and breakfast sandwiches and ate in the car. In the passenger seat, I used my sweatshirt as a blanket and closed my eyes.
When we pulled the truck up the ramp and on to the boat, I put on my sweatshirt and grabbed my purse. I walked toward the deck and watched my pre-teen ahead of me taking the steps two at a time. Out of habit, I grabbed a seat with a table, almost frantically. My son went off to explore on his own.
There was a young family near us. The mother took a preschooler to the restroom. The dad set the baby’s car seat carrier on the seat next to him. He chatted with a toddler and I smiled as I watched him pulled a tub of crayons out of the ferry backpack.
My reverie was interrupted when my son walked over to me, all 5’9’’ of him, leaned over and asked, “Do you think they have any napkins? I spilled my energy drink.” I smiled and shook my head, because some things never change. He walked his nearly-grown self to the counter, asked for some napkins, bought a $3 bag of chips, and went to clean up the spill. I didn’t leave my seat.
For about half of the ride, he sat on the opposite side of the ferry. He had chosen a seat with a good view, and he stared out the window, smiling at the boats, just like he did when he was small. I rested my purse on the seat next to me and pulled out my crochet hook. I looked at the empty table in front of me and realized a little too late that I no longer needed to occupy this prime real estate.
I worked the yarn and the hook, listening to the conversations around me. “No. We have snacks in our bag.” “Do you want to go for a walk with Daddy?” “Mommy, I drawed a boat!” The nostalgia tugged at my emotions as I was pulled back to those years that seem like moments ago.
Cal reappeared and plopped into the booth next to me. He watched me pull the yarn into stitches. “Wanna try?” I asked, as casually as I could. “Yeah, sure,” he shrugged. I held his hands and showed him how to twist the hook and hold the yarn so that a pattern began to emerge. The tip of his tongue peeked out of the left side of his mouth, like it always does when he’s concentrating particularly hard. “You got it!” I said, and he smiled at me with the dimple that’s been his trademark since he was born.
While I watched, a little in shock at both his willingness and his ability to turn yarn into something more, the little girl from the next table kept looking over her shoulder at us. At first, it was just a couple of glances, but eventually, she turned her whole body around and watched my son intently. “What is that boy doing?” she asked her mother. “Looks like he’s making a blanket,” the mother replied. “A BLANKET?” she exclaimed. “You can make a BLANKET with STRING?” she whisper-shouted, with the type of astonishment in her voice that only preschoolers can convey. I caught the mother’s eye and we shared a knowing smile. What a wonderful age.
When the girl replied, “Can you teach ME how someday?” I smiled and looked back at my son. I was pulled back into THIS moment. In this moment, my son can turn string into a blanket. He can buy his own $3 potato chips and clean up his own spills and explore without holding my hand. He can choose his own seat, where he knows he’ll enjoy watching the boats pass by. Yet he still comes back to me. He still plops next to me and asks for advice and lets me teach him.
“Can we go up to the top deck, Ma? I know it’s cold, but I want to check out the view and take some pictures.” I smile and look at my husband, feeling honored that he invited us to join him. “Of course.” I throw my purse over my shoulder and look back at the empty table, knowing that, next time, I’ll leave it open for someone with a ferry backpack.
