Chapter II Part 1a

Beth and her father arrived on the pier just as the ferry was pulling up, its flags snapping briskly as the boat itself tossed on the white-capped waves kicked up by the blustery weather. They joined half a dozen other islanders who stood huddled behind the wind-break, conversing over the high-pitched whine of the engine. The blues and greens and red flannels of their coats looked washed out in the early morning light. Most of them held thermoses, insulated mugs, or Styrofoam cups full of coffee which, if the sleep in most eyes was any indication, few of them had managed to digest.
“Ayuh!” called the deckhand loudly as the rope he threw from the moving ferry caught on the pier’s starboard cleat. The captain threw the boat quickly into reverse and turned the wheel hard to port. Aided by the wind and the current, in addition to the engine, the boat quickly aligned itself with the pier, prow to the wind, and struck against the pilings, causing the dock to tremble slightly. A second deckhand slid the gangplank over the 5 foot gap between the dock and the top deck of the ferry and tied it securely to the boat. The tide was high enough so that the ramp rested at a substantial incline, the angle of which increased and decreased as the boat rocked over the whitecaps. Eight people, the early morning passengers to the island, came up on deck from below. Three of the elementary school teachers - those who like to get an early start, the postmaster and single mail carrier, two police officers who were just starting their shift, and an islander, Joe Rico, who looked just back from a fishing trip, all made their way down the gangway. Although some stepped more gingerly than others, they all placed a hand on the plank’s rail as they made their way onto the pier.
Any islander knows that, as certain as your sea legs may be, the ocean is an unpredictable and formidable foe, likely to catch you and hold you in her icy grip if you fail to take her seriously. In the summer months, when islanders share their home with folks from away who come to enjoy the quiet and comfort that their very presence obliterates, Beth is frequently horrified by the lack of respect many tourists on the ferry show for the sea. Children run around the boat attended. They climb on the benches and play games of tag that span the upper and lower decks. They stick their heads and shoulders out of the window. They reach out to touch the pilings that the ferry passes when it is coming in to dock. Beth and the other islanders purse their lips and shake their heads at the carelessness of it all.
However, even though she is just 17, Beth has known for a long time that the summer onslaught is an expected and necessary part of island life, providing seasonal employment to those who scrape by the rest of the year on what they make during the short tourist season. Frank’s modest income from the phone company is supplemented in summer months with what his wife earns as a waitress. They all work hard during tourist season. Last summer Beth held two jobs and had a regular babysitting gig. What she makes carries her through the school year – her parents do not give her any money.
This is why the she and the other islanders do not give rise to those summer intruders making merry on the commute. Nor do they complain too loudly about the trash they leave on the beaches or the fact that the ferry’s fares increase from June to September. Long ago Beth came to see, even if she could not put the disquietude to words, that, in the eyes of the tourists, the trip on the ferry and the quaint island to which it carries you are a carnival ride. For them Beth is just a part of the show, like the person walking around in the Mickey Mouse suit or maybe even the little mechanical children in “It’s a Small World” she remembers from their trip to Disney World.
Beth is roused from her thoughts by the din of the bundles of newpapers hitting the pier. Bundled together and labeled clearly with the name of each paper boy or girl, the papers were tossed from the ferry to the pier by the deckhands. Young boys and girls, still too young to be commuting in to the mainland for school, appeared, coming out of the gray morning like ghosts, to pick up their papers and begin making their deliveries. The mail bags follow the papers, three large sacks that are handled easily by the postmaster and carrier. The cargo taken care of, the deckhands, move back toward the gangplank and Beth moves with the other islanders to board the vessel. Not a word is spoken, unlike the tourist season when commands must be issued “Stay back folks, until we are finished unloading.” “All aboard for Portland, please watch your step and keep moving,” the early trip in winters comes off silently and seamlessly. Islanders know how far to stand and when it is time for them to board. They know it the same way they know how to walk from the front door of their houses to the light switch without hitting anything when they arrive home in the dark.
Below deck, Beth and Frank sit side by side but Beth turns sideways on the bench, crosses her legs indian-style, and leans her forehead on the frosty window in her traditional position on the morning ferry. As they pull away from the island, she watches the sun rising over the houses “down front,” those facing the city. She treasures this view, it being her only glimpse of the place during daylight hours, Monday through Friday, October through April. Frank sits just behind her back, talking with Norm Gregor about the work he will do on his boat before May but their words mingle with the hum of the engines and the murmur of other conversations. All that her senses take in, including the rough seas outside the window, are merely background for her thoughts.