If I Had a Boat

The wind holds the blue Dirigo flag of Maine straight out from the pole. The boatyard next to the ferry terminal is full of sailboats still wrapped in white plastic. Their masts and rigging rattle in the wind like a steel drum band with no rhythm.

Two men and a woman step out of the ticket office in safety yellow jackets and hats. They huddle together and look out at us, lined up in our cars and trucks, waiting to get on the ferry to North Haven. The woman points at me in my one-ton and says, “That’s our twenty-six footer.”

After finishing my first job on the island two years ago, I sat up on the open deck for the ride back to the mainland. The Fox Islands faded slowly behind us. The Camden Hills grew larger ahead. These waters are some of the most beautiful in Maine, and I wasn’t going to be one of those guys sitting in his truck staring at his phone the whole time.

Now that the trip has become more routine, I realize I was too quick to judge.

Today I’m one of those guys. Sitting in my truck on a boat on the ocean. The twenty-six footer. Making my morning commute with a load of rocks.