Ferry light

One evening, on the ferry from Hung Hom to North Point as the sun sets, I realize how often we are on a ferry. It’s a great feeling for a child of the Finger Lakes, to be so frequently on the water. It’s wonderful to have boats be a routine part of transit, be something both mundane and, like the view of Hong Kong and the harbor in the sunset, totally spectacular.

Clara takes ferries a lot more than we do, a wonderful perk of her Waldorf school, which has a campus on Lamma. Mondays and Fridays we drop her at the pier at 8:15, where the class meets to take the 8:30 ferry. It’s a reasonable ride, thirty five minutes or so. The view is special, around the western tip of Hong Kong Island, through the shipping lane that enters Hong Kong harbor. Every time we take the trip I try to catch a picture of the container ships up close. Every time I think the picture does not do the scale or the ferry’s proximity justice, and hope for better luck next time.

The ferry is a good proxy for the school bus in these early years. Tuesday to Thursday she takes the train all the way to school, with us or her nanny. An escort door to door is fine for three and a half. The ferry with her classmates and a few teachers is an entirely different opportunity. Much like my bus rides around the upstate NY countryside, the ferry is an opportunity for her to learn odd language and discover other children’s school snacks.

“My classmate shared her sandwich with me,” she tells me one day when I pick her up. “It was ham and orange cheese. I want you to make that kind of sandwich for me.”

With specific instructions like that even my poor cooking skills are enough.

Some days she gets off the ferry with mischief in her eyes.

“Dad, I’m not wearing my socks. They’re in my backpack.”

Some days she’s wearing her back up clothes, the attire from departure now soaked and in a ziploc. Beach days, when the weather is warm.

These are good moments, just after I spot her in the stream of people leaving the ferry pier, just before she spots me and starts sprinting to me arms wide. Sometimes I chat to the other parents, folks on their lunch breaks, when the ferry is running late. We’re all happy to wait, happy to have these few moments off, knowing the children are on a boat on their way back from a good adventure.

Growing up riding the ferry is a pretty good life. I remember seeing young girls on the ferry out of Sorong in Indonesia one morning. After a red-eye from Jakarta we felt as far out as we’d ever been, utterly discombobulated and uncertain. Watching the girls in uniforms get on the ferry in their every day routine made me feel both grounded and embarrassed by my discomfort. People go to school everywhere, I thought. The memory makes me happy now.

And this evening, taking the ferry back to the island after exploring a new playground with some friends I am struck by the beauty of the city, by the ease of this ride, by the number of people outside on both ends. These are the good days, I think again. For Hong Kong’s weather and for our life on the water.