By LESLIE BROWN
For The Beachcomber
In a matter of days, the Sally Fox will replace the Melissa Ann, and no doubt most islanders who sail across the sound for jobs in Seattle are pleased. Not only will the Sally Fox be shiny and new, it’ll also be considerably bigger. And that is no small matter: Routinely, people get left behind on the dock in Seattle because the Melissa Ann – outfitted for 172 – is full.
But as the countdown to the new water taxi draws closer, I’ve started to feel sentimental about the Melissa Ann, a faithful catamaran on loan from a company in Seward, Alaska. And I realize what I’ll miss most is the moral conundrum and occasional drama that a boat with limited capacity poses.
Here’s the deal: When you know that the 5:30 p.m. sailing will reach capacity by 5:25 and an hour of your island life hangs in the balance (the next boat leaves Seattle at 6:30), you’re tempted to engage in questionable behaviors when racing from your office: extreme jay-walking, running down steep hills, elbowing to the front of the pack at crowded crosswalks. And let’s be honest: You may tell yourself that you’re simply trying to get to the boat in time. But the truth is, you’re trying to get there ahead of your fellow commuters. I never missed a sailing because of tardiness. I only missed them because others beat me to the boat.
But is this right? Is it right to use the advantage of long legs to stride past those with shorter legs? Is it right to use one’s insider knowledge — I knew the 5:30 routinely reached capacity by 5:25 — to leap-frog ahead of others strolling to the boat, taking in the pink glow of a sunset?
And then there’s the question of exactly when one falls into line and ceases the race for the boat. The unwritten rule is that once you reach the long wooden dock, it’s no longer OK to use speed and stride to pass people. (How much of a rule is this? A friend of mine, visiting from out of state, once walked ahead of people on the wooden dock and was told by a fellow passenger that he wasn’t to do that.) For the most part, I have abided by that rule, though I once scurried past a fellow commuter who was staring at his phone, oblivious to the world around him. According to my situational ethics, people staring at small personal devices aren’t accorded the same rights as those taking in the sunset.
And how about the dramas of a boat that regularly reached capacity? One time, when I was among the dozen or so who reached the boat only to learn it was full, I noted that among our sorry group was a mother and toddler. A woman who had made it onto the boat looked back and saw the mom and child standing there among us. She quickly gave up her spot.
Another time, I was walking to the boat with fellow commuter Ted Kutscher, heading for the 4:30 p.m. sailing. It was about 4:25, and we were hustling to get there in time. But not to worry, I told him confidently. The 4:30 never fills. Seconds later, we were on the dock, where one of the ferry workers put his arm in front of us, barrier-like. “The boat’s full,” he said. He’s a ferry worker I know well and he has a dry sense of humor. I tried to move his arm to get past: “You’re joking, right?” He looked at me crossly and put his arm back in place, repeating his dreaded words: “The boat’s full.” Just then, he got word via his walkie-talkie that the count was 171. “OK,” he said, “we have room for one more.” Ted smiled at me and said, “You go.” I glanced back sympathetically at the small group of people who had pooled behind him, while thanking my lucky stars.
Of course, I must note one more factor in this complex moral scenario, and that is what happens to those of us who are told the boat is full. Some go back to work. Some huddle on benches in the brisk evening air and try to read. But several of us head to the Pioneer Square Saloon, where the bartender knows some of the commuters so well he tells them to pay him later if we don’t have the cash. One fellow commuter showed me a recent Facebook post — a photo of a rich amber-colored brew with the caption, “Darn, I missed the boat again.”
Commuting life will become more ordinary once the Sally Fox replaces the Melissa Ann. Fewer dramas. No moral conundrums. And rarely an opportunity to call one’s partner from the Pioneer Square Saloon with the sorry news. This is all good, I tell myself. But knowing me, I’ll now likely miss the boat for the most mundane of reasons: I’ll simply get to the dock too late.
— Leslie Brown is the communications manager at the King County Department of Public Defense. She is the former editor of The Beachcomber.
