Sail Away Again (With Apologies to Milan Kundera)

This is another story about taking a ferry. I will get on any boat I can at any time I can. And until I come into my rightful millions and get my yacht, The Pirate Librarian, ferries will have to do. I suppose it's good practice for my final journey across the Styx, a crossing I hope is many years in the future, as I have many ferry rides yet to take.

My sister is visiting from Buffalo, and last week we took the ferry to Block Island. When we were kids, the whole family went every year. In those days (writing that phrase makes me fell like such an old codger!) the ferry left from Providence. It would meander down Narragansett Bay, put in at Newport to take on supplies and passengers, then cross the Sound to Block Island. I've written elsewhere (an essay in the book that resulted from the NEH project "What a Difference a Bay Makes") about the mystical, musical, magical experience of sailing back to Providence in the dark and watching the lights that flickered along either side of the Bay. For many years now, the only ferries to Block Island from the RI mainland (there's one from Connecticut) have departed from Galilee. I'd much prefer the longer sail from Providence, but I'll take what I can get.

Anyway, there we were on the top deck in rough and rocky seas, getting completely soaked from wind-whipped spray and loving it. Most of the passengers were on the lower, enclosed deck, but Margaret and I were perfectly content in the open air, though we had to shout to hear each other.

On the Island, we each had a Bloody Mary (having had the best one of our lives two years ago on BI and hoping to repeat the experience)and a leisurely lunch, and then poked about in the shops. We were nostalgic, invoking well-loved family memories; we were somber, sharing our current personal woes and views on politics and world events; we were silly, catching each other's looks and breaking into laughter: We were sisters.

This is probably the source of my abiding love for sailing anywhere, but especially to Block Island. I've made this trip with my parents and sisters, with my friends, with my late husband and later with my in-laws. Even when I've gone alone, I've carried them all with me. They are not a burden; instead of weighing me down, the memories fill me with a bearable lightness of being.