Tales From Exit 22 by Al Batt

 

How many things are there which I do not want.

Socrates said that. Or maybe his PR guy said it.

There are things I want and many things I don’t want. Many people want fewer things to carry or dust.

One of the things I want is another Alaska ferry ride. What do I like about a ferry ride? Everything. If you like a room with a view, the ferry has one big, beautiful view. It’s breathtaking, and as I’ve been told by wall hangings everywhere, it isn’t the number of breaths I take that matters. What matters is what takes my breath away.

The ferry is a place to be alone or a part of everything. I can sit when the world is walking or walk when the world is sitting. It’s a perfect place for both navel-gazing and naval-gazing. I was on a Alaska Marine Highway System (AMHS) ferry passenger in November. I’ve been there before. Was it deja vu? Boy, you can say that again. I don’t have a black belt in ferrying, but I’ve been there and done that.

I enjoyed a cup of hot tea made from what might have been the morning’s frosty dew and the whiskers of a harbor seal as the ferry floated over the perfect spot for an ocean.

The rules for ferry travel are simple: Don’t drop anything. If you drop something and you don’t hear a splash, it’s a victory.

The AMHS connects 32 communities on a 3,500-mile route from Bellingham, Washington to Dutch Harbor, Alaska. More than 320,000 people and 97,000 vehicles travel the AMHS annually. In southeast Alaska, it runs through the Inside Passage, a splendid panorama of mountains, fjords and forests.

I sailed from Juneau on the Kennicott, which is 382 feet long and can hold 499 passengers, 80 vehicles (even more if they’re Hot Wheels), 72 cabins and 24 roomettes. I have all the albums of the Roomettes. “I wish I Were a Cabin” is my favorite. A future president could be born in one of those cabins. I departed Haines on the LeConte, 235 feet long and capable of holding 225 people and 33 vehicles. School sports teams use ferries to get to games. AMHS has been hit by budget cuts — ferries eliminated and port calls cut.

My ride was a 4 1/2-hour trip up and 4 1/2 hours back on the Lynn Canal, traveling at the speed of solving a calculus problem: 16 knots or about 18 miles per hour. A knot is one nautical mile per hour, approximately 1.15 miles per hour.

A fellow traveler who was more beard than body (perhaps he used his beard as a calendar) began to tell me about a fathom. He was one of those guys who burst into words without “hello” being one of them.      

“Nice beard,” I said.

He said he kept yesterday’s breakfast in it and went back to informing me about a fathom. I learned that fathom comes from the Old English faethm, meaning “outstretched arms.” Fathom, which commonly refers to a depth of 6 feet, was originally used for the distance from fingertip to fingertip of one’s arms stretched straight out from the sides of the body.

He was a commercial fisherman. I told him that if he should encounter Moby Dick, it’d be best to avoid making eye contact. He didn’t hear me as he was busy telling me there are two kinds of people in the world and fishermen are better than either one.

I teetered about the deck on rickety legs made from Tinker Toys. I needed to take some photos. That’s how we are. We need. I practiced my gull calls. “Here gull, here gull, here gull.”

Joni Mitchell sang, “I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now. From up and down and still somehow. It’s cloud’s illusions I recall. I really don’t know clouds at all.”

That’s how I feel while looking at mountains; those mysterious giants that never block the view. I’ve not moved any mountains, but their beauty moves me.

The seas weren’t angry, but strong winds created waves — potholes in the water. The ferry moved with the speed of a lame glacier. It was wonderful! For a short while, life slowed.

Someone asked what time it was. I replied, “Where?”

No one ever asks me that question. We are surrounded by timepieces. The winds caused the 4 1/2-hour trip to become 5 hours. That was a bonus.

Each day is a bonus.

Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Saturday.