Read our new column by Richmond Ferry Rider Christine Cordi. "This inaugural commentary reminds me of other firsts in my life: the first time I went to school, my first solo, my first kiss, my first love, my — uh oh, I think this is going in the wrong direction".
Published: February, 2000
This inaugural commentary reminds me of other firsts in my life: the first time I went to school, my first solo, my first kiss, my first love, my — uh oh, I think this is going in the wrong direction.
The first time I rode a ferry (yes, that’s better) was on the Great South Bay of Long Island so many summers ago. The broad sunlight, screaming gulls and the briny air, full of the sea’s essence, enlivened me. I jumped up and down on my father’s lap. As our ferry headed out, the town and its treed shoreline receded so that the overwhelming reality became the water surrounding us. It moved in cadences of shiny green dancing waves, which playfully slapped against the ferry hull. I peered one way then another trying to see what that noise was. Finally my tiny white sandaled feet then propelled me onto the varnished mahogany deck towards the rails where I could view more of the commotion. Once there, however, I viewed a lolling peacefulness instead, and along with my father, contemplated the mystery of a lacy white wake slowly dissipating onto the bay waters.
Since then there have been other boats: some smaller, some larger, some sleeker, many faster, some tall and silent with majestic sails, some with oars, others propellers. Some which rode on a cushion of air. And some with a rower in a straw hat, who sang love songs in Italian.
But nothing perhaps bigger, grander, or bolder has diminished my enthusiasm for the first official Richmond ferry in my lifetime. Since I began taking the Richmond Ferry last September, I have been delighted to see a sliver of harvest moon peek over the Berkeley hills or the sun descend in an explosion of pink and tangerine clouds. Also from my perch on deck I have gazed at the city lights pulsating like the stars overhead, as they outline homes and streets containing their own myths. On a few special nights I have seen the full moon’s reflection creating a giant golden, magical path on the water.
Every day I have the freedom to decide: shall I read, write, balance my checkbook, eat, drink, walk outside, study nature, or socialize with other passengers? Commuters are friendlier here, and gentler, almost as if they left their problems, like unwanted luggage, at the dock. There is no such thing as ferry rage. No curses here, but rather smiles, laughter, and conversations. Ferry transit is more than just a reliable, practical and relaxing way to commute. Through it I am reminded that we are part of the natural world that I feel each time the ferry slides over the back of a wave. It makes me think that we are not made to just toil in concrete boxes or be prisoners of the lines on the freeway.
But this is not only my personal tale of daily balance, renewal and de-stressing. It’s the story of all ferry-goers. Of how they came to choose this refreshing transportation method. What it means to them. What they remember. I promise to share their experiences with you - - next time.
