9199. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, Pt. 335

335. THE GREAT 

WATER-RIDE FRENZY

The long reach of

a life, a single life, like

the water surrounding

an island, will both

completely encompass

that life, and free it.

Often were the times

I would steal away to

the waterfront. Like

Melville's Ishmael,

I'd walk to the very

edge and simply stare

out to sea. Not for me

alone so much of his

heavy words rang out.

'Dark November of the

Soul,' and all that  -

rather it was just the

breakaway from

confinement that

enticed. Like a 

too-tight coat or 

jacket constricting

the shoulders and 

arms, there were 

times when living on 

land was just too

confining for the

light I'd see.

-

The Staten Island Ferry,

at that time I think, was

five cents. For that tiny

amount, unlike now

when it's free but you

have to disembark at

each end and wait to

re-embark on the next

ferry, you could remain

on the same boat for as

long as you chose, and

just ride back and forth,

over and over  -  night

or day. One fare. There 

were certain ferry riders

too who actually did 

this. It was a haven. 

Especially at night : 

deep, chilled, river 

fogs, cloaking the

waterway and

allowing only the

passing glimmer of

harbor lights, other

boats, and the lights 

of the tankers, tugs, 

and work-craft. And

always, somewhere as

you passed, the lit lamp

of Miss Liberty, fogged

in or cleared, opening

out the harbor. The eye

could see far then. I

would just sit there, for
both the return trips and

the departures, back and

forth, in a sort of floating
study-room; with the clang
of the gaggle of chains and
gates, and the little waves

slapping the bottom of

the big-beast diesel ferry.

I would thrill, each time.

at the end of the NY bound

trip, to the approach of

the crowded and massed

buildings at the bottom

of Manhattan and the

sometimes raucous, the

almost crash-land, of the

ferry into its docking berth.

Two much turbulence, the

wake of another large craft,

a little too much speed into

the docking area, and the

pilings and the very pier

would gnash and grown

as the ferry smashed its

way in, with its people

aghast at the turmoil.

-

I think back now, and it's

all so funny what solitude

means. What the 'solitary'

aspect of life then was.

That's all gone now : today's

version of this same scene

would  -  I am bold enough,

and sorry enough, to say  -

involve idiots. Involve a

hundred eager-festive

moron hands with

hand-helds and cell

phones and the digitized

means of recording the

scene, while retaining

nothing at all, and

experiencing less. Life

is dead-matter now, all

comatose and made stupid.

Life now seems to 'go on'

while people are busy

doing other things. The

distracting annoyances

of an everyday.

-

For what? For what 

gets passed on? 

Absolutely nothing  

-  the style and the

art and the moment 

of the craft have become

the craft itself. Finalized 

and fitfully comatose, 

the people witness now

their equivalence of the

moon-shot landing onto 

the crevices of nothing 

at all. Yet, they cheer it 

on and continue with 

their vapid babble and 

thrustless thrust. Like 

bad sex in a water-machine.

-

From within the cabin 

and confines of the 

Staten Island Ferry,

which probably held

200 people, if filled, 

and with its 24 or so 

automobiles, if fully

stacked  -  (this was 

back when they 

allowed cars on

the ferry. Since 9-11 

that no longer goes 

on. Long time ago 

already)  -  the entire 

trip when properly 

observed took on 

a feel and rhythm 

of its own. First, 

there was the ceaseless 

hum and power-sound 

of the large diesel 

engine pushing 

this through the 

waterway, no small 

task, and one which 

took much power; 

riders had the choice

of all the indoors here, 

with seating and 

coffee and snack bar;

itinerant musicians 

set up with their 

saxophones or guitars, 

plodding away, 

over-topping the 

noise, or trying to, 

and collecting thereby 

their nickels and 

dimes and quarters. 

Those outside, on 

their open-air boat

ride, took one sort 

of trip -  exciting, 

nervy, energetic  -  

while those who 

stayed in cabin 

enjoyed their own 

equivalent of 

transport through 

strange territory 

with a sort of 

mumbled, boring 

and very 

institutional-like 

auditorium sitting 

amid badly-painted 

walls and worse 

posters and notifications. 

The surly, the drink,

 the dead or near-dead, 

riding their forever, 

they too were 

usually perched 

in their corners 

cursing the mob 

or sitting out the 

frenzy in their own, 

more odd, frenzy. 

While children 

wailed and mothers 

tried keeping peace 

with pretzels, 

mustard and hot 

dogs handed out 

to the brats.
-
It was all like passage,
like a steerage compartment 
on a simplified immigrant 
crossing. You paid your fee
and you took your bag, often
not knowing from where
you'd left or to where you 
were headed. Gendarmes
there were, but they were
heedless of most things.
As a passenger within,
to gaze out the window
on a cold, Winter night,
or better, late afternoon,
meant seeing the pace of
land against water. The eye
did get accustomed, in
almost some  bio-rhythmic 
way, of the speed of the
 craft as it skirted the 
water : nothing ever 
seemed straight and
a viewer too would soon 
feel accustomed to the 
slow twirl of the ferry, 
against the fixed visual 
of the land off starboard, 
or whatever  -  the turning 
and the passage, and thus 
the speed, became visual, 
translated back, into 
sense and information 
and feel. I often tried, in 
this way, understanding 
my own relativity against 
the hard matter of the 
world. As we passed Miss
Liberty's graceful hulk, at
speed, I'd see the channel 
behind her, the Kill Van 
Kull, in passing, and know 
I was born, right there, 
but unsure where  - as all 
was churning, in a turn, 
swirling some in a 
boat-board frenzy of 
water-speed and 
water-fix. All things 
standing still, while 
apparently moving 
together. Enough! Enough, 
thought I, of this mental
gaming. Just live! Go on, 
straight out! People lining 
up for their snacks and 
baubles nearby made me 
realize that  -  though I may
have thought so, this was
 not really the place 
for deep thoughts.