Today, it is May 13. I rode the 5:30 a.m. ferry. It’s an ungodly hour to be on a ferry, or anywhere but in a bed. The first time on the 5:30 a.m., in July of 2006, I chronicled my trip. My thankfully few crossings on it since have been so similar, so frankly discombobulating, as to render any new take pointless. So to avoid redundancy and yet quell my need to lament having to be on a ferry at such an hour, I reprise that column of my inaugural trip on the 5:30 a.m. ferry eight years ago:
It is July 7 and I sit alone in my jeep Cherokee in front of ‘Blue Eye Mary’s Bistro.’ I am the tenth vehicle in line and waiting to do something I have never done and hoped I would never have to do: board the 5:30 a.m. ferry. To add insult to injury I am early.
I notice three men talking outside by the phone booth. I get out and meander into the Snug Café and find that Sara Peel behind the counter is not only awake, but pleasant. Richard De Jong says hello and as I leave Keith Buchannan comes in.
Outside it appears my friend Oscar Hoekstra is coming toward me only it must have been an apparition because it turns out to be someone who doesn’t look like Oscar in the least. I wonder if others around me are having as much trouble achieving normality and whether they, too, have seen a phantom Oscar.
Back in the jeep it’s time to load onto the (three-quarter full) ferry. The clanging clacking sound of the loading cars is familiar enough, but at such an unearthly hour it feels altogether different. It’s more distracting somehow and it hurts my ears.
I lurch upstairs to find a muted, somber feel; it’s as if the air is different. There’s an odd quality of civility, like everyone is secretly on mushrooms. I wonder if perhaps I’ve stumbled onto a parallel universe Queen of Capilano. I can’t say how many are up here, too tired to count. Many stayed in their cars to sleep, read or look at a laptop. One woman appeared to be making breakfast down there and while I marveled at her industry, I wasn’t entirely impressed. “She may be successful in life,” I thought. “But it’s kinda creepy being that organized.”
As I grab a toasted bagel from Louise, I see a commuter I met on the 6:30 a.m. some months ago, Sophie, and label her fickle for switching ferry runs. The men I saw outside now sit near the cafeteria talking about iron pipes. Why would you talk about iron pipes at 5:30 in the morning?
I wander and consider going on deck but instead introduce myself to two guys who sit near the notice board and they invite me to join them. Gordon Bone and Frank Olsen tell me they’ve been riding the 5:30 a.m. ferry together for five years and every morning sit in the exact same seats. “Gord gets beads of sweat on his forehead if he finds someone else sitting in his seat,” Frank tells me.
For years they rode with this third guy, Jeff Quan, but he moved off-Island and no one replaced him. They say they don’t know how many crossings they’ve made together and, naturally, doing the math at this hour is completely out of the question.
I worry that this semi-grogginess I am enveloped in will be a hindrance at work, an acting job on the TV show ‘Robson Arms’, yet Frank and Gord appear awake, even normal. I’m not jealous though; I mean would you wanna get so used to being on the 5:30 a.m. ferry that you felt awake and normal on it?
The familiar announcement is heard and everyone silently files down the stairs in what feels like a stunned procession. As I stumble along I realize that already I’m forgetting much of what Frank and Gord and I spoke of. Later in my notes I find the name ‘Isaak’ and the word ‘stupor’ only I have no recollection of what either signifies. I’m not even certain I’d recognize Frank and Gordon should I see them again, though I’d like to.
As the ramp lowers it strikes me that my maiden 5:30 a.m. ferry ride is somewhat comparable to a first time sexual experience with someone new, both over quickly and with each a relief that it’s finally out of the way. A difference, however, is that I have no desire to ever ride on the 5:30 a.m. ferry again.
