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| This is not a Canadian ferry |
When Ferry Boats Attack!
Far off in the distance, I can barely make out a small town named Crofton. The town holds no particular interest to us, but the Canadian Ferry that runs from Crofton to Salt Spring Island is on the move. The sun is high, the water smooth, and visibility is unlimited. The ferry is still many miles away, just a speck on the horizon, hardly a cause for concern, or so I think. However, today my assumptions are wrong. We will cross paths with the ferry, that much is certain, but where, when, and how close will we be? Will the ferry cross in front of us, or will we cross in front of the ferry? We are on an intersecting course, so avoiding a collision is a top priority.
Quintin is at the helm of "Quartet," our rented forty-foot trawler, as we return from the Gulf Islands in the north. Tomorrow, we will dock at San Juan Island to clear customs. Quartet plods along at a slow and steady fuel-saving four mph, right down the middle of the wide waterway that separates the two islands. The day is characterized by clear blue skies and motionless inky seas. No other boats are in sight, and except for the occasional seal popping its head up, we are alone. The ferry becomes more visible as it moves swiftly off to the side, demanding our close attention in search of clues about its course or the captain's intentions. As the distance between us shrinks, our concerns grow.
This inter-island ferry is double-ended, with a high pilothouse at each end, enabling it to move forward or backward with equal ease. With propellers and rudders at both ends, and rounded features instead of a bow or stern, it is challenging to discern the exact direction this marine monster is pointed in or where it is heading. But today, it seems to be pointed straight at us.
The discussion in Quartet's wheelhouse is straightforward: Where is the ferry headed, and what should we do? The ferry is moving at considerable speed, rapidly closing the gap between us. We continue straight on our course, and I ponder what to do because something is about to happen, and soon. I have several choices. We are already going slow, so we could simply stop dead in the water and let the ferry run over us, but that's not a good option. We could turn away and try to outrun the ferry, but that's not even possible. We could turn directly at it, hoping it will back off to avoid damaging its paint job, but that seems like a foolish move as well. I yell over to Quintin, whose hands grip the throttle and steering wheel with tension.
"Why don't you speed up a little?" I suggest. Quintin is relieved to have something to do, anything to avoid being a sitting duck in front of an onrushing ferry. He pushes the throttle forward, and Quartet surges ahead, doubling its speed. Our once fuel-saving, wake-free path now generates a three-foot curl of water. If there are any small boats nearby, they will undoubtedly give us a big, friendly thank-you wave for sending them a boat-swamping wake. The ferry gradually changes its course, following us while still heading directly at us. I contemplate calling him on the radio, wanting to ask, "What the hell do you want us to do, you big bully? Leave us alone!" The distance between us dwindles to about half a mile, with Quartet directly in front of the ferry, and it seems we are about to be run down. Perhaps the ferry is on autopilot, and nobody sees us. Maybe no one is even paying attention. Once again, I urge Quintin to speed up. Quartet responds, billowing a huge plume of black smoke as Quintin willingly pours on the coal. Our fleeing wake is now fit for surfing. The big diesel motor is guzzling fuel at an astonishing rate. The ferry is no longer bearing down on us; they will pass well behind us unless they change course again. We pull away from certain death, and the ferry lets us go. Quintin throttles back, returning to our earlier leisurely pace.
We breathe sighs of relief and start to relax once again in the wheelhouse when suddenly the VHF marine radio crackles to life, startling us all.
"This is the Canadian Ferry calling the American motor yacht Quartet," a voice announces. I glance over at Quintin and motion for him to respond since the microphone is hanging right next to him. His response to me is, "I didn't do anything. It's not my fault. I'm not driving," and he walks out the door, leaving me alone with no one steering the boat and a ferry captain likely wanting to discuss the incident. I walk over to the helmsman's seat and make myself comfortable. I am quite certain the ferry captain thinks we got in his way, so to avoid causing an international incident while we are in foreign waters, I speak into the microphone and simply say, "This is Quartet; I apologize for getting in your way!" There is no response from the ferry, and there are no further radio communications. Quartet continues on a steady course straight down the middle, and once again, we are alone.
The End
Note: This is a true story, and if the ferry skipper reads it, I'm sure he will have something to say.
