Just Ferry Stories

As I neared the go-no-go point outside of Truro, Nova Scotia, where I needed to decide “ferry or bridge,” I placed a call to the ferry booking line to check on load status of the 1:30 p.m. from Caribou. 

“There aren’t that many big trucks,” said the friendly agent, “so you’ll probably get on. And, if you don’t, you’ll get on the 3:15 p.m. for sure.”

So, go.

Every time I take the ferry, I think of Harry Baglole.

Many years ago I ran into Harry in the cafeteria in Caribou. At that point—and maybe until he died?—Harry had never taken the Confederation Bridge to Nova Scotia, his Friends of the Island blood still running as hot as ever. That left him with the ferry.

We had a lovely chat; I always enjoyed chatting with Harry, whether it was in the ferry terminal, over the breakfast service at the Bonshaw Hall, or concerning matters large and small at Island Studies Press.

And so I can’t take the ferry and not think of him.

My reservationist was on the money for the 1:30 p.m.: I got a space on the big truck deck, and was one of the last vehicles to load on what ended up as a full vessel.

On the drive from Truro to Caribou I listened to an old Radiolab episode, Desperately Seeking Symmetry, that was music to my lateral-thinking ears.

I love the way the episode starts:

And do you ever wonder what actually happens when two people click, when the halves kind of meet?

Meaning what?

You know, you go in through your day, maybe you’re at a party, you meet people and you’re like, hey, how are you? How are you? And they say something, they try and be interesting, you try and be interesting back, but in the end, you’re like, I don’t need to remember that name.

Right, of course.

Gone.

And then comes along somebody.

Yeah, every hundred times, the stars align, the world falls away, things narrow, and you just click.

I know that.

But do you ever wonder what actually happens in that moment?

Like when you meet someone that you really get, I just, I don’t think that there’s anything that really feels better than that.

That’s Lauren Silbert, she’s a neuroscientist at Princeton. She wonders. She’s been wondering for a while.

From there they jump to functional MRIs, Alice in Wonderland, Neil deGrasse Tyson, chirality, electrons spin, and all manner of other things. 

Fascinating. Lateral (very lateral).

I started the day at the Just Us! Café in Grand-Pré, which serves up excellent coffee. So excellent I had a cortado, a pause, and then an espresso. They also make a good cinnamon bun.

Once I hit the road for the 380 km drive home, I thought about dropping into Halifax. I was set to bump up against the edge Halifax anyway, en route to Truro, so why not. But the magnetic pull of Big City Living was overwhelmed by the magnetic pull of Getting Back to the Island, and so I bumped up against Halifax and slingshotted right back out the highway toward home.

I’ve had the idea, for years, to assemble a book of stories about the PEI ferries, titled Just Ferry Stories. There are so many of them.

The title of the book (and this post) is an homage to Just Mary Stories, a CBC Radio program that my mother listened to as a child; sufficient connection might exist only in my head to make it a marketable title (see also Mom Jokes, a This American Life segment I also listened to on the drive).

(Mary was Mary Grannan: go and read her Wikipedia page; she was a Great Canadian.)

To my surprise, in a published anthology of the stories, I found The Gift of Lady Moon, which starts (emphasis mine):

Peter Lawrence really went to the moon. It’s a queer story, and it’s not my fault that it begins: “It is.” “It is not.” “It is!”

“Well, then, we’ll see if it’s real snow,” and Dottie Dawson threw the beautiful green glassy into the fireplace. The flames sputtered and spat and licked at the green globe, and the two children stood there in surprise at what Dottie had done. They looked at each other, and then they stared unhappily into the grate.

“Oh, Peter! Oh, Peter! I’m sorry,” said Dottie. “Oh, Peter! I didn’t mean to … I …” 

Peter didn’t answer. His lips were tight. His hands were clenched. He stood very, very still. Dottie ran from the room.

My mother has never been able to explain how I came to have the middle name Lawrence. Maybe this was the source?

That story also contains the word heckadoodle, so I’m clearly on Team Just Mary.