Again today the sea and the sky and the world inbetween are the same color — gray. I find it an interesting gray; not depressing, but crisp and clean and somehow pure. My perception is no doubt influenced by the taste and scent of the air that I breathe. In Vegas after the rain a deep breath is hot and stiffling while tasting of mud and smog. Here the air is crisp and cool. It tastes fresh and green like grass and pine and sea.
I can see through the window to the harbor. Between here and there are rocks, trees, bushes, moss — green, wet, dripping. Boulders line the shore, and gray waves splash up and over. Those waves are the only hint I have that an ocean lies beyond. The sea hides behind a curtain of fog.
Today I cannot see the ferry come and go, but I know it is maintaining its regular schedule despite the thick fog. I know other boats have ventured into the harbor and the strait beyond. I know because I can hear the boats talk. A boat horn will sound, “Where are you?” And another will answer, “I am here.”
The ferry is the longest and the loudest and the most insistent. It says, “Here I am,” and it means, “I am coming through.” By virtue of being the largest craft in the harbor, it has the right of way.
As well as talking to the smaller boats, the ferry also talks to the dock, It will sound off long and loud. The dock answers with a distinct siren. It is a very serious game of Marco Polo that brings the ship safely to dock.