Riding the Ferry
He had found his way down the length of Manhattan by coming down the East Side, usually staying near, under, over or on (only momentarily) the FDR Drive. It was actually a far easier route than it sounds like and far, far easier than the renovated and gentrified West Side Highway with its constant stream of runners, bicyclists and dog walkers, with their coddled pups with cute little doggie sweaters and fancy leashes. But he didn’t know East from West and yet something compelled him to head South.
Now he was near the old South Street Seaport with its new glass-encased pier jutting out into the East River as though it were trying to touch the Jehovah’s Witnesses’ Watchtower building on the Brooklyn shore. He didn’t know it, but that red neon time and temperature sign had been there next to the Brooklyn Bridge almost as long as people could remember. He glanced at the sign across the water where it read 4:21pm. That meant nothing to him because he had no idea about the ferry schedule. What he did know was that there was a distinct memory of long dead fish in the air. He knew that smell from the Bronx. The Hunts Point Fish Market was very modern, very sterile, very sanitary. But this was quite different. This was a real and earthy fish smell. The smell of fish that had merged with the smell of human toil over a century or two. He was near the Fulton Fish Market and it was now all around him.
Every step he took he glanced around him expecting to see someone running towards him, chasing him. There was no one near him. He was under the FDR at this point, moving swiftly between the cars parked for the hour, the day, the month and perhaps for eternity. There was trash in the corners near the pillars, but trash was different than garbage. Trash was just trash. Garbage was useful. But he had no time for garbage, he had a mission. If only he could remember what it was. All he knew was that he needed to go South towards the ferry. Those damn fish smells were driving him crazy, but they were fading as he approached the end of the elevated portion of the FDR, where it momentarily merges with the streets of the Financial District. This was both a busy and lonely place. Busy with cars, but devoid of passers-by.
The dash he made seemed necessary at first, but then felt awkward as there were no cars coming off the ramp just then. He made it to the strange sidewalk on the median surrounding the Battery Underpass entrance. It was strange because it served no purpose. Some City Planner had long ago required it and it had been built, but no one had ever had reason to walk on it until now. And now it was perfect. He could reconnoiter the ferry terminal without fear of anyone getting at him. All he had to do was pick his spot and pick his moment, and that he could do with great elan. He caught his breath, poised himself, and in a split second was across the road and inside the ground level of the terminal.
The ferry had started allowing riders to enter and exit at ground level very recently. It was where cars used to board the ferry when they had been allowed. It’s hard to even imagine the days when the ferry took cars. Those were the days of the Fulton Fish Market and he got a brief whiff of those fish again, but it may have just been that he was now very near the water. A ferry terminal has to be part building and part dock. That means that here at ground level it is really at sea level. It’s actually just one big boathouse. Just then he saw the huge orange and blue ferry dock and lock into its berth. Good timing for him. After the people exited the ferry and just as the oncoming crowds were unleashed on the empty boat, he would have his chance. Most of the people were upstairs anyway, only the locals who were tired of the view came downstairs to enter into the bowels of the boat.
The MARSEC sniffing guard dogs and their tenders were both upstairs and downstairs and that would be his biggest challenge. Just then the ropes were dropped and the commuters rushed forward. It was a silly race since there were six thousand seats on the ferry and probably less than two thousand riders at this time of day, but race it was. And the good thing was that it gave him the perfect cover from the ferry workers and the guard dogs. They were all chumps who were not keen enough to catch a stowaway with purpose.
Once onboard it was easy to find a corner to hide in where the cars used to ride. Passengers weren’t allowed in there and it was pretty greasy and unappealing, but for a short twenty-three minute ride to Staten Island, it would do nicely. He could finally relax for a moment and enjoy the ride. As an American Pit Bull Terrier he knew that his presence was unwelcome, he just never understood exactly why.