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U-Haul Dreams

On this part of the bay there seems to be nothing, no sign of human industry, just the “sea of lead.” It hardly seems real, seeing no buoys, no boats. It isn’t a bad day, but the last of the snow squalls came through this April morning. As I write, sitting in my truck on the slow ferry to Matinicus, spring seems very far away yet.

There is this myth, widely held among people who are nowhere near this part of the country during the winter, that winter on the bay is frightening and dangerous. To be sure there are storms, but there are storms every month of the year, and seas discouraging to mariners in every season. The worst trips I can remember on this ferry have been in the spring. A couple of years ago in May we had a trip where lumberyard trucks slid sideways and water ran through the passenger cabin like a navigable river and my rental box truck took so much salt water in the ignition wiring that I called a wrecker to help me get off the ferry. I did not get sick but I was so cold, after six hours of hard rain, that it may as well have been January. I couldn’t stop my teeth chattering for an hour. Dan got trapped in his pickup truck by Viking Lumber’s flatbed. The driver from Viking remained a good sport and said only, “Do they ever decide it is too rough to go?” My heroes that day were Doug the engineer with his can of ether, of which we used every bit I think, and Tom who cranked the heat up full blast in his pickup for poor old hypothermic me, even though I’m sure it was the last thing he wanted after a perfectly nauseating ride --even for those stalwarts who kept their breakfast to themselves.

Today there shall be no such unpleasantness, although we are still in that colder part of the year when our ferries run but once a month. This trip, outbound with odds and ends of freight, back with recycling, is so far happily uneventful. The cab of my U-Haul truck is plastered with stickers: “Get help immediately—at myuhaul.com.” Immediately. Sure. I thought about help, about the time Wayne who used to deliver firewood in a dump truck snagged a fuel hose getting back aboard at the island. I ran for sorbent pads from the power company and the deckhands found some buckets; we made do. I thought about the time Max had a whole pallet of Ready-Mix concrete riding unsecured on a brand new plastic bed liner in the back of his pickup truck. The tide was as low as they could make the wharf, and the trip up the notoriously steep ramp at Matinicus was enough grade to start that load sliding down that slick plastic, and next thing you knew we were all shoveling up concrete just as fast as we could shovel. The truck tailgate would never be the same. I remember bashing salt water ice off my box truck’s lift gate latch with a two-by-four. I remember the time I got locked out, and all the shenanigans that followed that sorry mistake. Never again will I leave the key in the switch to stand on the deck and chat.

One of the decals in this truck cab reminds the renter to read all the decals. I think about the moves these trucks have been through as I sit here staring at a gray horizon, overwhelmed with gratitude for 2-3-foot seas. All I’m doing is hauling trash off an island. U-Haul trucks are for growing up and striking out on one’s own, or making the big move to the West Coast, or loading up the band for that first real gig. They are for frat boys moving couches to elite universities, for new jobs in new states, for new starts. My brother drove his friend’s stuff to South Dakota or somewhere years ago and his U-Haul was hit by an oncoming vehicle that strayed into his lane. That was a bad day. I do not have that particular danger to fear.

The ferry left Rockland today at 8:55 a.m.; at 10:25 we got one weird wave. Lucky that was all. There is this one spot, and you can set your watch by it: Three-quarters of the way from Rockland to Matinicus there are “confused seas.” I do not know why. If it is going to be rough anywhere, it will be there. They are not bad today, which is more reason for gratitude.

Music helps pass the time, although my tunes mix has an almost conscious awareness of my location; the random shuffle tends heavily toward “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald,” “The Mary L. McKay,” and the Beach Boys singing “This is the worst trip I’ve ever been on.” My headphones are a deliberate strategy, and are intentionally large and black and obvious, not earbuds. They help to keep the summertime idle chatterers away. I do not wish to converse with those good folk, who invariably want to compare notes about seasickness. It is a very bad idea to talk about seasickness. Sometimes people make no sense.

We don’t get the ferries heavy-laden with tourists like the other islands, although in July and August the passenger cabin is closer to full, and dogs are everywhere, and coolers are piled up in all the corners. There seems a heavy representation of women in the summer, but in the winter I am often the only female aboard, unless Emily the AB is working this trip or Melissa is substituting.

I go back to reading the library of U-Haul cab stickers. “Get unloading help at MovingHelp.com.” Right. I think George and Robin will be there to help unload and re-load this truck. I know Paul is planning to be there; he’ll also run the winch to lower the ferry ramp as the deckhands tie up at the end of the Matinicus wharf. Nat is aboard this trip, and I think he said he had time to help. Maybe a few others will be around. Sometimes there is too much help, although I can’t believe I’m admitting that. First-timers throw bags aboard. I have to give them a stern talking-to; I don’t want broken bags of trash in the truck. We must load the garbage with delicacy and a system, an orderly method. They just look at me funny. I know what I’m talking about.

We have an hour to unload and re-load the truck, and for eleven years we have always managed, which surprises me. Somebody invariably asks with grave concern about me having to unload by myself on the other end. “Oh, you couldn’t possibly!” Sure I can; there is a lot less need for caution or method. Stuff gets flung, heaved, shoved and tossed, except the glass. I unload the glass in mind for my own safety. Appliances are likely to go airborne under my care. Tires go flying, lengths of pipe go flying, rusty bicycles, water heaters, all pitched unceremoniously out of the back of the truck with far less trouble than it took to load them in neatly. Nobody can unload a ton of garbage as fast as I can, especially as I am not seasick.