The sun reflects off the deep blue of the water, and though I cannot see them, I know the passengers are squinting, eyes watering, all together, smiling embarrasedly at each other as if they had caught a stranger in some secret grief. The captain's eyes, and mine, are used to the sun, and do not water, even when the salt spray from the wake of one of the pleasure boaters smashes into our face like a whip. Our ears are used to the thrumm of the ancient engines and the groaning of the weatherbeaten wood beneath our feet.
The captain stares out across the bay. San Francisco is thirty minutes away, and another load of passengers waits there. He holds the steering wheel, with it's cracked dry vinyl cover hanging loosely from it. He rests his other hand on the edge of the window. I press the microphone button. "San Francisco twenty-two minutes. San Francisco twenty-two minutes."
I don't bother looking down at the passengers. I know the methodical inertia of the ferry is putting joyous smiles on the faces of the young children. I know the regulars are bored: one businessman will be sleeping on a splintery bench, briefcase under his head and the sun on his redenned face. I know there are usually two who sway as if they were drunk, and one who will snicker under his breath at them. I know without looking that they see the halfway buoy and wonder if I will miss it. "San Fransisco seventeen minutes. San Francisco seventeen minutes."
I know that there will be one visitor, usually a small boy. The captain turns when he hears the small clumping footsteps on the stairs to the deck. The child has brown hair and a Tootsie Pop jammed in his mouth. He swings idly from the thick red rope, not lifting his feet off the ground. He stands up and takes the Tootsie Pop out of his red-stained lips. His eyes roam over the controls, up to the captain, across to me. He walks under the rope, right up to the captain, and extends his arms as if for a hug. The captain picks him up and sets him on the ledge of the window. His eyes do not water as he stares into the sun.
The captain's hands are trembling. The boy turns his head from the bay and looks at the captain, his little eyebrows locked into a scowl. He turns back to looking at the bay. I see his arm swing up, pointing at one of the yachts bobbing slowly in the cool blue water. There is smoke coming from a barbeque grill, and I can hear faint laughter coming from it, the tiny sound of a radio.
The captain looks at me. He turns the wheel, hard. The boy and I instinctively lean into the sharp turn, but I can hear the stumbling, confused footsteps of the passengers below. The captain reaches under the dashboard and brings out a wooden flintlock pistol, it's brown handle shiny and polished. I flip open the small locker, push aside the emergency flares, the motion sickness pills, the first aid kit, the fire extinguisher, and lift out the heavy curved weight of a scimitar. The sunlight glints along the smooth blade.
I can hear the passengers scurry about. The businessman has a revolver in the briefcase, and he fumbles with the extra bullets the waitress had in her purse. The housewife has brought out two daggers and twirls them idly around her hands. The schoolgirls pull the black flag with the stark white skull and use the cold steel hooks to hoist it onto the front post of the ship. One pinches her hand in the hook, and sucks the wound gleefully, laughing at her own clumsiness.
The thrumm grows louder. The ferry moves faster. I can see the captain begin to smile. I press the microphone button. "San Francisco, nine minutes. San Francisco, nine minutes."