The Incredible Journey

When my friend David wants to go to Home Depot, he can do it on a whim. With great nonchalance, merely at his convenience, he can just up and decide, "I think I'll wander over to Home Depot and get a faucet." Later that same day, he will casually make the twenty-minute trek back to Home Depot to get a tiny tube of white caulking. Because, either he didn't realize he was going to need it or just plain forgot it the last time. Then, he will get in his funny little Ford Escape and meander through the back streets of Mill Creek to arrive home. Wow… Home Depot twice in the same day—we salute you sir!

When I want to go to Home Depot, I have to mount an expedition. I need to make comprehensive lists for H.D., Grocery Outlet, Costco, and possibly Best Buy. I need to bring a cooler (with ice), make sure I have at least $2,000 left on my credit card, and try to have some sort of appointment on the same day. It doesn't matter what the appointment is for, just something—dentist, driver's license, or perhaps an equally enlightening and discouraging session with my psychiatrist.

Why? Why, indeed. Let me describe how I get from my house to Home Depot. I wake up at 5:30 a.m., make coffee, clean the kitchen, and feed the cat. I also try to persuade the cat to stay inside because it's January, and the high temperature for the day will be forty-two degrees. Unfortunately, bribery and reason are insufficient, so today, the cat will be outside. I bet she'll be glad to see me at O'dark thirty when I get home.

We have only just begun. I like to dawdle, so now it's 6:15, I'm almost late. In my mind, I want to be in my car, pulling out of the driveway at 6:20, but I also want to bring my laptop, and of course, I don't find it until I get to the third place I look.

I live in a forest, on an island. To get to Home Depot, I'm going to have to take a ferry. Not a cute little boat, but a ship that can hold as many as one hundred and forty cars, their drivers, and passengers, as well as the potential for another one thousand walk-on passengers, although it won't be near that many today because it is winter, and it will be locals only.

I pull out of my driveway and go through more forest, past a marina, past the old community church, through more forest, follow the road as it mimics the shoreline for a solid mile, past another marina, through more forest, past a field with sheep, back through more forest and then I pull up at the booth where I will tell them my name and that I have a reservation for the 7:10 ferry.

I should be there a minimum of half an hour before departure, or they aren't supposed to honor the reservation. I'm four minutes late, but, again, it's the middle of winter, I'm recognized, and most importantly, I live on a little island, so it's no problem. I'm instructed to please drive to lane three.

Since I have fifteen minutes to wait before the ferry boards, I go down five flights of stairs to the Orcas Store, say hello, and get a twenty-ounce sugar-free vanilla latte and an egg and sausage croissant sandwich. Of course, I have to walk back up five flights of stairs. I dream of an escalator, and I also dream of teleportation so I can be inside the vault at the Ben and Jerry's factory in Vermont in the wink of an eye. I'm disappointed because neither of these vital features of infrastructure are anywhere near becoming a reality.

At 7:00, the holding lot starts to empty as eighty cars, trucks, and semis make their way down the hill, bravely crossing a concrete and steel ramp, where they are guided by a series of deckhands so we can all get packed in neatly. Today, the ferry left at 7:10—right on time. This is not always the case. In the summer, an hour's delay is not uncommon. Summer can also be cruel and callous to the neophytes who are trying to keep a schedule because, our ferry system is not run by the Swiss. At completely random times, the ferry they want to be on is canceled, and they are marooned in the middle of the holding lot, surrounded by other cars that are also stranded. While waiting for the next ferry, some of the castaways will form lifelong friendships-there may be a marriage, possibly a will is read. C'est la vie.

The ferry leaves the dock—it will be almost an hour and a half to reach another island that eventually connects to the mainland. To get there, we will stop at two other islands to pick up more cars and walk-ons. By the time we get to the end of the route, we will have passed another half dozen islands. We will see cormorants, seagulls, and sometimes another ferry traveling the other way. It's long odds, but we might see a pod of Orca whales. At least once every winter, this crossing is made during a gale. The boat rolls fifteen degrees, back and forth, from starboard to port. Not to worry, its build is sturdy, but it gives my friend the opportunity to laugh at me as I lurch my way to the bathroom because I look very much like I should have stopped at ten beers.

Once we are on the mainland, I have to stop for coffee, and because I suffer from vanity, I go through the car wash. God forbid anyone see my sixteen-year-old car in anything other than pristine condition. Once I've had my way with this small town, I get on the highway and take what should be a thirty-minute drive, but it ends up being twenty-five because if you're not going ten over, you're holding up traffic.

At the other end of the drive, I arrive at my destination, Burlington. A city of such magnitude (population ten thousand) that a plethora of big box stores has risen over the years.

To recap: I woke up at 5:30 a.m. I walk through the doors of Home Depot at 9:30 a.m. After I'm done acquiring everything on my list, I still have to traverse the length and width of Costco, see my dermatologist, have my tires rotated, go to Teriyaki Time and get a Unicorn roll(unavailable on my island home), and fill up with gas because it is $1.50. a gallon cheaper on the mainland. One has to make the most of this trip to the United States.

Then it's back to the ferry, at least half an hour before its scheduled departure time. Except we're closer to the end of the day, and it will likely be running late. The captain navigates our vessel on a course that passes the islands in reverse order. I drive my car off the boat (ship), through forests and along the coast, and arrive home at 8:30 p.m. I have tried very hard not to forget the small tube of caulking.

This sounds like a lot, and it is. The way I look at it, this creates a moat around my island—that it keeps me safe from the trauma that my fragile nature would surely suffer if I were living on the mainland and residing in Mill Creek. Thank God.