Before the Pier

Fog removed the far shore so completely that the ferry seemed to be crossing a room without walls. On deck, passengers stopped pointing and began listening, their attention settling on the engine's uneven pulse. A metal cup shivered against the rail whenever the vessel altered course, though nobody could see the turn. Near the bow, a deckhand tested a coil of rope with one thumb and watched the blankness. Then a gull cried somewhere ahead, a small sound that gave the gray expanse an improbable direction. The captain reduced speed, and the engine's throaty rhythm loosened into separate, measured beats. Underfoot, the deck tilted almost imperceptibly as water pressed against the hull from a different angle. Only when the pier's lamps appeared did the passengers discover how near they had been all along. Their phones came out, but the photographs caught little more than pale light trembling on wet glass. The crossing had announced its arrival through touch and sound before sight could claim the credit.