“Did you hear that, Gully? Something like a winch? There it is again. It wouldn’t hurt to give it a little oil, would it? That screeching would wake the dead, may they rest in peace. Gully? Look! Over there! The sunrise! Just beautiful, like when you and I were out in the harbor. Oh, Gully… Five and a half miles to Whitehall Street cut the throttle, rudder 30 degrees just after the buoy near Lady Liberty.”
The winch noise dissolved into a muffled wind blowing through the hollow decks of the old abandoned Staten Island Ferry, Mary Murray, hauled onto the weed-filled banks of the Raritan River, miles from her home on Staten Island.
Mary closed her eyes of broken glass as the seasoned gull landed atop her wheelhouse, the only friend she had left. “Gully?” Mary said, watching the clouds drift over the rippling waters, the past seemed so present. “Gully?” she whispered, slipping back into a deep sleep. “Remember to wait for Bogo…”.
Bogo, the little, round Czech shoeshine man who practically lived on her upper deck, never missed a day’s work in 30 years, shining shoes from dawn to dusk, mumbling as he shuffled along on his worn-down shoes, “Shine-a! Shine-a!” he would call out. Bogo always wore the same clothes: navy blue pants, failing at the seams, a black shirt, burned in a few spots from too much ironing, and a shiny, black leather cap, the leather so thin, you could see Bogo’s scalp. His legs were bowed from fatigue and he swung his thick arms like a monkey. Mary liked it when Bogo, too tired to exit the boat, would fall asleep on his shoe-shine box, leaning his head against her walls. Sometimes, Lu-Lu, one of the matronly counter girls at the snack bar, would bring Bogo a hot dog and Pepsi. They were all part of Mary’s family: The ship’s captain, Kenny “Kip” Donnelly, in his smart Navy blue Maritime uniform with brass buttons and his white cap. First Mate, Anthony Grimaldi, in his denim work shirt always keeping watch before and aft; and all the engine crew downstairs, Poncho, Mikey, and Joe, covered in layers of grease, making sure Mary had the oil and fuel she needed to chug through the harbor on the nastiest of days, and there were plenty of them; freezing white caps erupting in leagues in the dead of winter. Yet, it wasn’t the weather that captured Mary’s thoughts, but the lives of the people whom she ferried for over 38 years, since 1937, transporting them for 20 minutes each way, back and forth from Saint George to South Ferry.
Mary opened her eyes…
“Gully, that time the Captain couldn’t see in one eye. I felt bad for him, Gully. He said everything looked like a blur and First Mate took the wheel near Governor’s Island, brought us back to Saint George where a white ambulance was waiting to take the Captain off ramp to Marine Hospital…”
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