Joanne Sherman: Ferry tales – the blame game

“You know you’re from Shelter Island if … you’ve ever muttered the words, “Darn that ferry!”

But do you know who first said them? Me neither; however, according to legend, they were originally spoken in the 1700s, when South Ferry was a rowboat. A local, after being ferried to North Haven, shouted to the waiting Uber carriage, “Forsooth and forsure. Get a gallop on my good man, as I am e’er so tardy.” 

Perhaps not a direct quote, but that’s kind of how they talked back then. As he leapt into the horse-drawn hansom, he muttered the words repeated to this day, “That darn ferry!”

But a reliable source explained, “It weren’t the ferry that be late, mate, it were the gentleman.”

My first ride on a ferry to Shelter Island happened July 4, 1967. Before that, I’d never been on or in any type of boat. I’m from Cleveland and in the 1960s we Buckeyes did not turn to our large bodies of water for recreation, unless watching them catch fire counts. 

Since that July day, as for most Islanders, my life revolves around the ferry, and I’ve developed certain habits when I ride it. For instance, I help guide the boat by turning my car’s steering wheel to gently nudge the vessel port or starboard.

I also assist by applying the brakes, so that we don’t land too hard. It’s similar to lifting your weight a little when an airplane starts to take off — to lighten the load. I’m pretty sure that’s one of Einstein’s lesser theories, it just never got good press, relatively speaking.

Another habit is to lean forward in my seat when I’m late, to make the boat go faster. Only two weeks ago my entire weight was pressed against the steering wheel because when I boarded the ferry I was already 20 minutes late for an off-Island dental appointment.

I concocted a story. Don’t judge me — who  wants to stare up at the masked face of an angry dentist? I’d claim there was an accident at my house. And a fire! Simultaneously! And I’d add a sinkhole on Route 114, in case he didn’t buy the accident and/or the fire scenario.

At the dentist, before I could blurt out my manufactured misfortunes, a breathless Shelter Island neighbor burst through the door, looked at me and said, “Don’t you hate it when the boat stalls like that?” Then she turned to the dentist and said, “I’m so sorry I’m late again,”  and added those words first spoken hundreds of years ago, “That darn ferry!”

The dentist shook his head sympathetically and said, ”No worries. Having to take a ferry all the time. I feel bad for you. Both of you.”

Whaaaat? In that moment I had an immediate flashback to a deja vu event when I’d been summoned for jury duty. I managed to sail through the voir dire process. Voir dire is merely fancy talk for, “Okay, answer me this” and I can flub my way through about anything.

Both lawyers liked me. I could tell from the way they smiled that each one wanted me to be on his team. But not that judge.

He said, “I have questions for juror number seven.” (That would be me.) It soon became apparent that he did not want me on the panel. I wondered why he had singled me out, as I had purposely chosen an unbiased-looking outfit, beige on beige.

You live in Shelter Island? He asked.

“No, your honor,” I said, “I live on Shelter Island.” (Because Shelter Islanders can never let that one go. And, side note: If it ever becomes necessary to rouse one of us from a deep coma, ask us if we live on Shelter.)

The judge decided that as qualified and beige as I was, he didn’t want me on the jury. Thank you very much for schlepping all that way to Riverhead, bye-bye, now.

For other prospective jurors, that might be a, “Hallelujah, I’m outta here!” moment. But I like jury duty and I detected a bit of “Eeow! Poor, poor pitiful you,” in the Judge’s voice when he said, “Shelter Island.”

So I voir dired his honor who was under the impression that Shelter Island is served by a ferry that sometimes operates, but mostly doesn’t, has no regular schedule, gets caught in ice floes or lost in the fog or runs aground and remains stuck until the tide changes or the Coast Guard arrives. For years he’d excused many Shelter Island jurors on account of “that darn ferry!” 

I suppose a lot of us are guilty of blaming the boat when it’s not the boat’s fault, especially when talking to people who are a little unsure about ferries and/or the people who like to ride them. If you’re a person who employs the “that darn ferry!” excuse, you’ve got plenty of company and you can definitely use it at the dentist.

Just don’t tell it to the judge.

Want more ferry stories? Plan to attend the musical production, “A Deck of Ferry Tales,” 6 p.m., Thursday, July 18, through Sunday, at the Havens House barn.