Lawrence is fictional, but he’s real.
Cielo Island doesn’t exist, but it’s true.
This story may seem hopeless, but it points to hope.
It’s human.
That’s what we are, and we all need hope.
PART I
1. EMBARKMENT
Aiden Lawrence never did like public transit. He rode a fair amount in his young life. Subways, buses, taxis. Regardless of the form, it tended to be overcrowded, uncomfortable and unpleasantly aromatic. And for some unknown reason, it brought with it a sense of anxiety.
He didn’t recall ferries being that different. His dad took him on one to Cielo Island for his 13th birthday, a father-son excursion to their summer cabin, though they rarely took summer trips there. Mom was wheelchair-bound, hated the effort it took to get to the island and preferred to stay in their West Seattle home.
“We’re leaving mainland America and heading to another world,” Dad had said, trying to ease the anxious teen. “Not so much a foreign universe, but a place of time passed.”
The visit to the small Pacific Northwest island wasn’t so great, and neither was that first boat ride. Driving his ‘96 Civic hatchback onto the ferry 17 years later, the thrill was still missing.
“Don’t worry, Aiden,” Dad had said. “Simply ride.”
Thrill was missing from life in general. A mature university student who dropped out three quarters of the way through his business degree from burn-out and apathy.
“Welcome aboard Washington State Ferries,” the PA announced.
He was moving to the cabin for four months. Tentatively. Being out of school, timelines didn’t play that prominent of a role anymore. Not much did, for that matter.
Aiden turned off the engine, locked the door and headed upstairs to the passenger area.
These boats were nothing exceptional: the white paint was rusted; the linoleum floor tiles were chipped; the seat cushions were faded; the vending machines offered snacks of little substance at a ridiculous price.
His cup of drip coffee was empty and ready to be discarded, and its contents had quickly made its way through his stomach. Once he walked into the bathroom, the aromas of public transit hit a new high. The smell does little to relax the soul – or ease your body to do what you came for.
Washed his hands, splashed some lukewarm water on his face, looked in the mirror. The 4 o’clock shadow was starting to show. Hadn’t washed his dirty blond hair in a few days; it framed his boyish face and dark green eyes.
But it’s not a baby face. Life has a way of stripping away innocent composition.
“Finally, I don’t look like I’m 12,” he thought to himself.
After holding his hands under the air dryer for 15 seconds – more so for heat – Aiden exited the bathroom and looked around. Lots of people. Families with children. Loud, rowdy children. Couples, old and young. Some were far too comfortable showing physical affection. Others sat with their books hardly acknowledging their partner. He found a booth, but kids kept running by, shouting as they dashed. It felt crowded.
Congested.
Threatening.
Aiden was taken back to that first trip with Dad, complaining about the boat. “That’s just the problem, Aiden,” he had said. “The boat isn’t the attraction.”
Dads have a way of being right, even when it’s not what one wants to hear.
Side by side, the father and son walked down the side to the outside deck.
“Welcome to heaven,” Dad had said.
Through with recollection, Aiden grunted, buttoned up his faded grey blazer and walked to the set of push-doors.
The salty air blasted at his eyes and through his scruffy hair, quickly reminding him that he was far away from his Seattle suburb. There were few clouds in the sky. They looked just like the ones from back home, but the geographical similarities stopped there. No pavement. No smog. Just air. Crisp, moist air blanketed over the islands and water.
Aiden was always fascinated by salt water, an entire ecosystem that can sustain so many forms of life and yet corrode anything that lives outside of it. When a gust of wind hits the surface, the mist is carried high, gracing the sides of passing boats.
The faded paint on the ferry had a bit more meaning now. Faded and jaded over the years.
Felt familiar.
He gripped his hands around the green rail that bordered the small standing area.
This paint was also starting to chip away.
“Stop looking around and analyzing everything,Aiden,” Dad would’ve said now. “Just close your eyes.”
Aiden hated advice. Even when given out of love and care, advice carried with it stinging sentiments of inadequacy and inferiority – at least that’s how he received it, and he let it fuel his self-doubt.
He valued wisdom from people who lived full lives. Growing up, he discovered a love for classic literature – works by F. Scott Fitzgerald, John Steinbeck, Jane Austen. Universal truths lived out by timeless characters – characters who experienced love and loss, passion and apathy. They taught by experience.
Advice, on the other hand, felt like a performance review – especially when it came from Dad. And in Aiden’s eyes, those reviews rarely felt favorable. Being an only child brought with it extra expectations and pressures. Most times he threw them back in Dad’s face.
He’d been living with regret since Dad died last year, and his hiatus from school felt more indefinite with each passing month.
What harm can a little advice do now?
He closed his eyes.
The predominate sound was the cold wind racing past his ears. Abrupt and loud.
“Listen,” Dad would say.
He listened intently, and heard the head of the boat tearing through the water; he even felt a faint mist hit his face. Suddenly, the loudness wasn’t harsh; it was refreshing.
He hadn’t heard this sound in quite some time, at least not in the suburbs. He was used to loud noises caused by cars, subways, music and voices.
Not here. None of that was here.
Aiden opened his eyes.
His vision took a few minutes to adjust. Even though it was a cloudy day, the sky’s light reflected off the water, naturally brightening up the day through his perspective.
