“You’ll get sick of it!”, they tell me, “I promise, you’ll get sick of it quick!”
I’m in my sixth month of daily ferry commuting, and honestly, I don’t know that I’d have it any other way. Were my company to offer to move across the street from my home, I don’t know that I’d accept.
Twice a day, ten times per week, 35 hours per month … I ride. Across Elliott Bay, over the Puget Sound, to the real Pacific Northwest. At least what’s left of it. A more sincere, authentic place where skinny jeans still elicit snickers. A region where adjectives other than “amazing” are still used. A land where aluminum habitats for transplanted Californians and people from Bellevue are not yet the norm.
Don’t get me wrong … the journey … the commute, is absolutely a hassle.
Having to wake up 2 hours before starting work is a hassle. Getting home an hour and a half after leaving my office is a hassle. Spending $200/month is a hassle. Waiting for late ferries is a hassle. Dealing with rude, lazy, power-tripping, government-employed Ferry workers is a hassle. Being captive to 500 smelly commuters, insufferable tourists, and their screaming brats is a hassle. Shockingly bad ferry Wi-Fi is a hassle. Unpredictable cellphone service is a hassle. Overpriced, stale ferry food rung up by apathetic cashiers is a hassle. Random seasickness is a hassle. Ferry commuting in general is a monumental, colossal, gargantuan pain in the ass. I hate it with every fiber of my being.
Until I look out the window.
At which point.
All is forgiven.