THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT

During my childhood, I spent my summers in Ironton, Michigan, skipping rocks across the smooth surface of the lake, or watching the steady stream of boats passing through the channel day after day. The year I turned eleven, I met Craig, one of my best friends. He and I would always wander down to where the Ironton ferry was docked. A small flat bottom ferry guided by cables traversed the water between Ironton on the west shore and Peninsula Road on the east. It carried a maximum of four cars across the narrow gap in the lake which separated the south arm of Lake Charlevoix from the main body. A cramped cabin in the center of the flat deck provided shelter for the operator. The Spartan interior was heated by an oil fired stove that barely staved off the cold when it ran right. A stout column rose from the floor with a mere three gauges to monitor the engine. In front of that were two steel control levers, one for each propeller, connected directly to the shafts under the floor of the cabin. Besides a small metal stool and a cash box, this was the captain's headquarters. The antiquated, three cylinder diesel engines protruded through the floor and required constant tinkering to keep it running. Three pistons thumped loudly producing perfect smoke rings out the exhaust pipe that stuck out above the roof. Noisy, but efficient, the ferry plodded back and forth, day after day, nine months of the year. Befriending the different captains was a delicate process. Each of the three held very different beliefs of their position as captain. One was a grump who wanted to charge a fee for riding his precious ferry. The second would let my friend and I ride as much as we wanted. At times, he even let us into the tiny cabin to watch the intricate working of his inner kingdom. The the third was, by far, our favorite. Captain Jim would let us help out by operating the gates to let the cars on and off the deck. Eventually, this morphed into us actually operating all the controls and collecting the fees. Most often, it was during the late shift when Captain Jim would relinquish control. Craig and I would pride ourselves on making a perfect, bump free landing into the dock. On a beautiful, clear night as we chugged towards the dock on the final trip of the evening, Craig and I screwed up. We had been running the boat most of the night while Captain Jim collected the cash and chatted with his passengers. He had gone into the cabin and started counting the proceeds from his shift. This placed him at the control pedestal, so Craig and I assumed the Captain was going to dock the ferry. I lost track of Craig as I stood in the doorway of the cabin enjoying the summer breeze and the rhythm of the old engine. Glancing towards the dock, now only fifty feet away, I realized we were at full speed ahead. I shouted at Captain Jim...but it was too late.