Crossing Queens Ferry
Whitman’s meditations on the East River offer a tide of hope
And you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence are more to me, and more in my meditations, than you might suppose.
-Walt Whitman, “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry”
— More than a hundred years hence.
It’s a perfect early spring afternoon for a walk in the park along the East River. Laura and I welcome the walk after the heavy lunch for the birthday of the youngest of the clan, my cousin’s toddler.
We head toward the Pepsi-Cola sign that was visible from the restaurant. As we get closer, we are captivated by the massiveness of the structure. It is now anchored to the ground after having spent decades atop of the bottling company’s building in Long Island City, one of the many factories razed to make room for the residential glass towers sprouting along the shoreline. My cousins and their kids pose in front for the compulsory photos — indeed, Google Maps marks this spot with a camera icon. With the late afternoon sun behind me, I dodge my long shadow from sneaking into the frame while stepping back to fit all the curlicue letters in the shot. My subjects are squinting into the blinding sun, even those with sunglasses.
I notice the sign says, Pepsi:Cola — the words separated by a colon. I assert to no one in particular that it should be a hyphen — Latin for “together, as one.” I chalk it up to a mistake made a long time ago that was not easy to fix.
Across from the sign, we discover a stop for one of the new ferries servicing the city. I work out that we can take the ferry to Roosevelt Island, and then catch the tram along the 59th Street Bridge, a trip home that feels more thrilling than the subway. The next ferry is not due for an hour, ample time to explore the rest of the promenade with the cousins.
As we stroll south, the backlit Manhattan skyline appears steadfast against the pull of the rolling East River. The many faces I see are winter pale, strolling in winter jackets still.
Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes, how curious you are to me!
My cousins’ young teenagers run ahead enjoying the freedom of the outdoors, the closing days of March hinting at the coming warmth.
I am with you, you men and women of a generation, or ever so many generations hence…
We admire the newness of the shoreline, walking as far as the two gantries, a few blocks away. These relics from the industrial age are painted matte black, facing Manhattan with a proud proclamation in large red block letters outlined in white: LONG ISLAND. They seem to poke at the city, “we are still here.” Defiance is something you learn in Queens.
It has been a long time since my high-school days when I knew the area well. The school moved away from Queensboro Plaza many years ago, changing their name to the Bulldogs. I like that we were the L.I.C. Stars then. Queens has been rising tall on the shores of Long Island City more recently, transforming into a hip place with posh restaurants and craft-breweries where workshops and factories once stood.
We double back to meet the ferry, which we can see coming up the river right on schedule. We say goodbye to the cousins and buy our tickets at the machine. We are first in line to board. The sudden roar of the engines thrown in reverse startles. We can see the captain maneuver the boat to dock. A ferryman jumps off and opens the gate, inviting us on. He collects our tickets. I quickly turn back to ask if I can keep them as a memento. He chuckles, pauses a second, uncertain if this is within protocol. He decides to rip the corners before handing the tickets back to me with a smile.
I rush to the top-deck, urging Laura along. While the ferry is taking on the rest of the passengers, we lean against the starboard rail, waving to catch the attention of my cousins on the shore. They are heading the other way to their homes in Queens and Long Island. We wave vigorously and throw kisses at the kids, pretending we are heading out of the harbor on a long voyage. They catch on and return the sentiment.
As the ferry pulls away toward Roosevelt Island, heading northwest on the eastern split of the East River, I take a picture of Laura with the Pepsi:Cola sign in the background. It’s now a beacon of reflected sunlight on the receding shore.
We go astern, opening a door to a small platform on the lower level of the boat. We surprise two young Middle-Eastern men already there. The four of us crowd the Manhattan side braving the chilly air, all searching for that singular skyline photo. Laura’s buoyant mood as she poses for a couple of shots matches the sunlit background — a moment in the solution.
It was a day to be refresh’d by the gladness of the river and the bright flow.
We admire the new university and park emerging on the southern tip of Roosevelt Island. Ahead and looking splendid is the glistening blonde steel that is the 59th Street Bridge in the sun. The structure appears larger than the thin island it spans, soaring above it before diving onto the streets of Manhattan. The ferry stop is under the bridge, where it is much chillier. We hear the traffic droning above us. We walk up a short slope leading to the tram station.
At the tram station, we join the many tourists on their return trip, a trip that features one of the most spectacular views of the city. Unlike the sparsely filled ferry, on the tram we are face to face with the men and women of the world. A child squirts between Laura and me to get a window view. Behind us, the mother apologizes with a nod for her kid’s bold move. I am part of the living crowd. In their amazement, we share their joy.
Stand up, tall masts of Mannahatta!
The tram rises steeply, quickly reaching the same height as the bridge roadway. In the tight space, I pull out my phone to capture a majestic city photo with Laura smiling in the foreground. It is a glorious shot.
— Great or small, you furnish your parts toward the soul, so that a hundred years hence you will remember.
I had many thoughts of the past and of the present, but not a single thought about the future and certainly not a hundred years hence. On that March afternoon, I couldn’t envision the disintegrating scheme that would arrive twenty days hence, squeezing Laura’s world smaller and smaller. I bide my time, hoping to savor the spirit of the river with her again. Month after month, I remind her that we will return to the joy of the Queens Ferry. During her difficult days, I have to remind myself.
Eight months later, on a cold and cloudy November day, we take the ferry-boat across the river again. This time we don’t make the trip alone, we do so with family visiting for Thanksgiving. It is Laura’s first outing in months. Her baseball cap and fake hair are, for the casual observer, a veil over her ordeal. She handles the trip well.
For no one else does the venture matter the way it does for us: “The glories strung like beads on my smallest sights and hearings.” We relish the return trip to normalcy. During the chilly ride, I watch her smile and keep her close. Very close, separated only by a hyphen — together, as one.
(Phrases in italics are from Walt Whitman’s “Crossing Brooklyn Bridge.”)
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