The Captain's Last Crossing

On the morning of her last crossing, Iolanthe reached the pier at twenty to six, as she had done for twenty-six years. The harbor was grey, and a thin mist lay on the water between the island and the mainland. She walked the length of the ferry, touched the rail near the stern, as always, and said nothing about it to Benno.

Benno had worked under her for two years and had been told, officially, that he would take over the wheel after the summer. He had also been told, unofficially, by almost everyone, that she could never be replaced. Every evening he had practiced docking in the empty bay, and every evening he had gone home less sure of himself.

At ten to seven, he had his hand on the ramp lever when a young man ran onto the pier, his suitcase bouncing behind him. The timetable said departure at six-fifty. Benno began to raise the ramp.

"Hold it," Iolanthe called from the cabin window.

"It's already ten to seven, Captain."

"I know what time it is. Nobody has ever been wrecked by forty seconds."

The young man tumbled aboard, gasping and apologizing to everyone. The regulars, meanwhile, were behaving strangely. Normally they waved at the cabin as they boarded. Today they kept their eyes on the deck. A large sheet of paper was being passed from hand to hand, as quietly as a secret in a classroom.

Halfway across, Iolanthe stepped away from the wheel. "Take her," she said. "Out here, she's yours." Benno's palms were damp against the wood. Behind him, from the stern, came the sound of a cello. Its owner had caught the early boat every morning for eleven years, and he played a slow tune that nobody had announced.

The baker put the sheet of paper into the captain's hands. Sixty names covered it, some in pencil and some in pen. Iolanthe read it for a long time, and then she wiped her face with her sleeve and blamed the spray.

She told Benno later that she had known for a week. "Nothing happens on this boat without my hearing about it," she said. "But they had been so secretive that it would have been unkind to spoil it."

As the mainland pier came into view, she joined him at the wheel. "One piece of advice, and then I'll leave you alone," she said. "Everyone will teach you the engine and the tides. If I were you, I would worry less about those. Wait for the runner."

"The runner?"

"Every boat has one. Somebody who is late for something that matters. Forty seconds, every time. The timetable can spare it, and they never forget it."

He brought the ferry in slowly, with the engine barely a murmur. The hull touched the fender so softly that the cellist, still playing, did not miss a note. Nobody clapped. The regulars simply nodded to him as they went ashore, one by one, as if he had always been the one at the wheel.

When the last passenger had left, Iolanthe handed him the logbook. "You write the final entry," she said.

Benno wrote the time, the wind and the visibility. Under "Remarks", he hesitated, and then he wrote, "Waited for a runner. Forty seconds."