The last ferry home

The last ferry leaves at eight. I nearly missed it, which meant I got the only seat left — outside, on the upper deck, by the railing.

For forty minutes there was nothing to do. No signal, no book (left on the table at the café), no one to talk to. Just the engine, the wake opening out behind us like a zip, and a sky that went from apricot to lavender to a colour I do not have a name for.

Doing nothing, properly

I am bad at doing nothing. I fidget. I look for the next thing. But a ferry deck at dusk turns out to be one of the few places where doing nothing is the correct and expected activity, and everyone around you is doing it too. A man in a sun hat watched the water. Two teenagers shared a single pair of earphones. A dog slept.

The hills on the far side got darker and simpler until they were just shapes, and then just one shape, and then the harbour lights came on and it was over.

I took one photograph. I am fairly sure it is underexposed. I am completely sure I will keep it.