The hidden gem of my time working in Manhattan and living on Staten Island was the thirty-minute crossing of New York Harbor aboard the Staten Island Ferry from lower Manhattan to St. George on Staten Island.
Tempting as it was to drift away after work into a state of mindlessness listening to music, reading a book, or just spacing out, the magic came when being present, leaning into a unique sensory experience.
Separate Together, the Meditation Begins
How often do you get to be in community with 4,000 people sharing the same space? That is how my evening commute would start each day at the peak of rush hour. No other mode of transportation in New York City accommodates as many people at the same time as the Staten Island Ferry.
The terminal’s great hall is the gathering place for each departure. Expansive when empty but crowded when full. There is a sound that the presence of 4,000 people sharing a space makes—not boisterous, like a sporting event, but also not quiet, like a cathedral.
Through the communal din, individual voices and sounds can be heard: the peak of laughter, an expressive sneeze, one side of an emphatic phone conversation. Now, a PA announcement that is difficult to hear. It’s almost time to board.
Boarding
The ocean of waiting people begins to swell toward the front of the hall. The massive doors give way to the cantilevered boarding structure that leads to the gangway. Crossing the threshold there is a transition from the congested air of the great hall to the otherness of ambient harbor air. Otherness. Certainly not fresh. Perhaps there was a time when the harbor air was fresh. That freshness is now accompanied by the organic smell of machine grease that coats the steel mooring cables winching the ferry to the gangway. A hint of diesel exhaust from the idling ferry’s engines. A waft of cigarette smoke from someone shoehorning a drag in the short walk from the hall to the gangway. The smell of pitch that covers the pier's wooden pilings.
The throng of people divides into two columns approaching the tandem gangways that accommodates a crowd eight bodies abreast. Each gangway hangs from two two-inch thick braided steel cables on a massive winch whose drum is 4 feet in diameter. A deckhand is at his post in the operator’s box perched on the gangway, adding slack as the ferry is laden down.
The John F. Kennedy, a vessel so large that boarding occurs on two of the ferry’s three levels. Boarding in this moment, I remember how as a child I enjoyed boarding early so that I could look down from the main passenger deck and watch the boarding of vehicles on the deck below.
The Decks
The starboard side seating area on the lower deck is bathed in brilliant light. The sun is low on the horizon and the water reflects the sun’s blinding radiance through the square porthole windows. When my mood is more introspective, I gravitate to this deck. Closer to the waterline, water dominates the view, making city landmarks less impressive, and tourists more scare. The deck is also a bit more intimate as it is the smallest indoor passenger deck aboard. The lower deck passenger space is what remains on either side of the large central vehicle bay: a narrow row of benches, an aisle, and a long window seat. Messages carved into the wooden benches are easy to see on the starboard side’s bright light. The carved graffiti and the under-seat life jacket lockers prevent these benches from being confused with the solemnity of church pews.
Each space of the ferry has its own allure—a sensory experience that invites you to dwell in the moment. Standing forward on the lower deck the sound of gusting wind drowns out the sound of the engines. The engines’ reverberation through the hull a reminder of energy in motion. Harbor mist, pushed up by the bow pushing forward, tickles the nose. Behold the panorama of New York Harbor with the Verrazano Narrows Bridge in the distance.
Aft on the lower deck, the foaming wake forms an arced tether to the city. What was perceived as a reverberation forward is a thundering vibration aft. The work of the propeller on the water leaving a visible and palpable signature. Sea gulls follow the ferry. A muffled PA announcement. The three-lane vehicle bay has been empty since nine-eleven. Looking down the center lane one can see through the entire length of the ferry and the horizon beyond. The sweep of the hull can be appreciated looking down the right and left lanes, light shimmering off the glossy orange painted bulkhead is almost blinding.
There is a catwalk staircase midship from the lower deck to the main deck. The air is colored by the smell of soft, oversized New York City pretzels and grilled hot dogs. That those 1960s Jet Spray beverage fountains are still in operation aboard this ship always boggled my mind; similarly, the nagging question of who was purchasing a drink from that?
Row upon row of seated passengers. Some turned inward, eyes closed with headphones, others turned outward talking in small groups seated across from each other. Smiles. Frowns. Laughter. The hull interior is finished with glossy marine green enamel paint. The floor is marbled black linoleum. “No Smoking” stenciled in red paint on the interior bulkheads.
The main staircases to the upper deck are forward and aft just inside the main boarding area. It has a polished steel handrail in the center and on either side. The stairs are grooved steel with a roughened surface. There is a landing at the midpoint. A wooden banister surrounds the stairwell on the upper deck supported by painted metal uprights. The aft staircase points forward. Reaching the top of the stairs, the door to the aft pilot house is behind me. “Crew Only” is stenciled on the door.
The seating on the upper deck is composed of facing wooden benches arranged across the width of the ship in three rows. Short rows, port and starboard, and a wider row in the middle.
Heavy sliding doors guard access to the port and starboard promenades. The brass handles are polished from wear. Those seated on the aisle nearest the door get a blast of air each time the door is opened. Crew quarters are midship, “No Radio Playing” stenciled on the bulkhead.
Arrival
After twenty minutes the reverberation of the hull subsides. I use the aft stairs down and then walk forward. Engines are Ahead Slow. Approaching St. George. The ferry heels a bit more to port as the ferry pulls starboard, into the current, to approach the slip. The pilings of the slip begin to loom larger, again the smell of pitch.
I can see the familiar landmarks of Staten Island’s north shore: Borough Hall, Curtis High School, the county courthouse. Now a glimpse of the foghorn perched at the peak of the slip as the ferry enters its mouth. The shudder of the engines in reverse to slow the ferry and a forward wake swirling up from the bow. Then the familiar heave as the ferry makes contact with the slip’s fenders, accompanied by a distinct whine of the ferry’s metal against the slip’s wood. The ferry closes on the gangway, then one last heave forward as the gangway absorbs the contact. The gangway descends onto the lower deck with a thud. Deckhands pull mooring hooks from the capstans and engage them with the mooring eyes on either side of the hull. As the mooring lines are winched taught, the capstans align as if standing at attention. The deckhands throw open the deck gates. We have arrived.
Postscript
On August 27, 2021, the MV John F. Kennedy, the last vessel in its class, was retired from service. During the sixty-five years that it was in service the Kennedy completed an estimated 300,000 crossings and ferried 128 million passengers. During its service, I’ve ridden the Kennedy more than 1,000 times. As a Staten Islander, I’m not alone when I say that the Kennedy has special meaning for me. While commuting is a shared experience for workers everywhere, and while many commuters travel the same route each day and use the same mode of transit each day, most commuters (unless travelling in their private vehicle) are not riding on the very same equipment for decades at a time. That’s one of many things that makes being a Staten Island ferry commuter unique.
Spending time on the Kennedy was like spending time with a person. And over time, like getting to know a person, I got to know the Kennedy’s personality, peculiarities, and character. I became accustomed to how the Kennedy was different in foul weather versus fair, in the winter versus the summer, early in the morning or late at night.
Like many fellow commuters, I had my preferred seat, mine only if I boarded early enough: upper level, port side, all the way aft at the bulkhead, just forward of the aft pilot house door. From that seat, I could absorb the moment and observe the entire deck in front of me. Tourists invariably rush up the stairs on their way to the starboard side promenade, jockeying for the best position to snap the best shot of the Statue of Liberty. Fellow commuters had a different cadence and would gravitate toward the port side to avoid the tourist fray. There were the peddlers pushing carts through the deck selling gum, batteries, and knickknacks. The shoeshine guy.
And of course there were the views. The Kennedy had a way of framing the city skyline: classic, iconic, romantic, quintessentially New York. It would seem that almost everyone who had spent some time in New York during the Kennedy’s service has a photograph taken from aboard that ferry. Each photo is a token of a memory, and collectively those memories are the legacy of the MV John F. Kennedy.
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