The Jamestown-Scotland Ferry

Near the tip of Surry County, where you take Rolfe Highway slightly northeast until you pass Rte 637, you find the road winnowing down until you enter into the unmistakable narrows that suddenly stop dead at the foot of the James River...and guided by pilings and signage, you find the welcoming of the Jamestown-Scotland ferry, ready to transport you across to Jamestown...a fifteen minute ride that may as well go back in time.


He sat near the rail, the slow engine churning up white wash, the river almost as dark as her eyes if he paused to remember...which he fought against, fought against the raging current of a stream of thoughts that crashed against his mind. 

Memory was a ferry...it carried him back to where she once was, never allowing him to return.  It always carried him back there...and he always returned alone.

In the heavy thud of engines against the water, the ferry moved steadily....the vibrations emanating beneath his feet were from the gears and metal parts and not the hull against the river.  He looked at the name of the boat...Surry...an older county, known for agriculture, farming...and lumber.  It was uncomplicated...land, being harvested to grow...steady farmers' lines and straight vertical leaves springing from the dirt.  There were complications...weather, drought, insects...but by and by this little corner stayed the same.

It was easy to see that she was from here...it was easy to see her roots, her depth, her steady part of her that rolled easily past him like a bit of river.  He had introduced complexity.  Deviation.  Mostly it was just something different, something apart.  A sandbar to be avoided, perhaps...

He was made of sand to her...to be slowly turned and eroded by her steady stream...slowly, inexorably until he collapsed and joined the millions of tiny bits below her.

He was the blown harvest...stunted by conditions...blackening along the vines and snapped in two by winds and insects.  Allowing the earth...the darks and browns that were once so engulfing to merely reduce.  Scattered.

He had become the dry riverbed, across which no ferrys would float.

He headed north towards Jamestown, the sky still light in the west although clouds would rapidly collect and bury the colors in minutes.  He headed away from her.

The ferry docked.

He moved off and tried to forget why he had even crossed.