Gabriel Jeroschewitz, May 12th, 2026. “The story you are about to hear is true; some of the names, vehicles, and dates have been changed to protect the innocence of love.”
Love on the Denman Island cable ferry at 4 PM, and the young people are coming home from a long day at school.
There is a particular hour of the afternoon when the world seems to hold its breath. The sun has begun its slow descent towards the horizon whilst the Georgia Strait glows with the colours of liquid copper and rose gold. During that time, the ferry terminal at Buckley Bay sees the usual mix of those making a weekday return trip and adventurers coming for the weekend. Leslee and I were coming back from Courtney and the dentist. Leslee was savouring the aftertaste of her dental work, a crown, but not the kind a king wears, and I chuckled at the memory of her spending a small fortune on that crown. Still, she must have felt relieved after the anesthesia wore off. We were headed for Hornby Island, our home. We had gotten to the ferry lineup early, so we were third in line to board, which would put us on the so-called bow. Still, the story isn’t about the dentist or the dental work; it’s about two children, though I hesitate to call them out. Still, kids don’t kiss away; these two did so with such urgency that it was suggested the world might end if they stopped. They were spotted as soon as I arrived on the ferry deck, driving my Toyota RAV up the ramp with a degree of dignity I certainly could muster. The young couple occupied what ferry workers would no doubt refer to as the bow end of the vessel—though referring to the ferry as such is almost absurd for a craft that reverses upon destination arrival. The cable ferry certainly does not feature a proper stern or bow end—it merely features two ends and a cable that pulls the craft back and forth across the water like a giant aquatic yo-yo. Nevertheless, if one were to attempt to orient oneself within the vessel, these two youngsters had claimed the forward-facing section—standing pressed up against each other like the last two people on earth to discover something wonderful whilst attempting (at the same time!) to reveal it to all who pass by.
He was tall, bless him, with hair that had both desired to curl yet succumbed to surrender following a lifetime of such fighting. Through his clear-framed glasses, he watched her face in the same way one might gaze upon a sunset or some remarkable work of art seen within a museum for which forty dollars had been paid—not entirely believing in one’s luck whilst noting a slight worry that someone may tell the viewer to move along. His hands lived upon her waist—and mine certainly wasn’t the only pair of eyes to note how these hands had developed their very own mind and reach towards her back as if two explorers investigating an unfamiliar land.
And she. Oh, she. So beautifully lovely that one finds oneself wanting to write poetry, though I haven’t written any since I was seventeen, attempting to win over a girl named Donna who wore bell-bottoms and had the scent of cinnamon gum. Her blonde hair cascaded past her shoulders despite the humidity’s effort to do so—and when she tilted her head back to catch laughter at something he whispered (which I’ll never know but would have given my left foot to hear), there was a quality to her joy that made the entire ferry deck feel somehow lighter.
They were indeed—in the language of our generation—all over each other. And I mean that in the most literal sense possible. Every square inch of available space between them had been eliminated—made non-existent through sheer force of desire. Their lips moved together in a rhythm suggesting either hours of practiced performance or that natural synchronicity which poets have so far unsuccessfully attempted to describe since the dawn of language. At one point, her hands made their way into his hair—and his response was to lift her slightly off the ground. Such a gesture is classically romantic—and I found myself smiling despite the aching left knee developing from leaning back in a twisted kind of way. So they couldn’t see me, within the car window.
The ferry was filled with the usual ferry cargo—a handful of weekenders making their camping trips, clusters of elderly ladies from the Hornby and Denman Island Quilters’ Guild upon completion of their common outing to the Courtenay Costco, and then a man seemingly sleeping in one corner of the boat whose snoring suggested some form of competitive sleeping sport. Most of the travellers exhibited good sense to ignore such a young couple—opting instead for glances and the use of phones, novels and private thoughts. But not everyone.
In this scene, I noticed a woman wearing a navy cardigan—because, of course, she was wearing such an article of clothing—as some people do to fulfill others’ expectations. The woman studied the pair of young lovers with an expression suggesting she’d bitten into something sour. Her lips were pressed tightly together into near-disappearance, and she sent a nudge in the direction of her husband, who remained locked into viewing his phone with that same vacant look suggesting he’d located something of far more interest than his wife might be attempting to show him. He glanced upwards at the couple but immediately returned to his phone; yet she remained watching—disapproval radiating from her in visible waves across the ferry deck.
I wanted to tell her something. I wanted to tell her that she used to be that girl once—probably—before life and disappointment and the weight of others’ expectations became calcified within her. I wanted to tell her that such a pair of children—this boy showing an earnest face and trembling hands—this girl possessing impossible beauty and complete lack of concern for others’ thoughts—were performing an activity celebrated throughout all human history—one inspiring songs, poems and indeed no fewer than three of Shakespeare’s plays had the subtext included.
But I did not say anything—recognizing both how I was raised not to intrude upon others’ business and how I had a newspaper to read and that elderly gentleman’s reputation to maintain.
The girl sensed the disapproval—or perhaps she just had that extraordinary level of self-confidence common amongst teenagers who feel themselves to be the main characters in the world’s most interesting stories. Whatever the actual reason, she drew back from the kiss just enough to look at him—three cars away, I could see her eyes shine with that mixture of defiance or pure joy or both—for such aspects are often the same when dealing with young people.
Her voice was unexpectedly loud, though she hadn’t quite shouted, but the clarity of her voice made everyone within earshot realize they were about to witness something, whether they wished to or not.
“I don’t think my father would like this.”
A pause fell within the space created by possibility. The quilters paused their efforts. The sleeping snorer stopped—for however brief a moment. The woman in the cardigan leaned forward with the predatory interest of a cat spotting an especially interesting bird.
Then she said it again—except not the same words at all.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
She said it seven times—each one creating a small bomb of liberation into the quiet ferry deck. A teenager passing on foot and wearing earbuds paused and stared. One of the quilters—Margaret’s friend Helen, I recognized upon squinting through the window—broke into laughter that she quickly tried to smother within her hand. The woman in the navy cardigan saw me with exactly the same expression of witnessing a fundamental violation of the natural order of existence.
But here’s the thing that filled me with such unreasonable hope: the girl wasn’t angry. She wasn’t sad, nor even defiant or trying to shock people. She was indeed laughing—yet as she did, she pulled the boy even closer together whilst resting her head upon his chest as though the words she’d uttered meant nothing more than a sneeze.
He looked down at her with what I can only describe as worship—before placing a kiss upon the top of her head, followed by looking out across the water. For just a moment, though, his eyes did meet mine.
I smiled—as did he. Then he looked away—towards the girl sporting that blonde hair and explosive vocabulary. At this point, I understood exactly how he felt.
Somewhere deep within my chest—within the region set aside for memories of my own youth—something unclenched itself and expanded. I thought again of the world in which we live today—a world of violence and darkness and entertainment focused upon reminding people even more about humanity’s worst aspects. I thought of climate change and political divisions—all the price of eggs. And then I thought of these two children—this boy from Denman Island and this girl from Hornby Island who had to take no fewer than two ferries regularly to see each other—choosing such a venue and time in the presence of a whole bunch of strangers throughout history.
Power to them—I thought. I hoped their love would indeed last—though I also knew the nature of such affairs at this age and within the world as it presently waits to teach one otherwise. I hoped they remembered this moment—this absurdly beautiful moment upon a cable ferry within the Salish Sea in the Strait of Georgia while they were still young and in love—and completely unashamed of either fact.
The ferry groaned against its moorings at the Denman Island terminal. I gathered my Things. The boy and girl remained together, whispering sweet things into each other’s ears that prompted both grins. As I drove past them upon leaving the boat, I saw one final glimpse—her looking up at him whilst he looked down upon her—all set within late afternoon gold tones.
I gave a small wave—almost certainly she saw it, for she laughed and responded with a wave of her own.
The world may indeed be bleak in so many ways—dark, violent and featuring people in cardigans who disapprove of nearly everything. But somewhere out there on a ferry heading to Denman, Hornby Island, two kids are in love—and there is no hiding it. They don’t care who knows.
That, I thought, is more than enough hope to carry me through another week.
