Nine o’clock ferry to Cushing’s, 1984

On her lap sat her youngest,
way past his bedtime,
blue hood drawn low to frame
the brown eyes. 
The men including her husband
worked the radar, fingered the dials,
pointed at the ancient swirling screen
like something out of Star Trek
while the older children asked
when will we get there
and why are we out here
and every few minutes 
someone sounded the horn
because the boat was a speck
in that ocean dotted with tankers
and the curtain lay thick.
It was not until they caught sight
of the buoy marking the way 
out Whitehead Passage
bobbing up and out of the fog
unconcerned, where in daylight,
in summer, boys jumped off Sunfish
and from the top of the cliff
people waved jovial hands
that the captain 
turned the boat around,
chugged cautiously forward, 
and found the dock emerging from the gray,
the cheering relieved greeters.
It was only then that she released 
the boy, so tired now
he would have to be carried to the house.