These days, as a crew is busy rebuilding my backyard bulkhead, which was damaged during Super Storm Sandy, I spend more time than usual looking out my windows at the harbor front and beyond to the Robert Moses Bridge across the Great South Bay and the Fire Island Lighthouse. As I stare at the ferries that ply the waters that slap against–and occasionally over–that bulkhead, I realize that my exorbitant love of travel started on a ferry at this exact spot, before I was even ten years old.

As a kid at the Fourth Avenue elementary school, in Bay Shore, my classmate Rose Mary’s dad treated our entire class to an annual, end-of-year trip across the bay to spend a few hours on the beach in Fair Harbor, one of the charming little Fire Island communities that stretch between the bay and the ocean on the forty-mile stretch of sand that we call Fire Island. Captain Gus Pagel owned the Fair Harbor Ferry Company, then, and was my hero, because he introduced me to the magic that I felt then–and still feel–riding on a ferry.

Though I recall nothing about their beach house or playing in the sand or jumping the waves in the ocean, I clearly remember the joy of standing on the top deck, alone, savoring the sunshine and billowing clouds, staring at the buoys and clam boats and feeling—and smelling– the sea breeze. I particularly remember admiring the houses on the narrow point of land near the entry to the bay, where I’ve been living for almost forty years. Somewhere deep in my memory bank, that young girl was dreaming about living there.

What’s lasted is both joy and that enchanted sense of separation, that I first felt on a ferry. Among my recollections, there are the trips during my middle school (we called it Junior High), when I relished being grown up enough to ferry to the beach, alone, to visit my cousin Janie, in Ocean Beach. I was a pre-teen when I remember thinking that the thatched roof mansion on the bay, that we passed on the ferry from Sayville was a fairy tale cottage, on Girl Scout trips from Camp Edey, when we ferried to Cherry Grove, for camping trips on the beach. (Yes, we dug our own latrines in the sand. And no, there wasn’t a worry in the world, that we young girls were camping on the beach between two famous (and sometimes nudist) gay communities, Cherry Grove and Fire Island Pines.) And, I clearly recall the early morning chill on the ferry ride back to Bay Shore, after my friend Betty and I had missed the last ferry the night before the first day of our senior year and we slept on the beach. We managed to arrive at school, on time, but still wearing beach clothes instead of what we had planned for the occasion.

Throughout my adulthood, the ferry ride has regularly served as my personal escape hatch. During particularly stressful times, separation from the mainland relieved my anxiety along with the engines going into full gear beyond the marina. Once, during the turbulent season of national tragedies, I recall getting on a ferry shortly after Robert F. Kennedy was assassinated, In June 1968. I vividly remember breathing deeper and calming myself—long before I knew about meditation—with the fresh sea air in my face.

Watching the ferries pass by has been an intrinsic element in my everyday life since Bob, my late husband, and I bought this house. Even before we moved in, in 1979, I used to pick him up at the railroad station and we’d picnic on the back deck, just to watch the ferries and the sunset. After reconstructing the west and south windows to better capture the view, we decorated by positioning the bed in the middle of the bedroom and placing every desk, couch and chair carefully facing the waterfront vista. I still find pleasure, occasionally, waving back to someone on the top deck as they go by and driving to and from and waiting at the ferry terminal for the chance to spend a few minutes–or a meal–with my daughter and my granddaughters, who have a home there. If it’s a chore, it’s my favorite one. And, when I ferry to and from the beach, I always stand up from my favorite seat backing the wheelhouse as it approaches my home, which is somewhat hidden behind pine trees; these days, there’s usually a camera in hand.

These ferries, which were the starting point for a love of travel that has since extended to barges and riverboats, sailboats, motor yachts and cruise ships as well as trains, cars and planes, are not the only ones that I enjoy. Ferry trips have become a favorite form of transportation wherever I travel, and I plan to write about some of them, next.