Arni Richter (Feb. 5, 1911 – Dec. 13, 2009)

Moonlight reflected from fresh fallen snow as

Arni Richter helmed the Washington Island Ferry Line for decades.

Four ferries danced in the wind at their island moorings,

Steel fenders grinding on heavy

Rubber cushions, groaning against the pier’s face.

Lines were slack, then taut, creaking,

Nearly snapping in two.

The floating island transports strained,

Awaiting voyage from darkened harbor

Into a black steam rising from Lake Michigan.

Daybreak found the dock lines still popping,

Snapping, but keeping the Arni J. Richter secure

While this day’s first traffic lined up to board,

While engines were warmed by the ferry crew

Who knocked ice chunks from frozen deck surfaces,

In preparation for the morning’s challenge.

The Arni J. Richter would sail into a

Thick steam blanketing the open lake,

Disappearing rapidly into wind’s teeth and

Steep seas, the crew confident in their craft

And their purpose.

While the crew readied for departure

And passengers waited to board,

Elsewhere along this sheltered harbor’s shore

In a darkened bedroom behind drawn curtains,

Moored to the slow hiss of an oxygen tube

Lay the dying Captain, Citizen, Father, Husband,

One-time Island Youth.

Each breath had become a struggle,

Every heave of the chest an effort.

His eyes were closed to the wake astern. Now,

Night or day, wind or calm, fog or clear, were all the same,

As he awaited orders to cast off

One final time for the open lake.

There would be no foaming, moaning bar to cross,

Or boundless deeps as spoken by Tennyson.

This man’s course is set squarely for Death’s Door,

The cold, hard water moat between here and there.

The lines are stiff and cumbersome,

Frozen to bollard and bitt.

He awaits his Pilot and a one-way passage

Through familiar landmarks to the distant shore.

Death’s Door is successfully crossed by this morning’s ferry,

But, it was no easy voyage.

The first crossing of the first trip of the day

Left a trembling impression,

And the Arni J. Richter’s crew moors

Once again within Northport’s safe harbor

Until the swirling lake steam ceases,

And the way home is plain again.

Not all who awaited the prompt return

Passage are pleased,

And the crew does what is necessary to comfort

In the face of disappointment and frustration,

Resuming navigation when

Safe passage can be assured for the

Many destined to sail this route.

Now is the wizened Captain’s turn at the helm.

This Ferryman reaches out with clenched hand

Groping for the knot that marks the center spoke,

And when at last his hour comes,

He will cast aside his final moorings and,

Peering through the narrow, fogged window,

Steer a course heavenward,

Through Death’s Door and beyond,

To His safe harbor.

This poem originally appeared as a Sunday, December 13, 2009 post on Dick Purinton’s blog, Ferry Cabin News. To read more of Purinton’s words, visit ferrycabinnews.blogspot.com.