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The next morning Kyna and Cyrus joined a line of about four dozen cars waiting to take the auto ferry across the Strait of Georgia to Nanaimoa flyspeck on the map of Vancouver Island that provided little more than a landing place for the boats. The weather was gray, the wind cold and damp, and exhaust fumes swirled out of tailpipes like breaths of a herd of mechanical beasts. Cyrus had expected the ferry to be something like the old-fashioned paddle wheelers that plied the Mississippi between St. Louis and New Orleans. Instead, this gigantic multilevel floating garage chugged up to the pier like some prehistoric whale and disgorged a mob of engine-racing, horn-honking fanatics. In addition to cars, the ferry had been constructed to haul both tractor-trailers and vans and contained an onboard restaurant for the locals, and gift shops and promenade decks for the tourists. |
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On the trip across, they passed through a maze of rocky islets, many of which were no larger than grave markers. Some supported a scattering of skinny fir trees and a few were just large enough to provide platforms for multimillion-dollar homes where the inhabitants used motorized racing boats instead of cars to run out to the 7-Eleven. Halfway across, they enountered a pod of orcas playing tag in the icy-green waters of the strait. Kyna ran back to the car for her camera and snapped two rolls of black-and-white triangular fins so tall that the tops folded over like nightcaps. |
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