I stand on a metal ledge, about a foot in width, and its dark, early morning, and a misstep would result in a fall into Lake Huron. I started at the bow, climbing over the 3 and a half foot wall onto the ledge, cleaning all 10 windows as I scooted down until I reached the small loading bay, which I would also climb over, safely back onto the boat and the goal of this was to do it without incident and I always did, even though the dew made the ledge wet.
The ferry company complained sometimes about my work, claiming I wasn’t doing a good enough job, they saw streaks in the windows, really just the windows were their only problem. My response was always along the lines of, well, you are buying paper towels you would find in a community college bathroom and window cleaner from the dollar store, so what do you expect. That would shut them up.
After cleaning the boat at the dock across from my house, I would ride my bike through the empty main drag through town to the other passenger dock, the air cool and moist, and it made me feel like I was in the Pacific Northwest. I would pass empty fudge shops, and that too-tan-old-lady on her daily morning power walk, and jewelry shops and Victorian style homes turned to bed and breakfasts. The seagulls were still quiet.
A quick scan over the catamaran, making sure the night guys did a C+ job, which they always did. The seats, the carpet, all red, a Christmas kind of red, and the armrests green, also contributing to the Christmas factor. It all looked mostly clean.
Jay would show up, and would waddle over to the valet shack, which was literally a tin shack which ran our valet system for over-night tourists staying on the island. He was always chipper, and he had been especially chipper as of late, thanks to his daily delivery of day-old bread, his bear bait and Jimmy would fill Jay’s little Escort to the brim with loaves of Sarah Lee bread, white, wheat, didn’t matter, Jay wanted to shoot a bear. I don’t think he ever did though, at least when I lived in Saint Ignace.