Ferryboat — The Cape May-Lewes Ferry

This is a brief photo essay of the Cape May-Lewes Ferry’s crossing at the mouth of the Delaware Bay between Lewes, Del., and Cape May, N.J. The ferryboats make several trips daily, year-round. A one-way voyage takes approximately an hour and a half. Lewes, a Dutch name, is pronounced “Lewis.”

Dock pilings at the ferry berth on the Delaware side.

Ferry ramp.

Here comes the ferry.

Ferry unloading travelers from Cape May.

Waiting to sail.

Sailing out alongside the breakwater.

Lighthouse marking the end of the breakwater and the channel.

Ferry route and map of surrounding area where I live.

Passing ferry coming from Cape May.

Passing ferry wake.

Coming into Cape May.

Coming into our berth.

Ferry wake.

Happy Travels.

–Samantha Mozart

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... a stone, a leaf, an unfound door; of a stone, a leaf, a door. And of all the forgotten faces.

Naked and alone we came into exile. In her dark womb we did not know our mother's face; from the prison of her flesh have we come into the unspeakable and incommunicable prison of this earth.

Which of us has known his brother? Which of us has looked into his father's heart? Which of us has not remained forever prison-pent? Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone?

O waste of loss, in the hot mazes, lost, among bright stars on this most weary unbright cinder, lost! Remembering speechlessly we seek the great forgotten language, the lost lane-end into heaven, a stone, a leaf, an unfound door. Where? When?

O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again.

Thomas Wolfe
Look Homeward, Angel
1929

We’ll do it all
Everything
On our own

We don’t need
Anything
Or anyone

If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

I don’t quite know
How to say
How I feel

Those three words
Are said too much
They’re not enough

If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

Forget what we’re told
Before we get too old
Show me a garden that’s bursting into life

Let’s waste time
Chasing cars
Around our heads

I need your grace
To remind me
To find my own

If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

Forget what we’re told
Before we get too old
Show me a garden that’s bursting into life

All that I am
All that I ever was
Is here in your perfect eyes, they’re all I can see

I don’t know where
Confused about how as well
Just know that these things will never change for us at all

If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

Songwriters: Nathan Connolly / Gary Lightbody / Jonathan Quinn / Tom Simpson / Paul Wilson

You forget me,” he said. “Am I not your steward?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “I can but imagine.”
Dusk embraced us now, at the window here in the blog cupola. The Blue Deer lifted its head, sniffed the air, and then walked off into the woods. I pulled the window shut, picked up my purple and white iris the Phantom had picked for me and we headed down the winding staircase, I behind the Phantom. In case I stumbled I hoped he would catch me. If I went first I feared he would push me. I didn’t want to flatten my iris.
When we reached the foot of the stairs, I thanked him again. We parted there. I lifted the iris to my nose. The stem had a nutmeggy smell, like his hand.
“What is your name?” I called after him.
“Moriarty,” he called back. -- S.M.

I took a lunch break just now and sat out on my porch in the sun. I watched a dark raptor circle the broad grass plot between the houses across the street. A pair of crows came and chased the raptor, pecking at it. The raptor landed on the roof of the house next to the grass plot. Every time the crows pecked the raptor, the raptor ducked. Then it spread its wings, staying perched on the edge of the roof. Imposing. The raptor's mate showed up and perched beside it. The crows flew down, took a bath in a puddle and flew away. The mate flew away. The raptor left the roof, circled and landed on the grass plot. Now I could see, this was a turkey vulture, and it proceeded to eat what had been a squirrel.
S.M.

From the attic I view the fog hanging at eye level. In our tall, thin Victorian house, I have climbed the spiral staircase to the third floor and chanced to look out the window at apparitions of trees and through the belfry in the church steeple at the heavy black bells, the condensation tintinnabulation off the gray, dripping cloud beyond, and faint lights here and there, like spirits holding lanterns, seeking their way up out of the Underground Railroad, while the fog descends, descends upon them. I watch the fog cloud stealthily drape steeples, trees, houses, and, I can see, it is soon to inch down tree trunks and creep across lawns and up steps and onto Victorian porches.
S.M.

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