Open Letter To The Ticket Counter Lady At The Ferry Terminal

Dear Ferry Ticket Counter Lady:

Whew! That was close! I'm writing this letter to you whilst sitting on the ferry you in no way helped me board.

Thank you for your complete indifference and 0.0 sense of urgency to the line of customers waiting for assistance in getting on this ferry. Your lack of interest to the patrons who pre-paid for this now sold out ferry really helped me feel like I wasn't going to miss the proverbial (and actual) boat.

"Well, don't be late!"
you may declare. Let me assure you, I am not a late person. I loathe being late. Because of this, I left my house one and a half hours before my scheduled departure. I wanted to make sure I had ample travel time, as well as affording me a time cushion, in the event something should happen. I'm a planner!

When I purchased the ticket, the bottom of the receipt stated the following:

If using GPS please use this address: 93 State Pier, _____, __

Something you should know about me: I always follow directions. I plugged the address into my GPS and followed all the prompts given. I was cruising along (sorry, I can't help the puns), when suddenly I hit random, dead-stop traffic. Why? It's Saturday morning! I have no explanation other than someone trying to foil my plans to enjoy a mini vacation. This traffic jam set me back about 8 minutes, but that was ok because I had my cushion.

After a 50 minute drive, I exited the highway with 20 minutes to spare. The always helpful GPS voice informed me I was to make a left on Elm Street, about a quarter-mile ahead. I could see the marina and the boat from the street. I chuckled at ever doubting myself. Approaching the turn, I put my blinker on to make the left. That's when I saw the sign declaring, "NO LEFT TURN". But -- the GPS followed your directions and I'm following those directions. GPS is never wrong!


Wrong. GPS was wrong. I couldn't take a left because there's a fucking sidewalk there now. Ok, no worries. There had to be a detour up ahead. Hitting the gas a little harder than necessary, I drove ahead while the GPS continued to tell me to take a U-turn. Everything was wrong; I could see the dock, but couldn't turn into the lot. Profanities spewed out as I drove in a maniacal circle. Finally, on another road, I saw a tiny sign pointing the way to the ferry parking lot. Speeding through the gate, I threw my car in park and ran to the kiosk to pay the outrageous $24 overnight ticket. Because the parking lot is half a fucking mile away, it required a shuttle. Awesome. It was now 11:20 and my boat was leaving at 11:45. Assurances of the driver that we were fine, not to worry were announced. Just relaaaaaaaax.

When we pulled into the pier, it looked like a mass exodus of pale, Lacoste-wearing, Vineyard Vines-loving rich people sprawling everywhere. I got a little panicky, but I knew I was in no danger of losing my seat because I bought my ticket online!

I hopped off the shuttle and power-walked into the a chaotic terminal. Babies crying, women jockeying 47,000 bags, men staring into nothing. It looked like a scene from a disaster movie where everyone is trying to get the fuck out of a city. I scanned the mob scene and noticed you on the side of the counter, not helping anyone, eyes glued to your monitor. Since there was clearly no order, I didn't think it was a big deal to approach you with my question.

"Hi there. Is there a line for pre-paid tickets?"

"Ma'am, you need to wait in line!" you snapped, without making eye contact.

Line? What line? All I saw was a mass of bodies crowded in front of a ticket counter. I was shocked, but nonetheless observed and headed your instructions. Not trying to cause any waves (ok, last pun, I promise); I should have known better than to assume there would be a convenience for those who had some forethought.

Back in "line" I waited, when not 10 seconds later I heard a shout of, "Pre-paid tickets over here!"

I'm sorry, what? Surely, I was hearing things because you just explicitly told me there were no other options. I heard it again. I watched people dart out of the crowd, heading towards this voice.

With trepidation, I too approached the counter where, yes, these customers were being processed! I provided my reservation and in exchange, received a ticket. Sprinting outside to the dock, I handed the ticket to the attendant, secured my seat and decided to write this letter.

So, ticket counter lady, that's my story. Sorry for the mild inconvenience I caused you by buying a $70.00 ticket online, following your shitty driving directions, asking a question, and expecting some order and efficiencies for your customers.