My first view of Ireland was almost a cliché. One moment, I was standing on the tiny, slippery deck at the very top of the ferry and the only notable thing in sight was the railing and the crew-only deck below. Then, a thin grey line appeared on the horizon. At first, my cousins and I argued about whether it was land or not. It nearly blended right in with the fog and clouds. By the time we had finally agreed that it was land, we were all soaked even through our raincoats and decided to go downstairs to our parents. When the land came into focus, it was misty and gray-green, just like I had imagined it would be.
We descended through the moderately sketchy stairs, through a maze of private cabins that immensely confused us. This ferry only went between Wales and Ireland; at most, the journey was only four hours long. Why would anybody need a private cabin for that short amount of time? Also, who would want one of these? Even the hallways were dark and cramped and smelled strongly of cigarettes, despite Britain’s recent smoking ban that applied on the ship.
Our mothers were sitting together, looking at the land, where you could begin to make out details. The ferry was beginning to pass small islands, some with only a single house or solitary lighthouse, some with nothing at all but wet grass and slippery rocks. “Isn’t it exciting?” asked Mom. “Just think of all the music from here. Don’t you think you could write a song about it?”
I took another look out the window, wondering why she was acting so juvenile. We were passing a long, manmade strip of land with a road running down it. It all looked gray. Rather than saying what I really felt, I shrugged. She could get excited about this for Dad’s sake, but I was missing Brooklyn.