A Day Starts Before the Dock

The day doesn’t start at the dock. It starts earlier, in the dark, with a weather check that confirms what you already suspected and coffee that never quite finishes cooling. Wind before sunrise sounds different. So does a boat tied up and waiting. By the time the dock lights click off and passengers begin to arrive, the important decisions have already been made by people most of them will never notice.

My day starts at the dock, not with passengers, but with lines. Night lines come off first—quietly, deliberately—before the ramp ever moves. Railings go up. The carpet gets rolled out. Yes, a literal red carpet. Not for show, but because order matters before people arrive. A clean, controlled dock sets the tone for everything that follows.

From there, the boat gets its once-over. Heads are checked and stocked. Floors are clean and clear—no surprises, no shortcuts. Galleys are staged and ready to serve drinks and light snacks, set up the same way every time so hands know where to go without looking. The potable water tank is verified full and fresh. Fuel is checked against the day’s crossings—not just the gauge, but the reality of what the water might demand.

Before anything else moves, we go below. Lazarettes get checked—spaces most passengers never know exist, but crews rely on without thinking about it. Engine rooms come next. A look, a listen, a smell. Fluids where they should be, nothing where it shouldn’t be. You don’t rush these spaces. If something is going to speak up later in the day, this is usually where it starts.

Then comes the weather. Not just a glance, but a read. Wind speeds, swell heights, direction—what the forecast says and what experience suspects. Routes get adjusted here, quietly, long before anyone feels the result. A safe crossing isn’t something you announce. It’s something you build early.

Passenger counts are confirmed next. The math matters. Timing matters more. Boarding starts with those who need extra time—slowed or disabled passengers first—then upgraded lounge passengers, then general boarding. It’s not about hierarchy. It’s about flow. When boarding is done right, no one notices. When it isn’t, everyone does.

This is just one version of the day. My version. A high-speed ferry run has its own rhythm, its own demands, and its own margins. Other captains work different boats, different waters, different rules of engagement. Tugs, longliners, yachts, workboats—each comes with a routine shaped by the job. The common thread isn’t the checklist. It’s the attention.

High-speed ferry work compresses everything. Time matters. Distance closes fast. Small decisions compound quickly. When you’re moving people across open water at speed, preparation isn’t a preference—it’s the margin. The boat doesn’t give you much time to reconsider once you’re committed, so the thinking has to be done early, when the dock is still quiet and mistakes are cheap.

Once lines are cast off and the ramp comes in, the focus narrows. The dock fades. The noise settles into something familiar. Out there, it’s just the boat, the water, and the responsibility that comes with both. Everything that could be handled beforehand already was. That’s the point.

By the time the boat leaves the dock, the day has already begun. And tomorrow, it will begin the same way—before anyone’s watching.