The Formentera Ferry
A final story of divinity from Spain
[Note: In a previous essay I wrote about the Sikh perspective that All is Divine, and how it shaped my observations and experiences while traveling in Spain. I experienced divinity in three elements—in nature, in people, and in moments. Below is my final essay of the series, about a moment aboard a ferry between Formentera and Ibiza]
We board the ferry home from Formentera—the smallest of Spain’s Balearic Islands and a stone’s throw from Ibiza—in the sleepiness of the late afternoon. Omar waits downstairs at an onboard counter to buy tickets. The cabin wreaks of body odor, salt water, rust and a splash of sewage—a sensory comedown after ocean swimming, seafood and cold coke zeros with fresh lemon wedges. I navigate to the top deck to outrun the smell and find an evening view. The only free pair of plastic seats faces a rusty and crumbling wall. We both stare at the wall for a moment. Not the vibe. Omar looks back at the rest of the seats on the deck. Only singles available for anything with a view. Let’s split up, Omar declares. He wants a better seat. I admire his swiftness, his sense of agency. There is a giddy energy in chasing what we want.
Dockhands unmoor the ferry and we begin to leave Formentera. I am intoxicated by the smell of boat fuel in the air. We slowly drift through the no-wake zone and, once beyond the harbor, we pick up speed in the open water. Onward towards Ibiza.
As we cut through the open sea, we the passengers on the deck begin to recognize our collective good fortune. In one quadrant of the sky, a magnificent sun begins to set. In another, the handsome contours of Ibiza’s coastline come into view, its green and brown faces turning gold as they absorb the evening light. A wind begins to blow. A buzz builds on the deck and children point to the sky. We recognize we’re in for a treat.
We turn to the side of the ferry deck. The sun is ruby red, a gargantuan orb spilling energy into our world. It oozes light, painting red and yellow and orange and purple across the sky, crayons so rich they stain the moment with color like popsicles on our fingers on the 4th of July. Mesmerized, we rotate in our seats, our shoulders now squarely facing the sun. We raise phones and cameras to the sky in testament. We are all witnesses.
We pine for a picture of the sunset without anybody, or anything else, in it. Our creative taste buds salivate for a pristine look at nature. There are maybe fifty of us in total. We all stand and sit, penguins bobbing in sync, standing to capture our photos and falling back down to our seats. Without a central authority acting as air traffic control, we somehow remain selfless enough to get our photos and get out of the way so others can get theirs. I’ve got mine, now you go. We are effortlessly considerate of one another. Tickling. Like if rush hour traffic in Los Angeles could flow without traffic lights. You go. I go. We go. We’re in rhythm. We’ve never met—we don’t know each other. I don’t really want you in my photo just as you probably don’t want me in yours. But you’re here and so am I. We’re here together and we want the same thing. Your object of admiration is mine. It is ours. The sunset glows. Look at us. Strangers in sync. There is nothing strange about this. Pure human goodness.
In front of me, a young woman leans into the big shoulder of the man next to her. She hugs his whole arm, wrapping herself around him and burrowing her head into the cozy pocket between his chest and shoulder. They are quiet. More touch than words. The wind blows her hair, her eyes are closed, and there are bags beneath her eyes and lines beyond her lips. She seems tired. Maybe life has worn her down, gradually if not suddenly. She kisses his shoulder and holds it for a long moment. Long enough to count for something. His arm is safe— relief, reprieve, a sanctuary. Touch says more than words. It says tonight is special for them. Not the ceremonious special of beginnings, nor the sentimental special of endings, but that necessary special somewhere in the hard middle. The I’m trying my absolute best and things are hard right now but this moment is really nice and we’re going to get through this together special. A lifeline in a strong sea. Her head on his shoulder says I need you, her hug says I rely on you, her kiss says I love you. In the warmth of tonight’s sun they step into a moment of reflection, looking toward the literal and figurative other shore. Pause. Look up. Breathe in and breathe out. Together we move forward.
Three elderly women stand at the back of the deck. They sound Dutch, are locked arm-in-arm, and have the best seat in the house. They grin cheek-to-cheek, their full round faces lit by the light, and are swaying to-and-fro like drunken soccer mates whose team just won the Euro Cup. They turn to each other and smile, laughing about indiscernible jokes and looking over each other’s pointer fingers toward sights they spot for each other on the horizon. Ooo. Ahhh. They prepare for a group selfie, laughing in unison, their plump figures sloshing like jelly as the ferry sways in the sea chop. Bunches of plastic bracelets line their forearms from their elbows down to the all-inclusive wristbands chafing against their puffy wrists. Oversized t-shirts drape over big and boxy shorts. TEVA sandals on their feet. No designer handbags or diamond wedding rings. No children or husbands in tow. And seemingly not a care in the world. If there is an idolized standard for the lives we aspire to as we age, these women shook up a soda can and sprayed the fizz in its face. In place of luxury and family was proud and loud friendship, undecorated and unobstructed, the kind of vibrations between friends we experience at 16 but lose by 65. These women were living differently, I thought. They were living. The energy in their friendship reverberated across the ferry deck, providing an example of how life could go if not how life should go. Proof that there are many ways to be happy. An inspiration for all of us here on the deck. I wonder if the children notice. I am taking notes.
As the sun falls lower and time threatens to sober us all up, benevolent characters abound in the waning of the light. Omar gives his seat to a woman questing for the perfect final photo. A father kisses his young son on the lips, causing a gag and giggle from those of us with notions of fatherhood that certainly don’t include that. A commercial jet above soars toward the plumes of clouds drenched in warm colors, roaring with excitement as its pilots high-five each other, marveling at their good fortune. This is why we fly. I turned around, taking inventory of this ensemble of divine caricatures in this divine moment. Behind me, a young woman’s eyes are closed. She is smiling, hair lost in the wind, hands in prayer in front of her heart. My eyes begin to water.
My senses expand with a sense of possibility. Perhaps atop this ferry we are in the presence of the divine. Wait. Maybe we are divine. Maybe together we create something divine. Maybe we’re not witnesses but creators, drivers not passengers, on stage performing rather than in the crowd watching. I have no idea if God is real, or what God even means, but I know this moment on the ferry is real. This moment—when a random ensemble of souls from across our world end up on the same ferry in the same small pocket of time and space and collectively experience an unexpected moment of awe—this moment is divine.
And what about us? We the people at sunset atop a salty old ferry—photographing, embracing, praying, smiling? Maybe we too are divine.