What makes a place sacred? Or if not entirely sacred, at least mildly hallowed? It's the importance we attribute to it. Persons, places, and things are not intrinsically holy, revered, or special. We attach meaning to them. This was my experience today.
In and of itself the water in New York Harbor and Husdon river is the same H20 that flows in the Nooksack River near my house in Ferndale. But the waters I travelled by tour boat and ferry boat today hold special meaning to me because my dad used to travel those same waterways. I grew up hearing stories of his life on tugboats, of toting barges to Boston and the Great Lakes, and pushing the Queen Mary into Sandy Hook pier in lower Manhatten.
Today as I looked at the modern skyline of New York, the empty piers and near lifeless cranes (the invention of shipping containers in the 50s cut the load/unload time from three days to one seriosly changing harbor activity), I couldn't help but thrill at the thought that my dad worked these very waters 70 years ago.
My grandfather, John Kamfjord Johnson owned the Dauntless Tug line and my dad went to work for him when he was 17. I wish he knew that today I paid tribute to his memory by holding a silent vigil when sloshing around in the waters between New Jersey and New York.
After deboarding that tour boat I headed to Staten Island for the second time in 60 years. This could become a habit. My first visit to SI was partially thwarted because it was Thanksgiving and the libraries and museums were closed. But today they are open. More to come.
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