Waiting for the Ferry

It was raining hard at the small port of Mallaig, in the west of Scotland. The ferry to the Isle of Skye wasn't running. "We'll wait until the wind drops," said the man at the ticket office. "Maybe an hour, maybe three." Twelve people sat in the waiting room and looked at the gray sea.

Luisa and Andres were from Colombia. They were on their honeymoon, and they wanted to see Skye in one day. Andres was angry with the weather. "We've come twelve thousand kilometers for this?" Luisa laughed at him. "Listen to the rain. It's beautiful."

Next to them sat a farmer called Hamish, with mud on his boots. He was waiting for a box of medicine for his sheep. "The ferry is always late during the winter," he said. "You get used to it." In the corner, a teenager with green hair was listening to music and ignoring everybody.

After an hour, Luisa opened her bag and took out a packet of arepas. "Would you like one?" she asked Hamish. He didn't know what an arepa was. He ate three. Then he took out a bottle of water and some shortbread and shared it with everyone. Even the teenager took off her headphones.

They talked about Colombia and about Skye, about sheep and about music. The teenager's name was Isla, and she was going home to the island for her grandfather's birthday. Hamish knew her grandfather. "Everybody knows everybody there," he said.

By two o'clock, the wind dropped and the ferry arrived. During the crossing, they all stood on the deck together. The clouds opened, and the mountains appeared, green and enormous. "Worth the wait," said Andres. Luisa took a photo of them all, and Isla asked for a copy. The Colombians arrived in Skye at three, with three new friends.