The Last Ferry

Irene and Paula had been friends since elementary school in Valencia, and every summer they took a trip together. This year they had chosen Scotland. After four days in Edinburgh, they took a train to Mallaig, a small fishing town on the west coast, where they had booked a room for two nights. The plan for the second day was simple: take the morning ferry to the Isle of Skye, go walking, and come back on the evening ferry.

The day was wonderful. They climbed a hill above the sea, ate fish and chips by the harbor and took about three hundred photos. At half past six, they walked happily back to the port, only to find it completely empty. A man was painting a small boat near the pier. "The last ferry?" he said. "It left at ten past six. The next one is at eight tomorrow morning."

Paula looked at Irene. Irene looked at her phone, which had two percent battery. "I wish we had checked the timetable," Paula said. "And I wish you hadn't stopped to take a picture of every single sheep," Irene answered. For a few minutes they argued, and then they both sat down on a bench and laughed, because there was nothing else to do. Their room in Mallaig was paid for, their toothbrushes were in it, and it was starting to get cold.

The man with the boat, whose name was Callum, told them that there was a small guesthouse in the village a mile away. If it was full, he said, his sister would find them a bed. They walked along the road as the sun went down, and the sky turned pink and orange over the water. Neither of them had ever seen anything so beautiful.

The guesthouse had only three rooms, and luckily one of them was free. The owner, Morag, gave them hot soup and told them to come to the village hall at nine. That night there was a ceilidh, a traditional Scottish party with music and dancing. Paula and Irene didn't know any of the dances, but nobody cared. An old fisherman taught Irene the steps, and a group of teenagers pulled Paula into a circle. They danced until midnight and were so tired that they fell asleep in their clothes.

The next morning, they caught the eight o'clock ferry. Standing on the deck and watching the island get smaller, Irene said, "You know, if we hadn't missed the ferry, we would never have gone to the ceilidh." Paula nodded. "And if I hadn't stopped to photograph all those sheep, we would have spent the evening in our room watching TV."

Years later, when people ask them about their trip to Scotland, they don't talk much about Edinburgh Castle or the mountains of Skye. They talk about Callum, Morag's soup and the night they danced with a whole village. They still check timetables carefully, of course. But sometimes, secretly, they wish they could miss another ferry.