Always take the slow ferry

The fast boat saves ninety minutes. The slow one gives you the whole afternoon.

There is usually a choice at the ticket window: the hydrofoil, sealed and air-conditioned, or the old car ferry that takes twice as long and lets you stand outside. I have never once regretted the ferry.

You watch the island you are leaving get smaller and softer until it is only a shape. Somewhere in the middle there is a stretch with no land at all, and the sea goes from navy to something almost white where the sun sits on it.

People sleep across the wooden benches. Someone always has too much luggage. By the time the next harbour appears you have arrived properly — not been delivered, but arrived.