My Fight on a Ferry Boat
I recently had a fight on a ferry boat from Finland to Estonia. But sometimes the things we’re kinda ashamed of wake us up. Maybe it will spark something to awaken in you too.
As always, thanks for reading. You can see the full text below. If you prefer to listen to the audio instead, hit play on the video below.
Happy Autumn,
Olivia Autumn Puccini
In the big ash tree outside my front window lives a rarity–a white albino squirrel.
It collects precious items from the branches, runs down the trunk and glows white against our bed of grassy green. And although we don’t know his sex, we named it “Charlie”--appropriate since our neighborhood’s local celebrity was Charles Schultz, the creator of Snoopy and Charlie Brown.
Charlie is thin, his tail ratty; not plush like his brown squirrel neighbors. His eyes are pinkish red and he’s a workaholic. He finds acorns and digs holes in my husband’s masterpiece of a yard. His little paws aggressively itch the soil and he plops his treasure inside. Brown dirt mounds stand where tufts of green once grew.
Minutes later, unhappy with his placement, he digs up the same acorn and finds another corner of our yard to dismantle. He’s never at peace. To Charlie, every brown squirrel is a foe.
Charlie’s squirrel neighbors approach our yard as he stands guard upon his buried pile. His scraggly tail twitches back and forth, his little arms up and ready for a fist fight.
If a brown squirrel is brave enough to approach Charlie’s hoard, he attacks like a scrappy street fighter–thin, fast, all aggression and muscle.
He’s a loner. He’s different. Charlie’s a fighter; a survivor. I wonder what made him that way?
I wonder what made me that way?
July 2024:
“Mom. That was kinda embarrassing. Why did you get aggressive with those guys on the elevator?” My college-aged son, Oliver, sat down at the small table across from a slot machine on the ferry that crossed the Baltic Sea from Finland to Estonia.
“What do you mean? We’d been waiting for that elevator a long time. Those guys just came in and crowded in front of us!”
Oliver looked at me with his calm, green eyes. I felt like a five-year-old, seated at a table across from all-knowing parents, trying to prove my innocence. “I didn’t yell or anything.”
The ferry from Helsinki to Tallinn is more like a cruise ship–nine floors with cabins, restaurants, a gaudy disco and, in typical Nordic fashion, a sauna with a cold plunge. Each floor is accessed via stairs carpeted in royal blue beneath golden handrails. There are only a few elevators on the entire ship, and my family of four, lugging four large suitcases, had waited 5 minutes for our turn.
As soon as the golden elevator doors opened, two Finnish men in their 30s who had just entered the hallway, wearing only backpacks, stepped right in front of us and started to enter the crowded elevator.
I became like Charlie guarding my beloved acorns.
I blocked their way to the elevator with my 5-foot-four body and heavy suitcase; not giving them a chance to continue their entrance plan.
“We’ve been waiting here a long time and have suitcases; we can’t climb that many stairs.”
I didn’t look them in the eye. I didn’t explain our situation and give them a chance to be chivalrous. I didn’t yell, but I absolutely did not give them any choice.
The two Finns backed away as if they’d come face-to-face with a fighter claiming her corner of the grungy neighborhood.
“Okay…….” They rolled their eyes and turned to take the stairs.
While living in Estonia, we took this ferry several times a year, and this was likely my last ride across the Baltic Sea with my entire family. In typical dramatic fashion, I’d envisioned the experience. We’d get there early, ride the elevator up 8 floors and find one of the few tables with a view of the waves. We’d eat Finnish pastries, laugh and play card games.
But even after forcing my way onto the elevator, it was too late. One of the few tables left was in a casino bar–right next to slot machines and far, far away from any fantastic view. An old drunk man sat down in a swivel chair in front of the machines to try his luck. He deposited euros, and the slots lit up and rang with excitement.
“Mom…what was the big deal? So they took the elevator and we’d have to wait another five minutes? We would’ve eventually found a seat on the boat. I just don’t see the need get so stressed out.” I looked over at those dreaded slot machines that kept ringing, and Oliver raised his voice to be heard. “I hate that about you and dad when you travel.”
My mind jumped quickly in a few directions.
Like Charlie, I wanted to find sure footing after being attacked. My eyes do what they always seem to uncontrollably do in very public places, and slow tears started to drip down my cheeks. My thoughts jumped through years and experiences as I tried to form a verbal response.
Oh no…I’ve become one of those parents. My grown kids are never going to want to travel with me.
Yeah, when I was 19, I probably wouldn’t have fought to get on an elevator either. I remember wondering why my parents were always so stressed out on long trips. Must be nice to still be naive and young–unhardened by reality. It’s a comin’, boy. It’s a comin’.
You know what did this to me? Living overseas did this to me. Don’t you remember, Oliver? We were in Armenia. You were a baby and super sick. I held you on my hip for hours. You screamed. My arms burned. No chairs–just a long, dirty hallway. I had an appointment, but family after family crowded in front of me to be seen by the doctor. They didn’t care. No one cared. The doctor gave favors to friends and wanted bribes from the rest of us. That day I learned to fight.
My Armenian friend often looked at me and said: “Olivia, you’re so fragile. You haven’t had a tough life like us. Stay that way.”
I couldn’t. I lived there too long.
We all develop well-worn paths to keep ourselves safe. But Oliver woke me up to something. I cried because I don’t want to be trapped in that same green grass, white and buggy-eyed, waiting for the next person to come and steal my stash.
I can re-establish the reign of my true self–not all the learned versions I’ve incorporated over the years to survive.
I couldn’t finish that conversation with Oliver while the Finnish guy at the slots eavesdropped in between inserting coins he hoped would make him a millionaire.
I took a walk around the 9th level of the ferry boat. A tissue I found crumpled in my pocket kept getting pulled out to dry my cheeks. Sliding glass doors opened onto an observation deck above the Baltic Sea–still cold in July. People sat around small tables filled with tall glasses of beer and cigarette butts; their hair blowing in all directions.
I love the sea.
Unlike the encounter in front of the golden elevator doors, it reminds me who I am.
Eternal. Wide and deep. Not able to be tamed by anyone or anything trying to take its strength or beauty.
It has the ability to change; to reclaim dry ground.
I’ve started to feel the presence of my true self more. It’s started to drown out all the other voices I’ve relied on to make sense of a painful world. Voices of self-hatred, paranoia, of scarcity, of fighting to keep my precious buried acorns safe.
Beneath all the accumulated layers, the voice of my true self has become hard to ignore.
It says that I am like the sea, and I’m starting to believe it.
Eternal. Wide and deep. Not able to be tamed by anyone or anything trying to take my strength or beauty. A reflection of the Maker of the Seas. Always powerful and kind.
I feel as if roots are growing and my true self is re-taking ground.
My “happy to let you take the elevator because I will always have enough” self.
My made in the image of God self.