I took the Lynchburg Ferry across the channel today. Same slow churn, same short ride. Families in SUVs, workers in pickups, everyone waiting while the deck rattled under us.
Looking back toward the refineries, the stacks rise like monuments. Smoke pours out constant, as if the sky needs filling. That’s Houston’s backbone — ugly, loud, but solid.
Crossing that water, I thought about how divided everything feels on land. But here, everyone’s stuck on the same boat. Nobody cuts ahead, nobody storms the wheelhouse. You wait, you cross, you disembark. Simple.
Maybe that’s why the ferry feels almost foreign now. In a country where shouting matches stand in for debate and every loss gets relabeled as fraud, a short ride with order feels like fiction.
The ferry isn’t heroic. It just works. That used to be enough.