The day after Boxing Day was always our day for travelling. Boxing Day itself was devoted to visiting friends and relatives in the Lower Mainland. But the day after, that was for Vancouver Island. And that meant only one thing: braving the BC Ferry system during the holidays.
If you’ve never travelled by ferry during Christmas week, imagine trying
to join a parade, a marathon, and a traffic jam all at once, then add a bit of
rain, a few cranky toddlers, and at least one adult muttering, “I thought you
packed the snacks.” That’s holiday ferry travel.
Back in the days before the reservation system, catching a ferry was a
full-contact sport. There we’d be, bundled up in winter jackets, thermos of
coffee in the cup holder, children stuffed into the backseat with new toys that
could beep, honk, sing, rattle, or, in the worst moments, do all four at once.
From our house, it was an hour-and-a-half drive to the terminal, assuming
traffic cooperated. On holiday weekends it rarely did.
Parking at the terminal was its own adventure. Holidays meant two- to
three-ferry waits, sometimes more. We’d crawl into the holding lanes, one car
among hundreds, relying on blind optimism and whatever snacks survived the
drive. Our children were small then, and travelling always meant at least one
person needed to use the bathroom right now, someone else was hungry but
only for the food we didn’t bring, and toys that worked perfectly at home
mysteriously malfunctioned the moment we parked.
In the “old days,” as my children like to call them, the boats ran every
hour. It felt efficient, reliable, almost blissfully predictable. But as the
ferry fleet modernized and costs rose, sailings shifted to every two hours. And
somehow that small change made the waits feel twice as long. Those of us
travelling with children developed a keen awareness of time. Parents in the
next car would exchange sympathetic nods, like soldiers recognizing fellow
veterans. Someone was always pacing with a crying toddler. The air smelled
faintly of exhaust and salty sea breeze, mixed with the aroma of French fries
drifting from the terminal café like a siren song.
Then came the reservation system.
You’d think it would have made everything easier, and eventually it did,
but at first, it simply replaced one type of chaos with another. To reserve a
sailing, you had to go online five to six weeks before your trip and commit to
a specific day and time. Commit! As if life with small children ran according
to schedule. And you had to pay a non-refundable fee for the privilege of this
certainty, which wasn’t entirely certain, because if you arrived too
early or too late, your reservation wouldn’t be honoured. You had to hit the
sweet spot: no more than one hour before departure and no less than 30 minutes
beforehand.
Too early? Too late? Either way, good luck, Merry Christmas, and no
refund.
At the terminal, you were sorted into two lines: the chosen ones (those
with reservations) and the hopeful wanderers (those without). The reserved lane
moved smoothly to the envy of everyone else. And yet, no matter how well you
planned, the day still held its share of chaos. Babies cried, toddlers
complained, adults tried not to. Someone always forgot something. The ferry
workers, bundled in heavy jackets, guided cars with that calm, practiced wave
that said they’d seen it all before, because they had.
But then, finally, you’d drive aboard. The engines hummed beneath your
feet, the salty wind swept across the deck, and suddenly the whole journey felt
worth it. The children perked up. Adults unclenched their shoulders. The
cafeteria smell, fries, gravy, burgers, was oddly comforting. On the open deck,
gulls followed the ship, swooping and crying against a grey winter sky. You
could feel the Island drawing closer, the familiar mix of cedar, sea air, and
home.
We made these holiday crossings for years. Through the changes in the
ferry system, through babies becoming teens, through long waits and memorable
mishaps. Then, as life does, everything shifted. Parents passed. Children grew.
The need for those trips slowly faded. I miss the old days sometimes, not the
lineups, not the scrambling, but the sense of purpose, the ritual of it, the
way families string their traditions between one generation and the next like
lights on a tree.
Now our holiday travels are quieter. Easier. But whenever we step onto a
ferry, no matter the season, I feel echoes of those earlier years, the noise,
the laughter, the spilled cocoa, the sense that we were heading somewhere
important because family was waiting on the other side.
Every Christmas journey comes with a story.
Some are funny.
Some are stressful.
Some become part of our family lore, the kind retold every year with growing
exaggeration and fondness.
So, tell me, what’s your Christmas travel story this year?
