The CityCat

This post is adapted from a notebook entry I wrote while visiting family in Brisbane, Australia last summer.

"We've got a runner coming, Gav," the CityCat employee yells as I tap onto the ferry. She holds up her hand to signal the driver to wait for a man so determined to make the ferry that he's sprinting in the humidity that has me sweating even standing still.

In my early twenties, I used to catch this blue-and-white catamaran to Uni several times a week, scrawling answers to tutorial questions in a spiral notebook spread across my lap. Later, I caught it to my office in the city if I'd stayed overnight at my parents after a weeknight dinner, alighting at the stop near the blue skyscraper struggling to hold onto its panes of glass. Now it's years since I was last on a boat like this; it feels both familiar and new at the same time.

It's just after peak hour so I have my pick of the fuzzy royal-blue seats, each featuring a yellow "Brisbane" under a stylised-version of City Hall and a palm tree. I'm not sure why the city logo features a palm – surely a jacaranda tree or the poincianas that are currently blanketing the city red would be more emblematic, even if they are both immigrants.

The engine wails as we race along the water. All the doors are open and I get goosebumps from the wind swirling through the cabin. The current is making the water choppy and we're momentarily at a fun park as the ferry dances over the waves. To the left, a bunch of sailboats are sensibly moored with their sails down.

Then the ferry rounds the corner and everything stills again, even the engine quieting to a rumble as we slow to dock at the next terminal. "Disembark from the front," instructs the announcer. She's standing behind a white counter packed with free sunscreen, which I'd be grateful for if every inch of my exposed skin wasn't already covered.

A seagull floating in the water to the ferry's right shakes its head like a dog. Behind it is a navy boat with a flat hull and a grey cabin. It's side announces "Todkills Marine Services" in large letters. I wonder who Tod is and why he's so invested in extinguishing marine life. 

A young white woman undocks the boat in a pale-blue, long-sleeved shirt despite the heat – presumably because sunburn would be worse than suffering through a workday in polyester. Her face is protected by a navy cap and aviator sunnies; her long brown hair bound in a tight plait to protect it from knots.

She coils the rope efficiently onto the deck as the ferry leaves for the next stop. Watching her, I realise that I'd probably enjoy the physicality of this job. I've always done jobs that draw from the same well as my creativity – what would it be like to do something like this? I'm sure it would be tough on the body, but maybe it would be freeing for the mind.

Summer in Granada and Brisbane are worlds apart – it's humid, wet and lush here. Mangroves line the shore, while modern white flats sit in front of converted warehouses. The skyscrapers in the distance peek through the gaps between the buildings. Every time I visit my family now the skyline looks different; I almost don't recognise it anymore.

We pass the Wool Stores (1911) with their Naples-yellow ornaments. The red brick is subsumed by the trees. I look across the terre-verte water, which looks pretty as it glitters in the sun despite its unfortunate hue. Even the intense blue of the sky can't quite hide the muddy foundation the river flows over. To the right, an older white couple in matching tennis outfits and visors march under the palm trees. The woman is wiggling her fingers in the breeze, which has risen again as we round the bend to the Powerhouse.

I'm meeting my friend and her sixteen-month-old daughter at the café under the Powerhouse. I arrive first and order a cappuccino while I wait. The staff member gives me a buzzer to let me know when my order is ready, even though I'm the only person in line. It's a quiet spot, the loudest sound being the panting of the four dogs lounging by the doors, at least until the buzzer starts blaring.

I grab my coffee and walk carefully past the dishevelled ibis pruning its chest feathers. (I may still – perhaps unfairly – hold a grudge against the bin chicken who stole a sushi roll out of my hand when I was lunching with a friend on the grass in Post Office Square years ago). The ibis adjusts its wings and I see flashes of bright red as I manoeuvre between the two o's of the sculpture of the word "flood" that's partially-submerged in the concrete.

I choose a table in the shade next to the river and sip my coffee, licking chocolate from the corner of my mouth. The wind forms waves that slap against the boardwalk, but the accompanying moments of cool are welcome. My friend texts that she's almost there, and arrives in the middle of my reply.

Sketches from Granada celebrates every-day moments of connection with strangers, friends and ourselves. I know how easy it is not to be present in your own life, and I hope these sketches inspire you to seek out those moments that are worth savouring. 

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