04/28/2026
There’s a ferry that leaves Atlantic Highlands every morning and nobody who rides it ever takes it for granted.
Forty-five minutes from the dock to 34th Street. That’s the whole trip. Coffee to skyline. No traffic. No tunnel. No train.
But the ride itself is the thing.
You pass the oldest working lighthouse in America — Sandy Hook Light, lit in 1764, older than the country. You pass Romer Shoal, an iron sparkplug standing in the middle of the bay, named for a colonel who charted these waters in 1700. You pass two small islands off Staten Island most New Yorkers have never heard of — Hoffman and Swinburne — built by the federal government out of dredged harbor sand in the 1870s as quarantine stations for immigrants arriving with cholera, smallpox, yellow fever. Their ruins are still there. The ferry slides right past.
You pass the Sandy Hook Pilots, the working fleet that’s boarded every ship entering this harbor for more than three hundred years. You pass tankers half a city block long. You pass under the Verrazzano — the same gap every vessel has squeezed through for four hundred years.
And then the skyline shows up.
Most people who live near the water think of it as a border. A line that keeps them from somewhere. But once you’ve crossed this water at speed, with coffee in your hand and the city rising up, you understand what it actually is.
It’s not the thing between the Highlands and New York.
It’s the thing that connects them.
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Full short film on YouTube. Link in bio.