Ferry crossing

Does anyone else remember reading "Island of the Blue Dolphins" by Scott O'Dell in grade school? It haunted me for years.

The bird in question.

We board. Now that I’m on the boat and can’t miss it,
some anxiety fades. A large black bird sits on a piling
and I text a picture of it to my husband, calling it my friend. 
A cormorant? he writes back. I don’t know.
The bird releases a mighty stream of poop from his perch,
clouding the water for a moment.

Married to a former island kid, I’ve ridden a lot of ferries.
The fifteen minute pass to Vashon, the wind pushing hats
off heads, holding tight to my youngest children, afraid
that they would tip and fall from the top deck, down
to the parking pad below, to the water below, to drown below.
It’s tiring to be so scared all the time.

I learned about cormorants in grade school
from "Island of the Blue Dolphins.” The protagonist
made a dress of them from their blue-black feathers.
The book ended with the italicized note 
that the real-life protagonist died of dysentery
only weeks after leaving the island. 
I read it again and again,
hoping for a different ending.

The mound of island we’re passing 
is covered in dark trees, in dark green, in bristles
and bursting rocks. I’ve never been where I’m going. 
Will my children still be alive when I return?
Will my husband’s eyes still be blue, lips pursed
in sleep as he sleeps? Will the dog get fed?

It’s tiring to be so scared all the time. 
So sure that bad moments 
are on the cusp of becoming.