I was fourteen when we moved to the house across the Bolgoda River. It was a rented place, modest and quiet, with the scent of wet earth rising from the garden after rain. The only thing I didn’t want to change was my tuition. My English teacher was kind, gentle in her corrections and generous with her praise. She taught me not just grammar, but grace.

The problem was the buses. There was no direct route anymore. I had to change twice, sometimes wait in the dark. My elder brother, sensing my frustration, leaned in one evening and whispered, “There’s a shortcut. Not recommended. Especially at night. There’s a ferry guy.”

A ferry guy??

He said the crossing would cut my journey in half. He also added, with a seriousness I couldn’t ignore, “Don’t go there after dark. Just don’t.”

One day, I challenged that warning. Tuition ran late. My teacher looked at me with concern and asked, “Are you really okay?” I nodded. “Yes, ma’am. There are still buses running.” But I knew the truth: the usual route would take too long. I might not make it home in time. I might miss school the next day.

So I walked toward the river.

The jetty was quiet, the air thick with the scent of water and dusk. I raised my voice, uncertain. “Anybody there? Can someone help me cross?”

A man appeared.

He didn’t speak. Instead, he gestured toward the canoe. I hesitated. The ghost stories my brother told me stirred in my chest. Still, I stepped in. I had prayed silently to my favorite god for protection. The ferry man told me to hold fast. There were no life vests back then. Only trust.

We began to cross.

I watched his face. In the middle of the river, I feared he might shift—become something else. A demon. A shadow. But he didn’t. The river was black, and yet the water from his paddle shimmered white. I was half afraid, half mesmerized.

Then the far jetty began to appear.

My fear dissolved. What remained was the joy of the river’s mystery. He helped me out, steadying my step. I paid him the toll. He nodded. No words. Just a ferry guy.

I reached home.

I never told anyone about that crossing. My father would have punished me for the risk. But I kept the memory. Not of danger at all, but of wonder. Of a man who rowed me across fear and into quiet understanding.