Scooter comes in front of me and hunches down. “We live and work in a resort town, but sometimes we forget to have fun here,” he says, a wounded tone in his voice. “I just wanted us to have a day like everyone else who comes here during the summer.” He hesitates. “Like we used to enjoy as kids.”

I feel a lump in my throat as I watch happy tourists scramble aboard the adorably cute ferry, excited for their journey across the Kalamazoo River. The scene is so throwback, so Pure Michigan that I immediately want to erase what I said and throw this day into reverse by a minute.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean what I said. Can I have a do-over?”

Scooter nods.

“What a surprise!” I say, reaching out to hug Scooter.

He breaks into laughter and scoops me in his arms.

“Better?” I whisper into his ear.

He puts me down, grabs my face and kisses me. “Much,” he says.

Memories flood my mind as we board the ferry. I feel as if I’m literally stepping back in time, not only in history but also in my life.

The ferry was built in 1838—a sign over the ferry proclaiming that fact—and was originally used to carry horses, rather than people, across the river. Today, it is the only remaining hand-cranked ferry of its kind still in use in the United States, and people happily pay a dollar a person for a little nostalgia.

The ferry still looks as if it’s been brought to life off a vintage Victorian postcard: it is painted crisp white and its posts and top are outlined with intricate gingerbread trim.

Scooter escorts me on board, and we cross the ferry and stand near the front. The ferry is jammed today: tourists with bikes, and families with floaties and beach towels, all of whom wish to avoid either the cost of the day pass to the beach or the hour-long wait to find a parking spot on the beach. Even from across the river, I can see the snaking line of cars plugging Park Street.

Scooter puts his arm around my waist, and I lean into him, the sun warm on my face. Two teenage boys secure the ferry—shutting and locking the gates—and then launch into an intense game of rock, paper, scissors.

“Look,” Scooter whispers to me. “They’re doing the same thing we used to do.”

I laugh. “They are!”

The first thing you learn as a chain ferry operator is that your shoulders collapse more quickly than your ego. Although the ferry travels only a total of about a hundred yards across the river, your shoulders feel as if you’ve hand-cranked to the moon by the time the day is done.