“I’m quite enjoying this,” Scooter says, giving me a sarcastic wink.

The teen steps aside, giving me a dramatic bow. I place both hands on the giant handle that juts in front of me, take a deep breath and lean into it. My shoulders emit a loud pop, but I put my back into it and begin cranking as if my life depends on it.

“Adie Lou!” Scooter begins to chant again, which fires up the passengers to follow suit.

I find a rhythm in the cranking, just like I did when I was a kid.

“My dad actually trained me to prepare for this,” I tell those on board, refusing to act as if I’m already out of breath, despite the fact my heart is leaping out of my chest. “He used to have me make homemade ice cream on our old hand-crank machine. Remember those?”

The older adults nod and smile.

“I want to let every little girl on here know that you can do anything you set your mind to do,” I say. “Whether it’s to be the first girl to crank the chain ferry, or be president.”

Within seconds, little girls are lining up with their moms and dads, and asking if I can show them how to do it. By the time we make it to the other side, I have posed for about a dozen photos.

“You both have better game than we do,” one of the teens says as we exit the ferry on the opposite side of the river.

“Old game is the best game,” I say. “Have a great day.”

Scooter grabs my hand as we head up the narrow path leading from the ferry. “Are you calling me old?” he asks.

“Old football injury, my behind,” I say.

“And were you inspiring the youth of tomorrow or simply using them for their youthful arms?”

I laugh.

“You really are amazing,” he says, slowing his pace and looking me in the eyes. Scooter kisses me softly on the lips as we stand beneath the pines, and I can’t tell if the amazing scent is the trees or Scooter or both.

He always smells like the outdoors, I think.

“Thank you,” I say. “Back atcha.”

As we head up the narrow dirt path that leads from the ferry to the road, I ask, “Where are we going exactly?”

“Beach day,” he says. “I bet you haven’t had a real one yet, where you just do nothing.”

I think of my days on the beach since I moved here—throwing my Two Buck Chuck on the ice, crying, worrying, working—and shake my head. “I haven’t,” I say.

“I figured,” he says. “Follow me.”

We cross the road and head into a circular unpaved parking lot ringed with cars. I look up and then at Scooter.

“We aren’t, are we?” I ask.

“We are,” Scooter says.