Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Ferry Landing, Part 1

Episode Date: August 17, 2026

Our story tonight is called The Ferry Landing, Part 1, and it’s a story about a river, and the island on the other side of it. It’s also about messages sent through the paper, a pilot house and a carpenter’s pencil, and a small summer mystery that left a mark, still present many years later. Whether it's a hobby, a passion, or a long-held idea, Shopify can help you bring it to life. Start with a free trial at shopify.com/nothingmuch We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to the ⁠Healing by the Numbers⁠. Supporting Survivors and Their Healing Journeys. ⁠Join⁠⁠⁠⁠ the Village of Nothing Much App! Subscribe to our ⁠Premium channel⁠. The first month is on us. 💙 Order Kathryn’s new book ⁠⁠On the Street Where You Live⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠NMH Merch, Autographed Books and More!⁠⁠⁠⁠ Listen to our daytime show ⁠⁠Stories from the Village of Nothing Much⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠Sit Meditation with Kathryn⁠⁠⁠⁠ Follow us on ⁠⁠Instagram⁠⁠ Visit ⁠⁠Nothing Much Happens⁠⁠ for more Village fun! Sign up for our Newsletter ⁠⁠here⁠⁠ to be in the know! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Get more Nothing Much Happens with bonus episodes, extra long stories, and ad-free listening, all while supporting the show you love. Subscribe now. Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolai.

I write and read all the stories you hear on nothing much happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we're giving to healing by the numbers, supporting survivors and their healing journeys. Learn more about them in our show notes. Y'all, tonight's story got away from me a bit.

To be honest, some things have. happen in it. I know. I know. Listen, I'm only human. I know some of you are already asleep. But if you usually don't fall asleep until you get into the second reading, maybe pick a different episode tonight. There isn't a cliffhanger or anything, but you'll probably get to the end and think, hang on, what about so-and-so? And there is a part two coming next week to tie it all up in a cozy bow, I promise. And if you want to hear the whole story right now, I recorded them in my daytime voice with a fun soundscape made by Bob. And it's waiting for you on the new Nothing Much Happens app.

We'd love to have you join us there. Find it at Nothing Much Happens.com. Now, as always, I'll read our story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake again in the night, don't hesitate to just push play, and you'll drop right back off. Our story tonight is called The Fairy Landing, Part One, and it's a story about a river and the island on the other side. It's also about messages sent through the paper, a pilot house, and a carpenter's pencil, and a small summer mystery that left a mark still present many years later.

If you've ever wanted to turn a hobby or an idea into a business, Shopify makes getting started a whole lot simpler. Our storefront runs on Shopify, and one thing I appreciated right away was knowing that when someone was ready to buy, the checkout experience just worked. It was easy for our listeners, easy for returning customers, and it meant we could spend our time creating instead of worrying about the technology behind the store.

As Nothing Much Happens has grown, Shopify has grown with us, making it easy to keep building what we love. With Shopify, nothing stands between your idea and a real business, so go make it one. Start your free trial at Shopify.com slash nothing much. Go to Shopify.com slash nothing much. That's Shopify.com slash nothing much. So lights out, campers, snuggle down, and let it feel good. Let it sink in that you are in your safe place and about to have a wonderful night's sleep.

I'll be here keeping watch as you rest. Take a deep breath in through your nose. Let it out your mouth. Nice. One more. Breathe in. And out. Good.

The ferry landing. Part one. On a Friday evening, the line for the ferry can stretch all the way back to the lighthouse. So it was tonight. Nearly at the end of the summer now. Each weekend, counted for more than the sum of its days.

So people got out of work, packed up their cars, and raced to the island in numbers that caused a small traffic jam. I didn't mind it, never had. Even if it took a half hour to get from the back of the line to the front, it was a pleasant place to love.

out at the river. And it's even sweeter with the latest edition of the Island newsletter, which was handed to me through the passenger window of my car by a couple of high school kids who'd been drafted into the job. I sat and flipped through the pages, which were slightly heavier than copy paper, and whose ink rubbed off on my fingertips in the humid air. There were always a few paragraphs given over to some actual news, the resurfacing of the two-lane highway that runs from the ferry landing all the way to the turnaround. The channel markers being moved because of the high water this year, and the dates for the school board election.

From there, it skipped merrily on to bake sales and rummage sales, the Garden Society, ice cream social at the pavilion by the tennis court, and then to my favorite variety of articles in these small community written pages, the personal messages, more often than not.

They said things like, Happy anniversary to this cute couple with a grainy picture of two people on their wedding day decades before. The corners of a snapshot, dark from the Xerox machine, baby showers were announced, and extended family members welcomed back for reunions. But the very best messages were the slightly mysterious, ones. Where it seemed a secret code had been put into place, there was one in today's edition. It was on the second to last page, in the bottom right corner, a few lines in bold text that said, The Beagle has landed. Meet at the usual place. Bring the key. Bring the key.

I snorted and set the paper down as I took my car out of park and moved up with the line of cars around me. Wasn't there a sailboat in the dry dock by the bay called the Beagle? I imagined a small crew of masked sailors sneaking out to the boat under cover of night. one of them producing a rusty skeleton key to unlock a padlock, tying the vessel to her hoist, and smuggling her down to the bay to set her free. More likely, it was a covert fishing trip, planned by a couple of friends,

whose spouses actually didn't care what they did, but who got a kick out of it, just the same. A few years ago, there had been a slow-burn romance playing out in the personal messages

in the newsletter, and everyone on the island was glued to the pages, desperate to read the latest missive. It had started with a simple thinking of you on a single initial. It was an S.

Then a week or two later, sunset on the bay was lovely, but lonely without you. And the S again, another week passed. And I'd poured over the newsletter, already locked into whatever story was unfolding, to find the line. S, these better be about me.

See, and forth, from June through July and into August, the messages kept appearing. Did you get the flowers? S. And then, you know, lilies are my favorite. See, if a week went by without something from one or book, Both of them. The whole island felt cheated.

Sometimes their messages seemed to signal that this was a long nursed crush, a torch that had been carried for many years. And other times that they had just met, and theories began to be formed about their identities, their possible star-crossed status and how the whole story would end. The man who owned the hardware store in the short row of businesses, we called a town, complained that he was being hounded for information.

He held the forms for submitting things to the newsletter for each week's publication. I'd done it myself a time or two, when I'd found an earring on a walk and hoped to locate its owner, and then to wish a friend a happy birthday in print. You had to wait for the man behind the hardware counter to have a moment,

and he would pass you a form and a carpenter's pencil and point to a few squares on the sheet to fill out, usually leaving a dark fingerprint behind from all the tools he handled all day. You'd write in clear block letters, pay per word, and the form would go into a mail tray behind him. That summer, tired of being asked again and again,

about the identities of S and C. He eventually put a son, in the front window, saying that he didn't know. And those forms came in through the mail, without return addresses. And to please stop asking, thank you very much. I'm not sure any of us ever believed him. I think he knew exactly who was sending those lines back and forth. But was simply a romantic at heart, and keeping their secret, as something sacred. I put my reminiscing on hold as I maneuvered my car forward and waited to be waved aboard the ferry. I lifted my chin to see over the car ahead of mine, trying to make out which barges were on the river today.

I think in total there were three or four in the fleet, and on very busy weekends, like this one. Sometimes they all ran at the same time, criss-crossing, loading and unloading, and a kind of water ballet. I counted three cars ahead of me in line, and smiled, knowing that that would almost certainly mean, I would get a spot in the front. Sure enough, once the ferry was moored, and the loading dock clanged into place against the landing, the deckhand pointed to the first car in line and waved them to the center spot in the front row.

The second car went in straight behind the first. They loaded the boat this way for stability, centering weight in the middle of the ferry first. Then the third car went to the front right spot. And I got the front left. I shifted into park and rolled down my window all the way, letting my hand hang out. I tipped my head back against the headrest

and took a slow breath in and out this summer. Just like the one in my middle, memory, the summer of S and C, was full of long, warm days, and was soon coming to an end. The Ferry Landing, Part 1. On a Friday evening, the line for the ferry can stretch all the way back to the lighthouse. So it was tonight, nearly at the end of the summer now. Each weekend counted for more than the sum of its days. And so people got out of work, packed up their cars, and raced to the island in numbers that caused a small traffic jam. I didn't mind. never had, even if it took a half hour.

To get from the back of the line to the front, it was a pleasant place to look out at the river. And it was even sweeter with the latest edition of the Island newsletter, which was handed to me through the passenger window of my car by a couple of high school kids. who'd been drafted into the job, I sat and flipped through the pages, which were slightly heavier than copy paper,

and whose ink rubbed off on my fingertips. In the humid air, there were always a few paragraphs given over to some actual news, the resurfacing of the two-lane highway that runs from the ferry landing all the way to the turnaround. The channel markers being moved because of the high water this year and the dates for the school board election. From there, it skipped merrily on to bake sails and rummage sales. The Garden Society, Ice Cream Social, at the pavilion by the tennis court,

and then to my favorite variety of articles, in these small community-written pages. the personal messages. More often than not, they said things like a happy anniversary to this cute couple with a grainy picture of two people on their wedding day

decades before the corners of a snapshot dark from the Xerox machine. Baby showers were announced and extended family members welcomed back for reunions. But the very best messages were the slightly mysterious ones.

Where it seemed a secret code had been put into place. There was one in today's edition. It was on the second to last page In the bottom right corner, a few lines in bold text that said, The Beagle has landed. Meet at the usual place. Bring the key.

I snorted and set the paper down as I took my car out of park and moved up with a line of cars around me. Wasn't there a sailboat in the dry dock by the bay called the Beagle? I imagined a small crew of masked sailors, sneaking out to the boat under cover of night, one of them producing a rusty skeleton key to unlock a padlock, tying the vessel to her hoist,

and smuggling her down to the bay to set her free. More likely it was a covert fishing trip planned by a couple of friends whose spouses actually didn't care what they did, but who got a kick out of it, just the same. A few years ago, there had been a slow-burn romance, playing out in the personal messages, in the newsletter, and everyone on the island was glued to the pages, desperate to read the latest missive. It had started with a simple thinking of you

and a single initial. It was an S. Then, a week or two later, sunset on the bay was lovely, but lonely without you and the S again. Another week passed, and I'd poured over the newsletter, already locked into whatever story was unfolding to find the line S. These better be about me. See, back and forth. From June through July and into August, the messages kept appearing.

Did you get flowers? S. And then, you know, lilies are my favorite. See. And if a week went by without something from one or both of them, the whole island felt cheated. Sometimes their messages seemed to signal that this was a long, nursed crush,

a torch that had been carried for many years. And other times that they had just met, theories began to be formed about their identities. their possible star-crossed status and how the whole story would end. The man who owned the hardware store in the short row of businesses that we called a town complained that he was being hounded for information. He held the forms for submitting things. to the newsletter for each week's publication.

I'd done it myself a time or two when I'd found an earring on a walk and hoped to locate its owner and then to wish a friend a happy birthday in print. You had to wait for the man behind the hardware counter to have a moment, and then he would pass you a form and a carpenter's pencil and point to a few squares on the sheet to fill out, usually leaving a dark fingerprint behind from all the tools he handled all day.

You'd write and clear block letters pay per word, and the form would go into, a mail tray behind him. That summer, tired of being asked again and again about the identities of S and C. He eventually put a sign in the front window saying that he didn't know. and those forms came in through the mail without return addresses. And to please stop asking, thank you very much. I'm not sure any of us ever believed him. I think he knew exactly who was sending those lines back and forth,

but was simply a romantic at heart. and keeping their secret as something sacred. I put my reminiscing on hold. As I maneuvered my car forward and waited to be waved aboard the ferry, I lifted my chin to see over the car ahead of mine, trying to make out which barges were on the river today.

I think in total. There were three or four in the fleet and on busy weekends like this one. Sometimes they ran all at the same time. Criss-crossing, loading and unloading in a kind of water ballet. I counted three cars ahead of mine in line and smiled, knowing that would almost certainly mean I would get a spot in the front.

Sure enough, once the ferry was moored, and the loading deck clanged into place against the landing, the deck hand pointed to the first. car in line and then waved them to the center spot. In the front row, the second car went in straight behind the first. They loaded the boat this way for stability, centering weight in the middle of the ferry first. Then the third car went to the front right spot.

When I got the front left, I shifted. into park and rolled down my window all the way, letting my hand hang out. I tipped my head back against the headrest, and took a slow breath in and out this summer, just like the one in my memory. the summer of S and C was full of long, warm days, and was soon coming to an end. Sweet dreams.