"When life looks like easy street, there is danger at the door."

Nothing much happens on Knotts Island. This seems agreeable to the residents. My new eyes, however, see things happen all the time.

The other day, I walked to the ferry dock for a ride over to Currituck and back. It was a gorgeous windy day - ideal for a boat ride. The hour and a half round trip would afford an opportunity to take pictures and fiddle with the Times crossword.

When I arrived at the landing, I saw a large white van with "North Carolina Prisons" stenciled on the side. It was hauling a portable outhouse and several cases of orange trash bags. I had noticed filled orange trash bags along the side of the island roads over the previous several days. This would be the source.

The ferry was delayed because of wind, so the driver of the prison van and I sat on the curb and chatted (his human cargo was securely chained within the van.)

"What's doing," I asked the ferry operator. "Is the ferry going to go?"

"Dunno" replied the captain. "Wind."

He was an enormous man with a sweet demeanor, but difficult to understand.

"Have your guys been picking up the trash along the Knotts Island roads the last several days?"

"Yip."

"They all prisoners?"

Long pause, "Yip?"

After a time, he pulled out a cell phone and speed dialed a number.

"We still here." Pause. "Yip." Pause. "Yip. K."

"What's up?' I asked. "Did you get some info?"

"Yip. Wind. Maybe go at 11."

It was 10:45.

There seemed to be no urgency on any one's part to get the ferry going. The prison van was the only vehicle in line and I was the only other passenger. I began to wonder if the prisoners would be released during the ride. I began to further wonder about the wisdom of my spontaneous morning adventure.

"Where's the prison?" I asked. I decided to keep the conversation, such as it was, going.

"'Lizbit Siti."

"Elizabeth City?" I searched for clarification.

"Yip."

"Ah." I responded. "State prison?"

"Yip."

"Ah" came my rote reply. "How do you pick the guys, I mean, what's to keep them from taking off?"

"Sho timahs."

"Ah, short timers. I see. So they don't really have much incentive to run. O.K. That makes sense."

"Yip. Maybe a mon or two left mos ofem, but evy so ofen, one dummass will duck in da trees."

"Try to escape, really, with only a month or two left?"

"Yip."

"Gosh, then what do you do?" I had visions of southern chain gangs, shot guns, blood hounds - scary stuff. Knotts Island is not that big a place.

"Oh, we go fine hid gull fran. He be there. Dummasses."

I suppose it made sense. If a prisoner with two weeks left was stupid enough to run, why would he be smart enough to go someplace other than his girl friend's house.

The guards cell phone rang.

"Yip. Wind. Yip. "K."

"Any news" I asked?

"Nope."

On those times when the ferry didn't operate, one had to drive 25 miles up into Virginia Beach, 15 miles across to the Great Dismal Swamp, then 20 miles back down into North Carolina. The upper school kids did it all the time. It took about as long to drive the 60 miles as it did for the ferry to travel 5 miles across the sound.

"Well, too bad about the drive," I commiserated. "I suspect you are ready to get these guys back."

"Can drive. Godda takeda ferry."

Now I was confused. "What if the ferry doesn't go. I mean, what if the wind doesn't die down? Don't you have to drive around?"

"Nope. Can't"

"How come," I pressed?

"Ain't loud take da boys to Ginia. NoCalina prisoners."

"Oh. No kidding. Gosh, I never thought of that. You can't cross a state line with the prisoners, is that it?

"Yip."

"So, what do you do?"

"Wait. She'll go."

It was a curious state of affairs - no pun intended. Knotts Island has no land connection to North Carolina. The only two ways out are by road north to Virginia Beach or by ferry to Currituck.

I waited for five or ten more minutes, took a final look back at the prison van, and decided to walk back to my garage and finish the puzzle at home.

The wind died down later in the day. That afternoon, I saw the van was gone and the ferry appeared to be operating.

All's well that ends well, I 'spose.

Thank you for visiting.

Jack