Piloting the Port Jeff Ferry

"It's like being on a stage," says Capt. Edward B. O'Neill as he slowly pulls the P.T. Barnum out of its dock in Bridgeport. "Everybody's watching you, and some days you think to yourself, 'What am I doing out here?'"

Today might qualify as one of those days.

On this chilly afternoon in February, there isn't much Hollywood glamour being one of the 12 captains of the Bridgeport & Port Jefferson Steamboat Co. With the temperature dipping into the low 20s and the bitter wind beginning to kick up, O'Neill has to cover his face with a ski mask as he works the outdoor controls on the wing of the bridge.

Yelling above the roar of the ship and the wind whipping around us, O'Neill's voice quickly becomes puffs of white clouds. He tells me

that it's the warm sunny days of summer that make working outside in the bitter New England winter worth it.

I'll have to take his word for it. I've taken dozens of rides on the Port Jefferson ferry, but I've always made a point of staying indoors once the temperature dips below 65 degrees.

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Captains, evidently, don't have that luxury.

As soon as the mighty ship parts ways with Bridgeport's harbor, O'Neill and I move back into the toasty confines of the ship's bridge at the very top of the Barnum. The outside wing controls, the captain explains, are only normally used to steer the ship's two 450 horse power bow thrusters in the front.

Once we step into the bridge, the Barnum has a new pair of hands at its controls: 22-year-old Mike Zickmand, one of the ship's able-bodied seamen. Ziggy, as the rest of the ship's crew calls him, has several responsibilities as the AB. They range from the important — like controlling the speed of the ship at the captain's commands — to the slightly less glamorous, like polishing the several pieces of brass in the captain's quarters every Sunday.

"Oh sure, Ziggy loves to shine," says O'Neill with a laugh. "You should see his two cars."

Good-natured ribbing seems to be the official pastime among the crew during its 10 trips across the Sound each day.

Once a few members of the crew start populating the bridge, the conversation sounds like you'd hear at any other job. The subject of discussion today is one of the ship's other able-bodied seamen, Rob Decaminada, and his newly pregnant wife.

If you had your eyes closed, you'd have no idea that these men were part of a team maneuvering a 300-foot, 1,600-ton ferry usually carrying a few hundred passengers.

When asked about it, they all conveyed a sense of being called to their profession, the kind of awakening you might hear from a doctor or a priest being called to their jobs from beyond. For each one of them, working on the ferry isn't just a way to pay their bills. They were all answering the lulling siren song of the sea.

Take, for example, the ship's First Mate Chris Weith. He was majoring in journalism — of all things — at Boston University in the early '70s when he took a summer job on board one of the Port Jefferson ferry's vessels. He's been manning the ships ever since, and after 32 years he's the most senior seaman at the company.

"I've always loved the water," Weith says. Weith's responsibilities include the loading and unloading of cars onto the ferry. Weith is the one who guides nervous drivers into their tight quarters with authority.

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As we make our way out a few miles from shore, I find myself surprised by the spectacular views around us. With the water open in front of them, the captain and the able bodied seaman joining him at the helm have a absolutely beautiful view of the Sound. "See over there?" O'Neill says to me, slowly lowering his black binoculars from his eyes and pointing. "That tip there, to the right of that tanker. That's the Empire State Building. It's clear enough today to see it."

To our left, O'Neill points out the Middle Ground Light, the lighthouse halfway between Port Jefferson and Bridgeport which officially designates the line from Connecticut into New York waters. The lighthouse — referred to by some as Stratford Shoal Light but officially designated Middle Ground Light by the United States Coast Guard — was built in 1877 and from up here it looks every year of it.

Today, they tell me, is a relatively smooth day on the waters. With Ziggy handling most of the steering, Capt. O'Neill has a free moment to show off his new toy: A brand new digital camera.

"I'm a sea captain 'slash' amateur photographer," O'Neill explains with just the crack of a smile.

Being the captain gives O'Neill the opportunity to snap some beautiful photos. As the Barnum edges closer to its destination at Port Jefferson, N.Y., it passes one of its sister ships, the Grand Republic. The passing makes for a photo opportunity for O'Neill, who quickly gets out to the ship's left wing to snap a shot of the Republic passing in between an ice-covered buoy. He's been trying to take just the perfect shot of the moment for about a week, Ziggy tells me. And, as he walks back into the bridge a few moments later while looking down at his digital camera's screen, O'Neill decides this one isn't quite perfect yet. Maybe tomorrow.

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But as steady as the Sound's waters are today, O'Neill is always left at the mercy of Mother Nature.

"If there's a 50 mile-an-hour wind coming off the north, then it isn't bad," he says. "But when that wind comes off the east, it's not fun being up here. "A lot of times, you just don't know what the trip is going to be like until you're up here," he says.

O'Neill is just one of the hundreds of captains in the history of The Bridgeport & Port Jefferson Steamboat Company, which was established in 1883. He first joined the company in 1983, and he's been the captain of the Barnum since 1999. He's gone from working on a 35-car ferry when the boat service was just seasonal to captaining the 120-car Barnum.

The technological advancements have been dramatic over the 124 years since the service first started. The days of steam-powered ships, the source of the company's namesake, are long gone. Instead, these ferries run off of 18,000-gallon diesel fuel tanks.

And instead of yellowed maps littered with notes and shorthand, the ferry's captains have an exact location of each and every buoy in the Long Island Sound and can access information about each of them on a GPS screen.

Even the Middle Ground Light has been completely automated since 1970.

With all the technological automation, O'Neill says a captain's number one priority is to stay focused.

"The old saying is that the job of a captain is weeks of boredom interrupted by moments of sheer terror," O'Neill says.

O'Neill had one of those "sheer terror" moments last October. It was a windy day with three-foot waves when he spotted three men clinging to the hull of a 17-foot research vessel. O'Neill dispatched two members of his crew to drive the 15-foot fiberglass boat carried on the ferry for such emergencies. He, along with several of his crew mates, was honored during a ceremony by the U.S. Coast Guard for the rescue. But O'Neill quickly points out that such white-knuckle moments are the exception. "We avoid those situations at all costs. There's always a concern, but we error on the side of safety," he says.

As part of his duties, O'Neill keeps track of every voyage the ship makes, neatly writing down the number of passengers and the weather in small black notebook. As we approach the 300-foot opening into Port Jefferson harbor, O'Neill tells me to scan the beaches for wildlife.

"This is about the time of the year when the seals start showing up," says O'Neill. When the water is cold enough, he says, the seals slowly populate the Sound's waters before leaving after a few weeks.

"They look like little dogs with their noses sticking out of the water," he says.

Alas, no seals today.

Watching O'Neill pull into the dock gives a real appreciation for just how difficult his job is. Maneuvering the ferry into place, the captain navigates the precious inches separating a clean docking with disaster.

Outside on the wing controls, O'Neill calls down to first mate on his radio for a little guidance.

"Come a little left for me," Weith responds into the radio.

"Docking this ship is the epitome of a team effort," O'Neill tells me once we're docked and the passengers begin to scatter.

"It's the best job in the world," he says.

Keith Whamond, who covers regional issues for ConnPost.com, can be reached at 330-6388.