You push off from the Vine St. storage unit with the city still behind you: the Edgewater Hotel’s brick face, the constant churn of ferries and the sharp, cold smell of the Salish Sea. The e-bike hums to life under your hands—enough assist to flatten the hills, but not so much that you stop noticing the world. In ten minutes you’re rolling onto the dock, and within the hour the ferry’s bow doors close. The boat sets a steady rhythm that frames the crossing: gull calls, wake spray, and the island growing larger until Winslow’s shoreline resolves into storefronts and a low green ridge.