An Exercise in Patience

Patience has never been one of my strong suits.
Not even close.

And today, of all days, it is being tested as never before.

At exactly 8:00 a.m. Eastern Time on February 3rd, the Steamship Authority opened its website to allow vehicle reservations for ferries traveling from Cape Cod to Martha’s Vineyard this coming summer.

Because I am in Denver, that meant setting an alarm and being at my computer at 6:00 a.m. Mountain Time, mug of hot water with lemon in hand, feeling responsibly prepared.

Each summer, I take my extended family—twenty-four of us—to Chappaquiddick on Martha’s Vineyard for two weeks.

It has become something of a family retreat. A rhythm. A tradition. And like all traditions, it depends on a few unglamorous logistics. Chief among them: getting cars onto the island.

The Steamship Authority assures us that anyone who logs on before 8:00 a.m. is randomly placed into a “virtual queue.”

Sounds fair enough.

So there I was, logged in early, watching the clock, feeling smugly on time.

Then the screen refreshed.

My queue number: 14,542.

Let that sink in.

That means 14,541 people were ahead of me—each one presumably trying to do exactly what I was trying to do: secure a precious vehicle reservation for the summer. Holy cow.

Thirteen minutes later, I checked again. Now there were 13,369 people ahead of me. Progress! At that rate, my back-of-the-envelope math suggested I’d be waiting another 161 minutes—more than two hours and forty-five minutes—before I even got the chance to begin making a reservation.

Back to patience.

Why have I always been impatient as hell? I honestly don’t know. Waiting bugs me. Always has. Waiting feels like wasted time. Like loss of control. Like being forced into stillness when I’d much rather be doing something—anything—useful.

Patience, I’m realizing, isn’t really an action at all. It’s the opposite. It’s non-action. And I’m just not very good at that.

But here’s the thing I hadn’t fully appreciated until this morning.

I’m not doing this just for me.

I’m doing it for the crew.

This reservation isn’t about my car alone. It’s about two cars. About grocery runs, beach gear, kids, grandparents, and the small daily logistics that make island life work. Twenty-four people are counting on me to sit here, refresh a screen, and not screw this up.

And there’s something more.

Chappaquiddick isn’t just a vacation spot for me. It’s home. I spent my summers there as a child. My parents had a place on the island. My memories of Chappy stretch back decades—to clamming, to mussels, to long beach days, to the particular way life settles into a slower, truer rhythm there.

We even have a family plot in the island cemetery—an oversubscribed one at that. That alone says something about belonging.

So when I say I’m waiting for “something meaningful,” I’m understating it. I’m waiting for a place that has shaped me. A place that grounds me. A place I now want my children and grandchildren to experience—not through stories, but through lived days.

Which makes the waiting different.

I’m still impatient. Still annoyed. Still watching the numbers tick down far more slowly than I’d like. But layered on top of the irritation is something steadier: responsibility. Commitment. A willingness to endure something unpleasant so that something deeply familiar and deeply loved can happen again.

Maybe patience isn’t about becoming calmer or wiser with age. Maybe it’s not about self-improvement at all.

Maybe patience is simply what we practice—poorly or not—when something matters enough.

So I sit.
I refresh.
I grumble.

And I wait.

Because anyone willing to sit in a virtual line with 14,541 strangers for the sake of family togetherness—and for a place that feels like home—may not be as impatient as he thinks.