You need a signed permission by an owner, a small yellow form, to get on the island.

We are in line. The ferry is small. It's my first time. A private island, how quaint. And a little disturbing too, to my populist self.

He is the son of an owner. The ferry personnel comes to the car window, tablet in hand. The FP examines our signed yellow form. "What is your member number?"

Ownerson grimaces. He calls his parents. His father answers and looks up the number. The FP checks his tablet and nods, stiffly.

We drive onto the small ferry. It will hold twelve cars at most. We are packed like sardines. It is open, not like the big ferries. Only a small raised cab for the driver.

Ownerson: "That is the first time they've asked for the number. Security is tightening. It used to be very casual. The same group drove the ferry for years. The engineer would let us up in the cab when we were kids and we would drive it for a bit."

We unload onto the island. It is Friday evening and I worked. I'm tired. The light is falling. The car winds through small roads, houses everywhere. Some are old vacation homes. Some are newer and very fancy.

"More people live on the island. It is getting more and more expensive. The ferry is part of the Washington State Ferry Union now. We all have to help pay for services."

He knows the roads well. He lets the car zip down a steep dirt section and up. I squeak. I am tired and it's one lane and two way and getting dark.

I hope we will be at the house soon.