SMELL: The Staten Island Ferry

As the Staten Island Ferry lurched toward the Whitehall terminal in Manhattan, passengers—mostly tourists on a late-summer afternoon—surged toward the doors in a haze of coconut sunscreen and the vestiges of just-smoked cigarettes. As the doors slid open, brackish harbor air wafted over the ramp leading to the Sandy Ground. The depature horn reverberated off the walls of the metal bay, reflections of the orange boat shimmering in the waves.

Pre-COVID, the Staten Island Ferry smelled reliably of diesel fuel and dirty-water hot dogs from the onboard concession stand. But as of December 2024, the only concession on the ferries is Dunkin’ Donuts—better than nothing, but a far cry from the signature ferry snack of a three-dollar beer and a hot dog or soft pretzel to tide you over for the twenty-five-minute commute to the island. I was curious if the ferry had any noteworthy new scents, so I took two trips, wandering from the “Manhattan end” to the “Staten Island end” (no  bow and stern on these boats), from the Bridge Deck to the Hurricane Deck, sniffing things out. What the ferries may have lost in concessions they’ve gained in hygience. The decks were tidy and gleaming, with labeled brooms and mops stashed in every corner.

So perhaps it was was no surprise that the first smell I encountered was the peppery tang of industrial cleaner and the mildewy funk of damp mop strings. Out on the Promenade Deck, tourists thronged in a haze of mingled perfume, snapping selfies with the (free!) view of the Statue of Liberty.

Locals had retired to the port side, with views only of passing tankers, to knit, or to nap.

Indoors on the Saloon Deck, I followed the scent of slightly charred coffee to the Dunkin’ Donuts, where a man in a sweatshirt with a shark-mouth hood was placing an order. The logo and glass case of (scentless) pastries were a letdown, but the concession seemed to be doing a brisk and cheerful business.

I wove through rows of nearly empty benches gleaming in the morning light—spotting a few napping passengers, an off-shift worker in a blue Amazon vest, and lots of giant purses with giant bag charms—and soon detected a bilgey, astringent fuel smell as I approached the rear stairwell.

I followed it to the lower deck, where it was more pungent, and the hum and rumble of the engine grew louder, making the metal doors tremble. This was the netherworld of the ferry, its pulsing heart, so it was good to know the smell here had stayed the same. Out on the empty back deck, there was a briny spray from the wake, a frothing white carpet leading to the downtown skyline.

Back inside, I spotted a swarthy character mounting the stairs, as if emerging from the bowels of the ship. With a white painter’s-brush mustache, a boiler suit with one pant cuff tied biker-style, white canvas boat shoes, a jaunty straw hat, and a battered L.L. Bean Boat and Tote, he seemed like a beacon from the ferry’s bygone era.

Passing the door to a supply closet, I detected an inexplicable scent of tomato soup. At St. George Terminal on the island, the metal ramp clunked down onto the deck with an oily squeak of chains. The terminal was suffused with a buttered-popcorn aroma from the Island Soft Pretzel Stop, where one might satisfy one’s craving for the ferry concessions of yore.

The Manhattan-bound crowd was more spirited, heading into the city for the day. I spotted one woman limping with a bouquet of hydrangeas, another with each of her possessions, from headphones to scooter, festooned in neon orange tape.

As the boat churned its way into the dock on the Manhattan side, the metal hull rubbed against the wooden dock pilings with a high-pitched squeaking, creaking whine. I imagined a past scent of tar and paint and damp wood. A man with two Boat and Totes and shiny shoes looked even-keeled, ready to start the day.

And as I filed down the ramp back into the city, I saw another string mop propped on the railing, set out to dry in the glow of one of those caged marine lamps that never seem to change with the times.