The skin of our teeth

The ferry company had said to keep our reservation we had to be there 15 minutes early.

We were enjoying the drive to the tip of Long Island: The weathered-shingled houses, the farm stands with bright orange pumpkins, a McDos in a house that looked like a doctor's home and no sign, just a large metal m on the front door.

We'd left early enough or so we thought. A look at the map and the dashboard clock put the comfort zone away.

We were behind a Mercedes which kept trying to overtake a slow-moving truck to no luck on the narrow road.

"I bet he's going to the ferry, too,"Rick said.

The minutes seem to be deliberately not taking their full 60 seconds.

Then Dock Street appeared.

The Mercedes turned and heading for the loading ramp. We were right behind, the last car to arrive.

As the ferry pulled out into the calm water we knew we'd made it by the skin of our teeth. Neither of us could guess why the expression had evolved. After all, teeth don't have skin.