Ferries in much of the world run on a tight schedule. Timetables rule. Show up on time or miss the boat, or even worse.

I learned that the hard way, in Norway, on a June day long ago. Before cell phones, before computers, before I knew very much about life's challenges, when I was in my twenties.

Our young family --  hubby and I and our two sons, four and two, had been camping in Scandinavia in a VW pop-top camper. The iconic two-tone van had a little sink and room to sleep four, just about, if you didn’t mind folding yourself in two.

We were having a lovely time, rolling along and popping the top in any Scandinavian field we wanted – a traveler's right in this stunning part of the world, where villages are few and far between, mountain peaks rise into the sky from mirror-like water, and fields of wildflowers are yours to camp on as long as you’re respectful of the land.  

Sure, I once peed in the field just as a train roared right by, passengers waving at me, car after car. And camping just outside of Stockholm a bearded guy with a knife demanded “bread.” I was lucky my 6-foot, 4-inch hubby came around the corner scaring him away, because who knows what might have happened if I had handed him a loaf of rye instead of a wad of bills.

One sunny, perfect morning, driving along the Norwegian fjords, cherry trees were laden with red fruit, clouds and snow-capped mountains reflected in the deep, still water. It couldn’t have been more peacefully beautiful, and we were rambling without a care.

We decided at the last minute to drive our little camper onto a small ferry and cross a narrow fjord about 25 minutes to another landing. Our van was positioned first, so when we arrived my husband drove off the ferry to clear the deck while I lingered on the ferry stairs an extra moment to tie one son’s shoe while the other looked on. The three of us would walk off.

I had just finished tying the shoe when I felt a rumble, and realized that the ferry was quickly moving away from the shore -- with me and my two sons still aboard. I couldn’t believe it.

Hubby was waving his arms onshore, getting smaller and smaller, screaming, “Stop! Stop!”

I scrambled up the stairs to find the captain, and finally bumbled out our problem. I had no idea where we were headed, and neither did my husband.

The captain spoke slowly, and my husband was now a speck in the distance. “Sorry. We leave on time. We can’t go back. You can meet your husband at the next landing.”

“But he doesn't have a timetable and he wouldn't know where to drive.”

“Then I hope he stays where he is,” the captain said. “The ferry will return.”

“When?”

“At the end of the day.”

I had no money, no passport, no food.  No diapers! I felt as lost as a five-year old at a fair, looking for her mommy. If hubby didn’t meet us at one of these landings I was in big trouble.

The boys started crying and I felt like joining them. I imagined hubby driving the van ahead to Oslo, and that I would never catch up with him. I’d become a bag lady without a country with two sons who’d play patty-cake on the streets to earn us a few coins for food and diapers.

My husband did not show up at the next landing, or the ones after. I sat on the deck as the afternoon wore on, worried that he wouldn’t know to stay where we left him.

The captain offered the boys ice cream and candy and I created diapers out of paper towels. They played with ropes. They napped. I told them stories. They were having a fine time.

But they kept asking where their daddy was, and I said that he was picking cherries for our dinner. I wished.

We completed the slow circuit from landing to landing, and the scenery was spectacular, but I couldn't enjoy a moment. We finally headed to the landing where we had left my husband. The boys were restless now and I kept straining to see him. We pulled closer and I saw a bunch of cars in the distance and then … the popped top of my van! And then my husband, waving as wildly as when we had pulled away many hours before. He was jumping up and down.

And even the captain was happy.

We made sure to be at the head of the line and ran off  the ferry and into my husband’s arms. And when we got inside the van, sure enough the little sink was overflowing with cherries. We gorged ourselves, faced smeared with cherry juice, laughing and hugging as if we had been separated for weeks.

And for me, it sure felt like it.