Pathway to Pilothouse Column 7: "Elise Has the Con"
On belonging, bridge culture, and the quiet revolution happening in plain sight
Ten months have passed since Pathway to the Pilothouse first launched. In this latest installment, mariner and writer Erica Lichty brings us back up to speed on her progress toward becoming a Washington State Ferry captain.
As always, I’m grateful to Erica for her vulnerability and advocacy in sharing her experience. I’ll let her take it from here. Erica, you have the con.
— Annie Means, Editor & Founder of Maritime Mosaics
Last time I left you, I was waiting for my AB (Able-Bodied Seaman) ticket to arrive in the mail: that strange little limbo where you’re still you, still doing the work, still showing up... but waiting for the paperwork to catch up to the reality.
When it finally did, I stepped into my first shift as an official Able-Bodied Seaman with Washington State Ferries (WSF).
Right away I got the call.
I was assigned to the Point Defiance run and spent the entire day on deck. The Bosun was incredibly helpful, the kind of person who teaches without making you feel small. I learned more in that one day than I expected, and I also got to take my first official shift as Quartermaster. That moment mattered more than I can properly explain. It felt like someone quietly placed a hand on my shoulder and said: Okay. You’re in it now.
After that, the jobs kept coming.
I picked up two straight days out of Seattle on the Tacoma ferry during Thanksgiving and Indigenous Peoples’ Day — both high-traffic days, both demanding in their own way. Again, the Bosun was forthcoming with his knowledge. He shared his trade generously, and even let me load the boat a few times. That kind of trust is never accidental. It’s earned. And I felt the weight of it, in the best way.
And then, almost like the universe heard me, I was serendipitously granted work in the San Juan Islands during Christmas, exactly where I had been hoping to land. I turned it into a small, sacred mini-vacation: an Airbnb with my husband, a few days working the inter-island route, and a hotel on San Juan Island for the evening.
The crew was solid. The work felt good. And for the first time in a long time, I felt myself fully immersing into deck culture here at Washington State Ferries. As the fall season came to a close, I knew there was a possibility of taking a watch for the winter season.
I love being on-call. I love the movement of it, the shifting scenery, the constant learning: vessel to vessel, crew to crew. But this watch tempted me for a different reason: stability.
The watch started in Seattle, and it ran four 10-hour shifts with three days off. That alone felt like a gift. More time with my son. More time to breathe. And more time to study.
The run itself, Seattle to Bremerton, is about an hour. An hour might not seem like much, but an hour per crossing becomes something. An hour becomes repetition. An hour becomes muscle memory. An hour becomes study time as my mate exam approaches.
Because I had been working at WSF longer as an Ordinary Seaman (OS) than as an Able-Bodied Seaman, I had more seniority in that position—which gave me better standing when bidding for shifts. I took a chance and bid for the watch as an OS.
And lo and behold... I got it.
I was looking forward to consistency. I was looking forward to the ability to focus on license prep. And I was looking forward to something I didn’t expect to want as much as I did: the slow-building familiarity of a crew.
Ten months can turn strangers into people who swap stories. People who make jabs in good spirits. People who have your back without announcing it.
I miss being on-call — I really do — but it’s been good getting to know this crew. It’s also been fascinating to watch MITAGS cadets cycle through. Seeing them pass through the system reminds me of the last nine months and how quickly life can shift when you keep saying yes.
Sometimes I think: I wish I could travel from vessel to vessel with a camera and a notepad, documenting faces and stories.
In a way, I have.
I’m still working to create unity and deliverables with the Diversity Advisory Group here at WSF, but most recently, I campaigned for, and earned, a position as an alternate for the on-call deck employees with the Inland Boatmen’s Union.
This year, we begin contract negotiations. I’m excited to bring my experience and my advocacy into language that becomes official. Language that holds weight. Language that can uphold equity and inclusion not just in theory, but in a binding way.
Because the more I find myself in these spaces and circles, the more apparent it becomes: we are connected by our stories.
We know this.
I think if more people were aware of the paradigm shift we’re in the middle of, they might be more forgiving. More open. More willing to pass down knowledge — even to folks they don’t recognize themselves in.
We’re all trying to navigate an industry that was structured around only one type of individual.
But the inevitable is happening. The way people love one another is changing. The way relationships look is changing. The way we define family is changing.
So how do we adapt? How do we create sustainability, not only in maritime spaces, but beyond?
It’s been an absolute pleasure to witness this change unfold. And, frankly I didn't see it coming. Because of my history in this industry, and what I went through as a younger woman, I never imagined I’d return to this work and get to bear witness to something so tender and revolutionary: a single mom in the wheelhouse, elevating herself, pushing to the next level, carving her own Pathway to the Pilothouse.
Not long ago, I watched a woman go through the new mate orientation with one of the trainers, checking off boxes, being tested, being put under that uniquely maritime microscope.
And she did an absolutely perfect job.
The joy I felt was enormous.
Later, I met her out on deck. We stood there and breathed that sigh of relief together. We didn’t even have to say much. We just exchanged glances, and I knew she appreciated that support.
Since then, we’ve exchanged messages. She shared a photo of a pin she found after completing her simulator exam.
It made me smile. A support network is naturally forming onboard. We’re collaborating, sharing information, and building a culture of mentorship.
I’ve also noticed something else. I’ve been able to walk through doors, and into spaces, that some crew members have had a hard time with.
Why are people more inclined to go the extra mile to answer my questions, or give me an opportunity?
I’ve heard people say I seem intent. Focused. Determined. That there’s no vacillating. That if they help me, it will pay off. It won’t be a wasted effort. I wonder: how do we convey that to people who want to be seen and heard?
How do we give them the confidence to express their desire to learn? To build skill? To grow? How do we help them walk into a space like they belong there, even before they fully believe it?
The last story I’ll share is connected to that question.
The other day, I was on a boat move, and several MITAGS cadets were onboard for support. One of cadets was trans, and I watched her working through their projects, navigation, radar, bridge routines.
I was at the helm, quartermastering, when I heard the captain declare: “Elise has the con.”
Damn right, Elise has the con.
[NOTE: announcing that someone “has the con” means they have authority on the bridge at that moment — navigating the vessel, making passing arrangements with other vessels, giving commands to the Quartermaster, and directing the movement of the ship.]
Afterward, I had a conversation with all of them. The trans cadet, Elise, showed interest in Washington State Pilotage. The Puget Sound Pilots currently have one woman working with them. I told this cadet not to lose sight of the dream, that she was literally a pioneer. It felt good to make time to hear her story, and because the day seemed so spectacular (the energy on the bridge, the teamwork, the focus), I asked her if this was fairly standard.
She said no. It was an anomaly.
I remember the crew member from Column Six of Pathway to Pilothouse, Hope, asking me at the end of a watch months ago, when we were still getting to know one another, if I would ever recommend this job to anyone.
I told her the truth. I said: No. Not today.
But I also told her: You and I aren’t going anywhere. It’s up to us to cultivate an environment that can sustain a workforce that accepts all.
I’d like to tell Hope something else now.
Today, I love my job. Today, I’m seeing light at the end of the tunnel. Today, I’m one step closer to being in a position to do more for more people. As I write this, I’m wrapping up my last day of work before I head into a one-week mates refresher course. On February 23rd, 24th, and 25th, I will sit to reinstate my mate’s license.
It feels vulnerable to share this, because I may not pass. I’m cramming years of knowledge, hundreds of pages of material, into one or two weeks of preparation. But if I pass, I can apply for the first round of WSF pilotage acceptance positions, which opens February 23rd.
The next round will be May 11th.
And if all goes as planned, this sets me up for New Mate Orientation in 2027 — and an official position as an officer with Washington State Ferries.
I don’t give much weight to astrology or zodiac calendars. But a friend shared something with me about 2026: the Year of the Horse.
The Year of the Horse symbolizes action, freedom, and forward momentum.
This is a year to act. This is a year to choose, to stop circling what you already know is meant for you. This year rewards clarity. It responds to decision. It accelerates when you trust yourself. And maybe that’s all this is, a season of choosing. A season of acting. A season of trusting myself enough to step forward.
I’m done circling. I’m heading for the pilothouse.
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