beneath everything inside the engine room, below the waterline, the roar of turbines drowns out heat and glass as Nurettin watches with envy. she calls it unfair, laughing, because she is the heart of the ship—the physician who keeps it beating—yet the captain still gets all the glory, standing above.
“I’m the most important person on this ferry. I check what matters inside. But the captain gets all the credit, even if he only uses the rudder. right, left, and a little more,” Nurettin says, speaking loudly. had he chosen a softer voice, the engines would have swallowed his words.
Nurettin is the ship’s cardiologist and doctor, and he has tended to his own patient on board for five years. Fatih is one of many ferries that swarm the Bosphorus like ants following a chosen path, splitting Istanbul into two halves. the city is home to seventeen million people, with roads, subways, and buses that still leave gaps. for many, a ride by boat is the only way to get to work.
On this early December morning, Fatih glides calmly across the Bosphorus, expertly dodging small fishing boats and big freighters alike. The route traces the line between neighborhoods built along the water: Besiktas to Kadikoy. Twenty minutes each way.
On the bridge, the captain chuckles. “Who told you this? Just share the address… Tell me your name and we’ll figure it out right away,” says Ahmet, a touch sleepy as he issues Fatih’s orders. “No, seriously, we’re all doing our part here and we wouldn’t be able to work without each other. It’s an honor to contribute to the city’s functioning, to help people get to work. It’s one of the best jobs in the world. The views from up here are incredible. You get used to them, you don’t look much anymore, but they’re unbelievable—and sometimes I scan the horizon to see where a freighter is headed, or where it came from,” says Captain Ahmet.
A man stands on the deck, gazing at the Bosphorus as Fatih sails forward. The crew members keep things moving below, while customers line up, sometimes urging them along. Sena, overseeing Fatih’s Cafeteria, is busy pouring coffee and keeping the rhythm of service. “I may not know every detail about the ship, but for the workers we are the most important part. We’re the ones who steady their morning with coffee,” Sena explains.
“I love this job. It’s a chance to meet countless people who head to work by boat every morning. I try to anticipate when they’ll rise so I can start brewing and toast them as they reach the stairs. Sometimes I glance through the window at the city’s age-old skyline—the towering, millennial buildings and the minarets of the historic peninsula. Once in a while I spot dolphins. Soon I might see a seal, who knows where it would surface from,” she adds.
One floor down, there isn’t time to enjoy the view. Passengers wait in line. Sena moves with practiced speed, filling cups, taking payments, wiping the coffee pot’s rim. Canan runs music in the background, a low hum over the clatter of cups. Tonight she and two friends bring life to Fatih with a performance—their guitar and bass drum ready, a microphone and loudspeaker in hand, and a basket of money at their feet. “Welcome everyone, have a nice trip,” Canan greets the crowd before the show begins. Many turn to listen; some record the moment on their phones as the harbor lights drift by the rail.
“We don’t work in the morning because people go to work and we don’t want to bother them, but in the afternoon people like to listen to music. When folks come home, we add color to their journey. We’ve had a good run and helped create this nostalgic vibe on boat trips,” Canan explains. “We can play twenty-minute sets. It’s a place where those in front know they’ll hear us until the last note. It’s a habit that earns more than most gigs, but money isn’t the sole purpose; we do this because we love it.”
Night falls and the harbor fills with passengers boarding Fatih to return home. Canan and her friends thank those who leave a tip as the pier lowers and the door slides shut. The day ends for them, but Fatih still carries on, stitching together continents and stories as it heads toward its next departure.
Flashback
Fatih’s world shifted in 1973 when the first Bosphorus bridge opened, linking Asia and Europe and creating new competition for ferries. The old rhythm of river crossings changed as bridges, subways, and tunnels multiplied. The ferry, once a central artery, became a more nostalgic option. The vessel rarely filled to capacity now; seats used to be scarce, and a simple ride was a shared moment of transition.
As the sun sinks, the harbor grows quiet yet busy with people ready to leave Fatih behind for the night. Canan and her two friends prepare their instruments, tuning strings and checking amps. The crowd’s energy rises with the evening air, and the performers move with a confident ease. Visitors drift away with the memory of a small concert on the water, and the ship continues its voyage, connecting neighborhoods and generations in a single, winding journey.