The morning air on Victoria Harbour tastes like salt and diesel — a scent that, to me, is the perfume of home. I’m sitting on the upper deck of the Star Ferry, the green-and-white grand dame of Hong Kong’s commuter life, cradling a coffee that’s going cold. Below me, the water is the colour of worn jade, shifting with the tide.

It’s early, just after eight, and the ferry is filled with a blend of sharp suits, school uniforms, and the occasional tourist clutching a camera. A woman next to me balances a paper bag of egg tarts on her knees; the sweet, buttery aroma cuts through the briny air. The slow churn of the ferry’s diesel engine is steady, hypnotic.

I’ve taken trains across Europe, bullet-speed rides in Tokyo, tuk-tuks in Bangkok, but nothing compares to this — the slow, seven-minute glide from Tsim Sha Tsui to Central.

The fare is still measured in coins. The benches are still wood, smooth from a century of passengers. The windows still swing open with a push of the hand, letting in the sting of sea air.

The Star Ferry is not just a way to cross the harbour. It is a living relic, launched in 1888 with a single boat named the Morning Star. Back then, the crossing cost a penny. Since then, it has survived two World Wars, the Japanese occupation, typhoons, economic booms, and recessions. In a city that sheds its skin every few years, the Star Ferry’s endurance feels almost rebellious.

As a boy, I would press my forehead to the wooden railing, the wind flattening my hair, and pretend I was on a grand voyage. My grandmother would sit beside me, carrying vegetables from the wet market, pointing out the buildings she remembered from her youth — many now replaced by mirrored glass towers. She would tell me about the time she rode the ferry during a typhoon, the decks slick with rain, the crew tying ropes across the gangways to keep passengers from slipping.

I left Hong Kong at 18 for university in London, then stayed away for nearly a decade. In that time, I learned to crave the ferry’s unhurried pace — a small island of slowness in a city that never stops running. When I returned last year, I made a quiet promise to myself: I would take the Star Ferry at least once a week, no matter where I was headed.

This morning, as we pull away from the pier, the skyline opens up in both directions — Central’s serrated steel towers on one side, the neon ghosts of Kowloon on the other. Between them, the harbour swells and narrows with the tide, a liquid mirror reflecting a century of history.

In the early days, the Star Ferry was the only reliable link between Hong Kong Island and the Kowloon Peninsula. Before the Cross-Harbour Tunnel, before the MTR, before skyscrapers claimed the skyline, it was the lifeline for workers, traders, and families. Even as bridges and tunnels arrived, the ferry remained — partly because it was cheap, partly because it was beautiful, and partly because it became something bigger than transportation.

It became a stage. Countless love stories have started here — a lingering glance across the aisle, a conversation sparked by the shared ritual of watching the skyline slide past. Protests have been planned on these decks. Families have reunited here after years apart. Generations have learned to measure their lives not just in years, but in ferry crossings.

The bell rings, a deep metallic clang, as we pass another Star Ferry going the opposite way. For a moment, the two vessels rock gently in each other’s wake. The sound is both practical and ceremonial — a nod, a greeting, a reminder that this crossing is part of a larger rhythm that has been repeating for more than 135 years.

I like to imagine the layers of memory contained in this narrow channel of water: colonial parades, fireworks, protest banners, the hum of a thousand fare boxes clicking open and shut. To ride the Star Ferry is to share space with all those moments — not as a spectator in a museum, but as a participant in something still alive.

On days like this, I am one of millions who have ridden her decks. That makes me feel small, but in the best possible way. It’s like joining a chorus that has been singing for over a century — my voice not leading, just adding a note to the swell.

As we approach Central Pier, the wind picks up. The skyline looms taller, its glass towers reflecting the morning light in shards. Tourists lift their phones for one last shot. Office workers stand, already shouldering their bags, ready to slip back into the city’s current.

The ferry eases into its berth with a gentle bump. The crew throws the thick, salt-stiffened ropes over the bollards, and the wooden gangway thumps into place. I step onto the pier knowing I’ll make this crossing again tomorrow, and the day after that. Not because it’s the fastest way to get to work — it isn’t — but because it’s a reminder that in a city always looking forward, some things are still worth keeping exactly as they are.

By Daniel Woo

Bio: Daniel Woo, 32, is a Hong Kong–born brand strategist who left for university in London and stayed away for a decade. He writes about urban nostalgia, heritage, and how cities remember themselves.