I was standing at the corner of the ticket office by the taxi stand, watching the ferry unload. I was hoping — please dear Lord if you really care about me — that the Easter-egg colored car edging toward the off-ramp was not our new car. It stood out brazenly among the others moving toward the exit. It was in the middle row, its shiny turquoise dome winking and blinking, shouting “Hey look at me!”

A few days earlier we had gone car shopping and color choosing. It will be our car but it’s mostly mine — Tim has his truck. I don’t know anything about cars, but I know teal, turquoise, peacock, aqua, cyan, ultramarine, sea-green, sapphire, baby blue, navy, robin’s egg.

I must have made a mistake. Surely this wasn’t the shade that looked so appealing in the Suburu showroom’s color wheel. It was called Island Blue. I thought Island Blue was a gentle, modest blue with a drop of turquoise, much like if not exactly like the muted blues of the two vehicles nearest to me on display at the Bourne auto-mile dealership. I confess the salesman said something like “not exactly” or “not really.” I ignored him. When I think Island I think of our north Atlantic rock, softly lit, a little foggy, cool. This car is not Martha’s Vineyard blue — not even Bermuda pastel. This is intense Jamaica peacock, or Trinidad fluorescent. And I am a pale former Canadian, not a tropical blossom.

The only Imprezas on the lot were black or red. A friend had warned us not to choose black because they soak up too much heat. Someone else said don’t go for red because the police pull over red cars at any opportunity. I have a touch of deep turquoise in my heart but it’s limited to small doses, nothing bigger than a T-shirt.

Coming off the ramp at the Vineyard Haven pier, the dazzling little blue car pulled over to the No Parking area where our sales consultant said he would park. He handed over the keys, some documents and reminded us which buttons to push.

When we got to the post office parking area, a neighbor called out: “It is bright, isn’t it.”

Others tell me they like it, it’s summerlike, Caribbean. You won’t lose it in a big parking lot. It’s a safety advantage for older drivers because we will be seen so easily. Older? What’s older got to do with it?

How to prove I’m actually not the type: bumper stickers. I’ll order a dozen that say “You lookin’ at me?” Or how about, “This is not what I meant,” or “Mistakes were made.” I’ll plaster on messages that tout the finest cultural attractions — the Boston Symphony, Metropolitan Opera and Metropolitan Art Gallery. I’ll renew my Buy Art bumper sticker and some that support progressive politicians.

I’ll drive through mud puddles and never wash it off. I’ll stay home on bright sunny days — the car looks great after dark. Soon the vehicle will be smothered in oak pollen and look like every other Vineyard vehicle.

The driver’s seat sits almost at street level which must be what a race car feels like. “Vroom,” I whispered to myself. The speedometer gauge circles all the way around to 150 — surely somebody’s idea of a joke. And the windshield is so big, so deep, I think of it as a picture window from which I can see nearly all the way down to my toes on the accelerator. The best thing about being inside the car is that I can’t see its outsides.

Everything works smoothly. It hugs the road. It runs along nicely, thank you. People do look at me a lot as I cruise along, and while I shrink, they are smiling, happy. I love the rear-view camera. The windows open even when the motor is turned off. It has all-wheel drive so I won’t get stuck in mud or snow ever again. People admire it, say they love the color. They say they want one.

It’s growing on me. I’ll find some reggae on the radio. I’ll sing One Love. I believe I’m sold.

Eileen Maley lives in West Tisbury.