Майя Лунде - The End of the Ocean

“Daddy?”

“OK, OK.”

I climbed down, took hold of the ladder and leaned it against the end of the boat instead. A swim ladder was attached up there and the ladder became an extension of this, like I was climbing up from the bottom of the ocean.

I tried again; it was easier to keep my balance now, the stand didn’t grumble. I climbed up a couple of rungs to make sure it would hold.

No creaking now, it felt solid and stable.

I jumped down to the ground again, reached my arms out towards Lou.

“You can climb right in front of me. I’ll take care of you the whole time.”

She didn’t reply, looking uncertainly at the ladder.

“Come on.” I nodded towards the boat. “It’s like the ladder to the slide on the playground… at home, just a little longer. And I’m right behind you.”

She drew a breath, looked up at the boat, walked over to the ladder and stepped onto the first rung.

“Good, Lou.”

She climbed right in front of me, between my arms. I looked directly into her neck, which was slender and tanned and still a little dirty. I hadn’t noticed that she hadn’t washed everything off when she showered. She should have had somebody to help her. Sometimes I wished she had been a boy. It would perhaps have been easier.

She started climbing more quickly. I had to concentrate on keeping up with her. She took determined steps upwards, climbing like the child she was, boy or girl. First she lifted her right foot, and then her left, up to the same rung, so both feet were solidly planted on one rung before she attempted the next.

Then she reached the top. She struggled to get over the railing, but I pushed her up from her bum.

When she was finally standing on deck, she smiled.

“I was first.”

“That you were.”

I climbed up after her, crawling up over the railing. I stood on deck for a moment, looking around.

A bench on either side, a tiller in the middle.

An opening covered by boards, a keyhole in the board on top.

Another keyhole—for the engine, no doubt—and some instruments down along the floor, a couple of measuring devices and a lever for the gas and gears.

And a cool breeze was blowing through the air. We were just far enough above the ground to feel the effect.

The floor and bench in the cockpit were made of wood that looked dry, a gray color, blistered, as if in need of oil or stain.

Only the helm had been preserved, the lacquered finish was still shiny. The woodwork was golden.

I positioned myself in front of it, took hold with my right hand. Planting my feet on deck, I straddled my legs and shaded my eyes from the sun with my hand like I was scanning the sea.

“Ship ahoy!”

Lou laughed her one-of-a-kind laughter.

“Land in sight! Can you see land?” I asked in a skipper’s voice.

“No,” she said. “It’s not land.”

“You’re right, it’s not land, just the ocean, as far as I can see. And waves. Huge waves.”

“A storm!” Lou said.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “The captain will pilot you safely through this.”

“Are you the captain?”

“That I am… and look! Do you see the pirate ship?”

We sailed. We fought off pirates. We met dolphins and a mermaid. Lou shouted, gesticulating with her arms, and took the helm. She laughed loudly.

Soon she wanted to be the captain. And I became an obedient sailor, albeit a pretty stupid one. She had to explain everything to me, while she laughed even more. Because the sailor got everything mixed up, couldn’t tell the difference between right and left, port and stern, and was afraid of everything, especially the pirates.

But we made it, nonetheless. Thanks to an amazing ride on the backs of two dolphins. And especially, thanks to her.

“Thank God for your heroism and your shrewdness, Captain,” I said.

“Shrewdness?”

“That means to be sly,” I said. “You are a sly captain.”

We played for an hour, maybe two. I breathed easily up there on deck, beneath the shadow of the trees, where there was a breeze.

But Lou kept looking at the boards that blocked off the opening.

“Can we open the door?”

“No,” I said.

And she wouldn’t let it go.

“We have to open it,” she said a little while later and pounded on the boards. “You can break them, can’t you?”

“We can’t go around breaking other people’s things,” I said.

“Oh. OK, then,” she said, her face ashamed.

Then she thought about it. “But they’re not here?”

Lou didn’t ask for things very often. And she didn’t give up very often either.

“Fine,” I said. “We can see if there is a key inside.” “Where?”

I pointed. “In the house.”

“But isn’t the house locked too?”

“We may have to break something, then,” I said. “After all.”

“We won’t tell anyone,” she said quietly.

I had to laugh.

We broke a window in the back and entered what turned out to be the living room.

I tiptoed through the house, but stopped when I realized what I was doing and began walking normally. I could stomp as loudly as I liked. There was nobody around who could hear us anyway.

The rooms were simple, unpretentious. Not many ornaments, just an overloaded bookshelf against the wall in the living room, and on one of the long walls a photograph of a snow-covered mountain by a fjord.

The people who had lived here must have left without taking much with them. Maybe just clothing and the most essential items.

I suddenly felt like I was trespassing on somebody else’s life and hurried through the rooms to the front of the house. I stepped out into the hallway.

There on the wall was a key cabinet. So simple. Tidy. It looked like a little bathhouse, with yellow and white stripes, the old-fashioned kind that could still be found in some places by the beach.

Anna and I always misplaced our keys. We agreed they should be put somewhere specific, but it was like we could never decide where. I had bought a couple of hooks, but never hung them up. We could never agree on where they should hang and whether we could just screw them directly into the wall or if we needed wall plugs.

We weren’t very good at such things. I was quite handy—it wasn’t that. It was just that there were so many decisions to be made and we had to make them together, which made it difficult. Even the simple task of putting up a few key hooks.

But here the keys hung in rows. It was easy to spot the one I was looking for. A small key at the end of a blue string, attached to a huge, round clump of cork. Of course. It was a key with a life jacket.

Lou stood beside me, a bit too close, panting eagerly into my ear as I tried to unlock the hatch, twisting and wiggling the key. I tried applying some muscle.

“Sit down on the bench,” I said.

“But then I can’t see.”

“You can see afterwards.”

I tried again, yanking away, roughly. The key turned in the lock.

I had to fiddle with it a bit before I discovered that what was above the entryway was actually a hatch that could be slid backwards and that I had to push this back before I could loosen the two boards that were the door.

The lower board was wedged stuck, as if there were a vacuum in the woodwork. But Lou was on her feet again and standing close to me, peeking into the boat.

“There are benches inside, too,” she said.

“Mm.”

“And a table.”

I gave the board a solid kick. It gave way, loosened. And then it could be pulled up.

Lou peeked inside, clapped her hands.

“How cozy!” She spun around. “It’s so cozy!”