1. Just a Hop, Skiff, and a Jump Away #2
But I seem to be anchored to my dock, unwilling to lift the gangplank and sail off toward that something catching my eye on the horizon.
The brakes squeal as the bus slows, and Louise and I jostle into each other as it jerks to an abrupt stop.
“I can’t help you find love, Lasz, but let’s see if I can help you with your writing problem.
Come on.” Grabbing my hand, she yanks me through the crowd, out the back doors as they open, and onto the sidewalk.
I let her drag me through the city and down to Sunset Dock, an odd little shopping center built up around an old dock along the Thames. The area is crowded with families and couples walking leisurely with shopping bags and treats on an altogether pleasant and not-so-dreary London day.
We move past someone unloading fish. The smell hits me and I gag, covering my mouth and nose with my hand. “What are we doing here, Louise?” I ask, my voice muffled.
She grabs my free hand, walking backward through the crowd as she motions wildly to the space. “Do you remember when we were kids and you went on that trip to Victoria BC, where you had to board the ferry?”
The memory makes my stomach churn. “Don’t remind me.”
“I think the hang-up on your pirate book is this, Lasz. You’re scared of water. And you never got over it. How the hell are you supposed to write a pirate book if you can’t even board a ship yourself?”
I can’t help but think this is a metaphor for something else and she knows it, but I won’t give her the satisfaction of acknowledging it.
“I can board a ship if I want to,” I protest. Even still, I know she’s right. The water had been so choppy that day on the way to Victoria that the dark depths outside the railing had given me nightmares for weeks. To this day, I can’t bring myself to board a water vessel of any kind.
We turn the corner, and there, towering above the street, flag billowing in the wind, is a small ship flying under the Jolly Roger.
“Then do it,” Louise says.
It’s a new ship, one that hasn’t been through a battle or sea voyages, wars or raids, or any of the other terrible things pirate ships must endure.
I’ve walked past this area dozens of times and I have never seen it before in my life.
The ship’s not nearly as large as I would have expected.
The wood and the black paint are so new, it’s nearly gleaming in the November sun, and large letters along the side read She Deceitful in a slender font.
I open my mouth to mention that no pirate crew in their right mind would actually paint their ship’s name along the side, but nothing comes out, awe taking over as I step closer, hand outstretched as though to touch it. Something settles inside me.
“Where did you find this?” I whisper, tearing my eyes away and looking to Louise.
“I’ve got a friend.”
She lurches forward and hugs me around the waist, and, laughing, I wrap my arm around her.
“Oh, before I forget…” She fishes around in her purse and produces a clear bag. “Put your phone in that. Don’t want to lose it over the side of the ship. We both know how clumsy you are.”
I slip my phone in and zip it up, sliding it into my pocket. “You know me so well.”
Angling back, I squint against the blue sky to the top of the masts.
There are two, the several sails and ropes tied up and out of the way for the time being.
There has always been something so wondrous about the seafaring pirate life to me, something I’ve secretly yearned for.
It’s why I chose to write this book, to fill the pages with what I can’t bring myself to find.
Adventure.
Real adventure. Not me wandering around the globe, living out of a suitcase. Not me drinking in pubs on my own, writing stories for imaginary characters. Real-life adventure.
“And,” Louise says, pulling away as an older man walks down the gangplank toward us, “we have it all to ourselves today!”
“Wait, you want me to get on that thing?” I hiss.
“Louise!” the man exclaims, holding out a hand as he nears us.
“Lou, it’s very cool and all, but I’m not actually getting on it.”
“Lasz, it’s docked. It’s not gonna hurt you.” She turns to the man, grinning. “George, it’s a pleasure to see you again. This is my brother, Laszlo.”
I hold out my hand, eyes going to the white canvas above as I murmur a quiet “Nice to meet you,” mouth hanging open as Louise tugs me toward the gangplank.
“George was kind enough to offer a private tour,” Louise goes on. “I’ve had it in my mind to take you here since a colleague showed me the model they’d created out of some findings.”
“It’s the off season,” George says, a smile in his voice. “Besides, who could say no to Louise?”
Who indeed?
Louise has always been stubborn and caring and determined, but she’s also always looked out for me in a way I can’t repay, texting me day in and day out, traveling halfway around the world to check on me and drag me out of my flat, even though I’m a bit sweaty and disgusting. She nudges my side encouragingly.
“I can’t do this,” I say, backing away.
She latches onto my wrist, her hold gentle. “Laszlo, if not now, then when? How the hell are you going to write a book about pirates if you can’t even get on a docked ship?”
How indeed.
My eyes go down to the narrow slit of water between the ship and the dock.
I used to love the water. It wasn’t difficult to imagine pirate ships and adventures on the high seas when you could drive one hour west and taste the salt in the air, dip your feet in the Pacific Ocean on one of Oregon’s picturesque beaches.
On sunny Saturdays in Portland, we’d walk down to Saturday Market and stroll along the water, the Willamette River crystal blue and shimmering under the sun.
It would be littered with boats, and as my ice cream melted and dripped down my hand, splattering onto the grass, I’d wonder, Could that be my life someday?
While we were growing up, our mom took us to swim in lakes after long hikes in the Gorge.
We’d take day trips out to the coast and jump into the Pacific, laughing even as our teeth chattered.
I grew up surrounded by water, but when I went on that dreadful ferry ride to Victoria, it broke something in me.
As the waves crashed against the ferry, I realized then what the sea could do, how violent it could be.
I had to be practically carried onto the ferry for the journey back.
I think a part of me has always wondered what could have been if I’d never taken that ferry ride, if I could have hopped on a boat and seen where the wind could take me instead of exploring crypts and haunted castles.
If I could be as free as the pirates in the stories are.
I stare up at the masts, my fears weighing me down. The fear of not meeting a deadline. Step. The fear of not trying. Step. The fear of being trapped. Step. The fear of never finding love, of being too afraid to welcome it should it come. Step.
Before I know it, I’m climbing up the gangplank, starting toward the ship.
It’s not nearly as easy as I’d imagined, and I’m suddenly thankful for my phone being safely squared away in the bag in my pocket as I teeter there, forcing my gaze ahead of me before hopping down to the ship.
I press a hand to my stomach, the back of my throat burning as my legs go wobbly beneath me.
Stumbling to the side, I catch myself on the railing before squeezing my eyes shut.
You’ve got this, Laszlo. Just breathe, just fucking breathe.
We’re still docked, for crying out loud.
Exhaling, I force my eyes open and turn slowly, marveling at the ship.
It looks like the ones in movies; the only difference is the newness.
It feels too empty with only the three of us aboard.
How many people could it normally fit? A full crew? Or only a smaller one?
“How are you feeling?” Louise asks, touching my elbow.
“Okay,” I admit, wiping my sleeve across my forehead. I stagger away from the railing and place my palms against one of the masts to steady myself. Leaning forward, I press my forehead to the wood, inhaling.
It smells of fresh pine and salt water. It reminds me of the docks along the Oregon coast, all those summers with Lou and my mom coming back to me. A breeze whips around me, making me shiver as I drag my hands from the mast and muster up enough energy to push off, turning to admire the ship.