The Wreck of the Sæbjörn

Pulling up to the house, the first thing I noticed was the pirate on the front lawn. If I told you I remembered the name of the boy in my car, I’d be lying. Was he a man? He was. I say “boy” because I felt bad for him, and when I’m filled with pity, men become boys. I asked about the pirate. He told me not to worry, because the pirate was from Iceland and Icelandic pirates are known to be docile in the winter months. They have to be. They’re freezing to death.

I asked the name of the house, but it was unpronounceable. The boy took a piece of paper and a bent pen out of my glove compartment and wrote it down--

The Sæbjörn

I looked at the patch over his left eye.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

He told me it meant “Sea Bear.” The house didn’t look like a ship to me, but there was water all around it except for the one patch of grass the pirate was standing on. I didn’t see a crow’s nest or sails, but the house did rock back and forth ever so slightly. On the second floor, a light was flickering. From a lantern? The boy in my front seat told me that it was his uncle’s house. I’d be lying if I said I remembered the uncle’s name although he did tell it to me. There was a long “e” sound in it, and some guttural sounds that were like the clearing of a throat. The boy told me that his uncle had just celebrated his 61st birthday, and that two days before that, he’d gotten an early onset diagnosis. He was the third man in the family to receive that assessment. The boy was already taking care of his grandfather, and the third had died the previous summer. The boy’s father. The order was all wrong. It showed no logic. No sense. I noticed a seagull on the roof of the Sæbjörn. I didn’t think seagulls perched alone in the colder months.

The boy’s plan was to do a road trip with his uncle all the way back to Iceland. I told him you can’t cross an ocean in a Toyota Corolla. They couldn’t drive back in the Sæbjörn, because they were selling it to the pirate, who was hanging out until the sale was final. The light went out on the second floor. A strong wind lifted the house, and then gently broke it back down.

“My uncle is finished writing for the night,” the boy said, staring out my passenger window.

I asked what he writes, and he told me it’s mostly memories. He wants to get them all down while he can still put them in the correct timeline. I asked how his grandfather is doing, and he told me that the old man has bad days and days that fall into no category. Days that are barnacles. Days that are kelp. Days that trap you and pull you down. Days that taste briny and taut. The boy asked me if I wanted to go inside the house. We’d met earlier at a bar to have a drink. I ordered a ginger ale, and he ordered rum. It came in a specialty glass shaped like a skull and crossbones that he got to keep. I asked him how often he was in town prior to this. His family brought him here every summer, and his uncle would let him stay in the bedroom on the fifth floor of the house. It was so high up he could see the bridge in the distance that offered a way onto the island--and a way off. His bed was made of driftwood and dagmar. He’d fall asleep to the house swaying and the sound of his uncle snoring floors below. The exhales would sound like a shanty. When the boy would return to Iceland, he’d dream of New England lobster and terrified oysters opening and closing their shells.

When he told me that he was staying with a relative, I wanted to finish my ginger ale and call him an Uber. Seeing the hesitation on my face, he assured me that the house was massive. The relative would be asleep by the time our lanterns were dimmed. I agreed to the arrangement. I smelled the ocean on him. Despite living on an island, there are months that are wet and some that are dry. I’d had a dry season. Bars were empty. Cover bands only played songs from 1981. The boy showed up one day in a small square on a small phone. His profile said “Not Lost” and I sent him a photo of a map anyway. There’s no reasoning in February. There’s no rhyme that’ll make a song.

Maybe a shanty.

I told him I couldn’t go inside the house. It was different now. It wasn’t a relative. It was a man who was about to lose everything. The boy told me he’d never had anything to lose. He was the only child of the family. Now in his thirties, he was not considered to be a boy by his mother. She told him that he was now his uncle’s keeper. His grandfather’s keeper. He had been his father’s keeper, but the man had fallen overboard, and nobody could see him between the black crest of the waves and the low hum of the tide. I put my hand on his shoulder and felt a knot gripping the bottom of his neck.

I offered a kiss, but nothing more. If I told you it was all decorum that kept me from going inside the house, I’d be lying. It was fear. The ship wasn’t afloat. It was taking water. No matter how many floors there were, the sea would eventually own them all. It would never make it back to Iceland. It wouldn’t even make it out of the bay. I sang my excuses to him, and he harmonized. Taking the kiss, he asked if he could write to me. He said he’d put his messages into a bottle and aim them for the beach where I watch the surfers glide. I told him I’d look for his bottles.

He got out of the car and waved to me as he passed the sailor. As he moved towards the front door, I couldn’t tell if he was sinking or swimming.

I’d be lying if I told you I knew the difference.