Page 4 of If I Go Down with This Ship

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 aboveas 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 inlakes 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.

As if by some magic, the bits I’ve been struggling with, the missing pieces in my research start to fall together.I see the ghosts of a crew moving about, zipping between barrels, running up and down stairs and climbing ropes to the tops of masts.I pull out my pen and notebook and begin jotting down bullet points, laughing as I fill in an entire page before flipping it over and starting on the next.Louise was right; this is helping.

Folding the journal closed and tucking it into my back pocket, I turn and tentatively step up to the railing, pausing as I look out over the water.It’s eerie and silent, the ship rocking gently.It still smells a bit like fish on board, but the odor is slightly muted.If I don’t look directly down, it’s not as bad, so I look straight ahead, focusing on the buildings and landmarks along the Thames.I run my hands over the railing, its freshly stained wood smooth beneath my fingers as I glance over the netting and in between the long beams where the center of the deck dips down into a lower level.Surrounding it are thin strips of rope that stretch to the quarter deck and to the wheel waiting patiently for command, and to the poopdeck up above.Squinting ahead, I see the forecastle in the front by the foremast.

Pulling out my notebook again, I sketch a messy illustration.

“Thank you again, George,” Louise says from somewhere to my left.“I know this isn’t mywheelhouse, but this is a real treat for my brother.”

She snickers, but neither George nor I acknowledge her pun.I nod my thanks to him, crossing the ship to run a finger along the mast in the back, my steps surer than they were a few minutes ago.It’s strange to stand on this piece of history.A replica, maybe, but still, it’s a reminder of a place where real people sailed and slept and fought and died.Not that I’d ever want to be a pirate, not really, but the freedom they must have felt out on the water, what does that feel like?

“So,” George starts, crossing to me, “you like pirates, I take it?”