captain’s perch and slots herself between her mother’s knees. She sucks the whistle knotted to the collar of her life vest and gawks at Else, who pretends not to notice. Some hundred metres from the dock, a flotilla of boats waits for the signal to begin. Their flags beat in the breeze, flaunting their colours in a billowing stream across the sky.
Lars fits a key into the ignition and the speedboat’s motor whirs. ‘Andreas!’ he calls. ‘Get the ropes!’
His son scrabbles ashore to unpick the moorings and lobs them into the hull. When Andreas has reclaimed his spot next to Liv, Lars pushes off from the pier. They glide into the fjord and merge with the summer solstice parade.
It starts with a gunshot. A wooden sjekte garlanded with flowers noses out in front, slow-powering parallel to the dock while the rest of the vessels float after it in untidy rows. Trond Rastad shouts from the neighbouring boat.
‘Haven’t we been lucky with the day?’ He beams when Lars agrees and tips a brown beer bottle at him. ‘Welcome home!’ he calls.
The boats putter on, following the line of the harbour. Victoria stands and, squatting by the door to the cabin, gathers up a column of plastic cups from the floor. She serves the first round of drinks: Coke for the kids, white wine for the adults. Else sips and narrows her eyes against the sun. In spite of her mood and the present company, her body responds to the nudge of the water. The motor’sbuzz tickles the soles of her feet. Her back teeth hum when she bites them together.
She takes another gulp of wine and tries to remember when she was last on a boat. It must have been before Tenvik sold his farm. While Liv and Andreas wave at the spectators on land and Victoria raves about her new kitchen, Else distracts herself with thoughts of their summer outings into the skerry when Marianne was a child. She recalls her daughter’s excitement as she chattered in the bow seat, her chest puffed in an orange life preserver while Tenvik piloted his skiff and Else unwound her mackerel line into the deep, taking care not to snag her fingers on its hooks.
When the flotilla reaches the Longpier, it breaks apart. Lars spins the steering wheel to aim the speedboat at the islands that fend off the Skagerrak. At the limit of the no wake zone, he jams down the throttle and the prow cants into the air.
‘Lars!’ shrieks Victoria. ‘Slow down!’
The speedboat races towards the sea, careening through a flock of seagulls that bobs on the water, launching them into the sky. The wind scrapes Else’s hair off her forehead and she clutches her handbag close, not even letting go to wipe her leaking eyes. She is too old for this kind of ride. The children scream, thrilled when they slam into the first wave. Spray rains over the deck. Else wants to grab Marianne’s arm, but makes do with gripping her handbag tighter.
She relaxes her hold when Lars turns into the calmer currents of a fjord and zips past the slower boat traffic to cut a path inland. Here, along the coast, summerhouses with mowed lawns and tended flowerbeds vie for space on the waterfront. Else marvels at the number of new properties, at the giant windows carved into their walls and the monstrous boats docked at their piers. In preparation for the evening’s bonfires, piles of wood have been stacked on outcrops of rock. Already the odd blaze shines in the distance.
Lars eases back the throttle when the speedboat arrives in the skerry. The search begins for somewhere to drop anchor. Other boats have claimed the spots that are most sheltered from the wind and now their captains hurl ropes to fix their prows before leaping to land. On the islands, their families lay out picnics. Children scamper between the trees and inspect crab corpses dashed by seagulls on the rocks.
‘That looks like it’s going to be a good one,’ says Liv, pointing to a tower of driftwood that has yet to be set alight.
Andreas calls over his shoulder.
Lars fits a key into the ignition and the speedboat’s motor whirs. ‘Andreas!’ he calls. ‘Get the ropes!’
His son scrabbles ashore to unpick the moorings and lobs them into the hull. When Andreas has reclaimed his spot next to Liv, Lars pushes off from the pier. They glide into the fjord and merge with the summer solstice parade.
It starts with a gunshot. A wooden sjekte garlanded with flowers noses out in front, slow-powering parallel to the dock while the rest of the vessels float after it in untidy rows. Trond Rastad shouts from the neighbouring boat.
‘Haven’t we been lucky with the day?’ He beams when Lars agrees and tips a brown beer bottle at him. ‘Welcome home!’ he calls.
The boats putter on, following the line of the harbour. Victoria stands and, squatting by the door to the cabin, gathers up a column of plastic cups from the floor. She serves the first round of drinks: Coke for the kids, white wine for the adults. Else sips and narrows her eyes against the sun. In spite of her mood and the present company, her body responds to the nudge of the water. The motor’sbuzz tickles the soles of her feet. Her back teeth hum when she bites them together.
She takes another gulp of wine and tries to remember when she was last on a boat. It must have been before Tenvik sold his farm. While Liv and Andreas wave at the spectators on land and Victoria raves about her new kitchen, Else distracts herself with thoughts of their summer outings into the skerry when Marianne was a child. She recalls her daughter’s excitement as she chattered in the bow seat, her chest puffed in an orange life preserver while Tenvik piloted his skiff and Else unwound her mackerel line into the deep, taking care not to snag her fingers on its hooks.
When the flotilla reaches the Longpier, it breaks apart. Lars spins the steering wheel to aim the speedboat at the islands that fend off the Skagerrak. At the limit of the no wake zone, he jams down the throttle and the prow cants into the air.
‘Lars!’ shrieks Victoria. ‘Slow down!’
The speedboat races towards the sea, careening through a flock of seagulls that bobs on the water, launching them into the sky. The wind scrapes Else’s hair off her forehead and she clutches her handbag close, not even letting go to wipe her leaking eyes. She is too old for this kind of ride. The children scream, thrilled when they slam into the first wave. Spray rains over the deck. Else wants to grab Marianne’s arm, but makes do with gripping her handbag tighter.
She relaxes her hold when Lars turns into the calmer currents of a fjord and zips past the slower boat traffic to cut a path inland. Here, along the coast, summerhouses with mowed lawns and tended flowerbeds vie for space on the waterfront. Else marvels at the number of new properties, at the giant windows carved into their walls and the monstrous boats docked at their piers. In preparation for the evening’s bonfires, piles of wood have been stacked on outcrops of rock. Already the odd blaze shines in the distance.
Lars eases back the throttle when the speedboat arrives in the skerry. The search begins for somewhere to drop anchor. Other boats have claimed the spots that are most sheltered from the wind and now their captains hurl ropes to fix their prows before leaping to land. On the islands, their families lay out picnics. Children scamper between the trees and inspect crab corpses dashed by seagulls on the rocks.
‘That looks like it’s going to be a good one,’ says Liv, pointing to a tower of driftwood that has yet to be set alight.
Andreas calls over his shoulder.
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