Somewhere Over the Sea by Halfdan Freihow Read Free Book Online Page A

at school? No, what did he say?
    â€” That I might, just might, get a genuine, a real genuine lump of gold from him! Isn’t that fantastic?
    You’re bubbling so much it’s difficult to get through to you.
    â€” Yes, that’s really fantastic. We’ll just have to wait and see what comes of it, because genuine gold lumps are very expensive, you know. But do you know what? Today . . .?
    And then I tell you what I’ve planned, sneak in fragments of sentences about boat trip and barbecuing and juice and chops every time you stop to draw your breath between identical-sounding repetitions of how fantastic it is that you might get a real genuine lump of gold from Morten.
    In the end we’re agreed: we’ll have to wait and see. Now let’s go to sea.
    THERE’S BOUND TO BE an optimal logistical order in which to do these things, but I’ve never found it.
    You and Balder both hop about impatiently on the edge of the jetty and want to get into the boat, but neither of you understands that you’re in the way — that I’ve got blankets and foam mattresses and cooler and plastic bag and charcoal to load, that there’s a bow I’ve got to hold close enough to the jetty to be able to reach out for all this between your legs, but not closer, otherwise it’ll get roughed up against the concrete, that there’s a life jacket I’ve got to help you into while doing the splits, with one foot on the edge of the jetty, the other on the bow, and a motor that for God’s sake mustn’t overchoke and flood, otherwise it’ll stop, and a flooded carburetor in an outboard motor is a nightmare.
    But everything works out fine. The gear and the dog are on board, the motor is ticking over nicely, all that remains is to fold out your blanket at the forward end of the boat, and then it’s your turn. I’ve cast off fore and aft and I’m holding on to the jetty with one hand and with the other helping you step aboard. You move one foot down into the boat, stand with the other still on the jetty, and then you stop. You stare out into space, as though rehearsing something, and then you turn to me and say, completely oblivious to our current situation, as though we were sitting in the living room and not halfway through a delicate manoeuvre between land and sea:
    â€” Dad, why is it actually so fantastic that I might get a lump of real gold from Morten?
    â€” Just get into the boat! I’ve no idea! Do as I tell you!
    It all comes out much harsher and dismissive than I intend or actually feel, but honestly.
    â€” Yes but, Dad, why . . .
    â€” Gabriel!
    This time my voice leaves no room for doubt. Fortunately, you take the hint, put your other foot on board and get yourself seated comfortably. I breathe a sigh of relief, let go of the edge of the jetty, hurry aft to the motor before the current drifts us into even shallower waters, throttle out into the sound, and am about to light a cigarette, which seems to me deserved.
    The grill! I’ve forgotten the grill for the barbecue! Not much use in charcoal and white spirit and chops without a grill. As far as I can recall, it’s in the shed.
    About face and in again. I explain to you what it is I’ve forgotten, that I must go up to the house to fetch the grill, and ask if you’re sure you can sit there quietly and wait for me.
    â€” Shall I bring some toys for you while I’m at it? Some treasures, maybe?
    I ask not only to be nice, but also because doing an errand for you gives a somewhat greater legitimacy to this annoying little extra trip. You explain in detail what you want and where you think it is, and promise not to go anywhere or get into trouble while I’m gone.
    I’m still irritated by my own forgetfulness as I stomp back up toward the house; but then for a moment I contemplate that it’s probably pouring down over in Arendal, and at once my mood is again as