Young Writers Society

My eyes are like skin panes, and pink white in the brightest sun. I open them and see the immutable grey, the lack of vegetation, of the Swedish skjærgårdsø that scatter in front of towns and part paths of ocean. The ocean breaks constantly as the giant, formed clouds slowly pass. I look out towards the horizon and see the sun exiting into the ocean and for a moment nature finds nirvana, donning pink in both the clouds and the narrows of the ocean.

I get into my boat, rocking it with each step, ready to make my way home. Perhaps I'll see Annabel tomorrow, I think. I pull at the cord of the engine and its first violent rev breaks the tone of the island. I begin steering the boat towards the pier where dots of people are bathing. I wonder why I choose to come here, alone. Annabel is most likely there with the other people, maybe bathing. I wish I could find the strength to go and bathe as well but I know I wouldn't be well received. I don't sell myself well enough. I dismiss the thought and return to the boat and its troubles, giving it more gas. I see a strong kid of my age jump from the peer, tightening himself into the proper form, and splitting the water. I wish.

Later that night, I lie picturing my Annabel and the islands and the ocean. It will take incredible resolve, but I'll venture out to the pier tomorrow, I think to myself. Hopefully she'll be there, lying in the sun or bathing. And after a couple of jumps or relaxed minutes on the rock, I can move forward towards Annabel, where she sits lost from her friends, and give a meaningful, "hello". One that'll spur her. One that'll accompany a long look and rumbles of love. The more I think about it, the more I believe it might actually happen. I start to believe I'm peering into the future. And as I descend into myself, I lay in bed like a fragile piece of glass. Even the cold wind from my window might break me. 

In the morning, I get out of my bed, hopeful. I go down the stairs and have a couple pieces of hard bread with liver paste. My parents aren't awake and so I leave quietly with my life vest, lunch, and keys. I have the life vest just in case I decide to take out the boat. I start out on my bike towards the pier. On my ride, I see everything that matters. I see the birds hovering on the wind, the crops with intermittent flowers swaying, and the eyes of cows looking in the fields. It's an unlocked pleasure, amplified by the wind in my face. I approach the pier and slot my bike into one of the metal divots, I'm not sure what they're called. I sit down on the large rock that defines the pier, which is covered with groups of people. I sit in a space without people, and I sit because I dislike lying on rock without a towel. I also sit because, from that position, I can spot different bugs that crawl along the rock. I scan the crowd of people hopeful to see Annabel but it seems like she isn't there. How can she not be here? Perhaps, Annabel is doing something better than being down at the pier, swimming. Something more exciting. This seems highly likely and is aided by the fact that I think very highly of her. Very well, I think. Today will be another day of boating, journeying, and thinking. And with that, I find the idle strength to get of the rock and move out towards my boat. I walk out to the other side of the pier where the boats are kept and move the thought of Annabel back into the recess of my mind in anticipation of the journey. I unhitch the boat. 

On the ocean, the blades of water don't look like they normally do. They aren't blades anymore. They resemble spirals now and I assume, if I had an expert, he would reason that the laws of current had been rewritten. He would then proceed to quit his job. It was that magical and I knew I could spend an entire day on the bending water. It was probably not enough to amuse Annabel, though. Nevertheless, the water was truly strange and I could see the white and grey zebra looking fish were perplexed by it. I decided then that, when I arrived at an island, I would have to take a swim. 

As I approached the island, one that had peaked my interest, I looked for a nice cove to tie my boat and also inspected the surrounding water. The water around the island was much denser than the water I had seen when I was leaving the pier. The water in the pier was almost clear and you could see the limpid plants and grey rocks. Here, the water was deep and covering. It also didn't have the smell of wet gasoline and fish, which the town often had. I tied the boat off and got onto the island. I ate looking out at the parted ocean and enjoyed my sandwiches, which always tasted better on these islands. After a little while, I decided to go swimming into the spiral water.

It was so unbearably cold, probably nineteen degrees Celsius, which for me is very cold. I was never the type of person who could jump into water. I rationalize the pain all too well. I, instead, like to inch into the water, patting myself with the it, until I can't feel anything. Neither a touch, nor the water. While I descended slowly into it, I noticed how incredibly strange it truly looked. The ocean looked as if pebbles were being dropped into the it, from underneath the white film. It was as imperceptible to touch as the normal blades of water. I looked down at my feet and the zebra looking fish were here, at this island, as well. But now, the fish weren't perplexed at all. The water rippled and the fish couldn't care less. They were concentrated on finding food, mating, and protecting their young, or perhaps just wandering the ocean. One of them looked up at me with those dumb fish eyes, and It made me feel sad. 

Back at home, my mind had wandered back to Annabel. The idea of being with someone so attractive. The aimless gazes that would find focus with us. And her friends that would adore me. It was all too much to think about. It was a thick, powerful, cheap pleasure and Annabel in my mind was perfect. She was a goal of betterment and tomorrow I would seek to find her.

The next morning, I went out on my bike with the hope that she'd be sprawled out against the rock. She'd be wearing yellow but it would only cover a portion of her. The rest of her would lay there naturally against the smooth granite and you'd be able to see in her smile that she enjoyed the heat. A small smirk on the left side of her mouth. She'll have lied there for hours before I arrive and no one will have had the courage to disturb her. I'll have the courage, I think. I'm biking, with this in mind, recklessly along the gravel paths they have in Sweden, the unkempt side roads. And when I arrive at a patch of downhill, I'll never think once to grip the brakes. I'll gain speed, racing down the hill with the building wind and the music blaring in my headphones. I'll know then that I'm cool. That on this earth, I'm enjoying myself.

When I arrive at the pier, the picture in mind has already been rivaled. The flat piece of stone I'd imagined her lying on is empty. My hope isn't lost, though. I pass the metal divots and ride my bike up to the pier. The pier has less people than it did before and my Annabel is nowhere to be found. I look behind the large rock and by some of the houses that rest alongside the ocean. She’s not there. The first day of failure was bearable. It was easily accepted, but now, with this new affliction piercing the wound of yesterday, my resolve is on the verge of breaking. I look out to the ocean and then back to the road. The pier is hopeless, but maybe I can find her somewhere else. But where? I barely know where she likes to go.

Out on the sea, I look for an island to dock ship. It can't be the same one as yesterday, I know that for sure. If I were to venture out to the same island, day after day, the days would start to lull and the pain of Annabel would be bare, unmasked. No, it was essential that today it would be a different island.

After rocking with the sea for some time, I stumbled upon one that had interesting formations and vegetation. I decided to board it. As I reduced my engine, and start aimlessly rocking towards the side of the giant rock, I saw that the island was an entirely different shade of grey. The skjærgårdsø were always a specific grey. The unmistakable grey granite that was impenetrable and as hard as bedrock. Now, the grey was noticeably darker and, even through the sense of sight, noticeably penetrable.  (to be continued)