What had been relatively small bays, play areas for whales, began to open wider and wider, until he began to feel the swells, the open sea giants that Old Carl said came from storms on the other side of the world, and when he looked ahead, way ahead, it was open ocean.

Big ocean.

And his boat was so small.

Still, he hated to be stopped and he thought at first that he could continue to creep along the shore, pulling up on land if the waves became difficult, continuing north. But as the swells grew only a bit larger the waves seemed to grab at the canoe, tossing it back and forth, and he found himself considering heading back south to where it was more sheltered.

And then he found the oar.

It was a full-on, long, two-handed oar, made of straight-grain spruce, no knots, and symbols he didn’t know – OSPREY – were burned into the side of the shaft.

Leif snaked it out of the water along the shore and drifted while he looked at it more closely. It was clearly off a boat that had belonged to a ship, maybe a grease boat, perhaps a whaler, and with currents and swells and wind-drift it might have come from anywhere. Worlds away, across the sea . . .

Except.

It had no weed growing on it, looked fresh and clean and virtually new, was the same colour as clean honey – yellow-gold – enough to make him salivate. Plus it had not been eaten – there were worms in the sea that rapidly ate bare wood.

So it had not been in the water long. Not even weeks, maybe days, looking so fresh Leif found himself staring ahead, thinking he might see a ship, just there, just over the horizon.

With men.

A ship, men, a world he did not want to see, to face.

There might come a day when he would have to be with that world again.

But not yet.

I am not ready for that yet.

Not quite yet.

And he slid the oar into the canoe – might have use for the wood later – whipped the canoe around and headed south, breeze and current at his back.

Headed south down into that country where the ships would not come. Find a safe island up some big inlet and make a long-camp, even a winter camp. Make a bark hut around a firepit. Smoke winter salmon and hook-take some of those big flat bottom-fish with the clear meat Old Carl had talked about all the time.

Learn more.

Work on the dream and seeing his mother’s face.

Might come out and cut north some sunny day when everything was right and see those ship people again.

But not yet.

He dug the paddle deep, felt the bow raise and slip through the water, nosing south.

Author’s Note

I’ve been working on this story a long time. All my life, really.