It was a story his father had always loved, the tale of a mysterious ship that fishermen and traders would see on the horizon, yet could never reach. Then one day word swept the coast that the ship had been seen again, and his father announced that he was going in search of it.

That was the last they had seen of him.

But Jan had not stopped waiting, not stopped hoping. Which is why he was squatting at the water’s edge now, looking for a sign of his father’s ship.

The gulls wheeled overhead, shrieking raucously. The waves rolled in to smash against the beach, splashing him with warm brine. The huge yellow eye of the merciless sun glared down at him. And the smooth line of sky and sea remained unbroken.

But still he watched, as he had always done when he was not busy on some task for his mother. Now that she was gone, too—a victim of the fever that had ravaged the coast the previous year—watching was what he did most of the time.

After an hour of squinting at the horizon without seeing any sign of a ship, the boy sighed heavily, stood, and stretched. He gave a final seaward glance, then began to wander down the beach. He moved slowly, enjoying the feel of the warm water as it foamed and bubbled over his toes.

A group of gulls that had gathered on the sand ahead began scolding for the sake of scolding. Jan tossed a pebble listlessly in their direction. They ignored him. He shrugged and continued down the beach, until he came to the hut of Samos, the blind net maker.

The old man paused in his work as the boy approached. After a moment he smiled and said, “Jan.” It was both a greeting and a statement of pleasure. Even so, it made Jan shiver. The way Samos could tell who was standing nearby without being able to see made him uncomfortable. It was, however, the only thing about the man that Jan found disturbing. In all other ways it felt good to be with him, for he would talk to Jan in ways that others would not, offering him advice, wisdom, lore of the sea, and most of all sympathy, which the other fisherfolk thought was a sign of softness, and would make him weak.

“No sign of your father?” asked the old man. His fingers, thick and twisted with age, yet amazingly supple, resumed work on the net he was repairing.

“No.” The word was bitter in Jan’s mouth. He felt like a fool, still waiting, still hoping, after all this time.