"Over there!" Vincent cried, pointing at a nearby ship. His splintered feet bolted towards the end of the dock. He did not stop, but he slowed down, and in the boat he could not see any passengers.
"Where's all the people?" he asked, glancing up towards his father. Alder felt a sudden chill. There was no breeze. The sea was as flat as a plate-glass window.
"They must be on the other side," he answered confidently, "or perhaps the steering wheel is below the line of sea."
"Like a submarine!"
"You took the words right out of my mouth," Alder scooped up his son with ease and carried him back towards the boats. Vincent squirmed in his arms and looked over his shoulder. He saw nothing. "So, do you like the sea?"
"I think it'd be boring if we just looked at it."
Alder ruffled his hair and set him down. He lead Vincent offward to the side of the dock, next to where the ocean seemed to end and swallow up rocks one-by-one in a wetly laced fringe. Vincent suited the echo of crashing waters; they would fold over and dissolve like an uncoated pill. They sat cross-legged, and Alder took his shoes off. Vincent's bare feet hung over the edge in the air. He looked past his toes and into the water, his reflection rippling with the ebb and flow of the waves.
"Can I swim in it?" Vincent asked.
"What? No." He set his shoes down beside him. Vincent frowned. "It's too dangerous. You want to get your feet wet? You can. Your fingers too, and your arms and your legs. Never your whole body at once."
"And my head?" His eyes shone a glint of hope.
"That too!" Alder began rolling up his sleeves. The bell of a boat rang distantly. "Do you know how to hold your breath?"
Vincent took a big gulp of air and puffed his cheek cartoonishly, nodding. Alder smiled and picked him up under his arms. The bell was pinched off short as the blood-warm waters dosed over his head.
"Again!" Vincent pleaded as he was brought back up, both laughing and heaving. He looked to his left, his gaze shot over the horizon holding both wonder and fear.
"Not today. We'll go to the beach with Mary and Michael when it gets warmer." He combed Vincent's hair with his fingers. He slipped his shoes on and stood up. "Maybe you can use your newfound passion for water to take a bath tonight, young man. You smell."
Vincent sniffled. "Of course I do."
"You know what I mean."
They walked back to the car, faces aglow with the last orange rays before twilight beckoned the stars. It was silent as Vincent made out the shape of billowing clouds, colors colliding behind them. Alder knew he would later scrawl the remnants of the day in a notebook to ground himself. At the very least, he would do it for his son. Eventually—he knew—that like a boat, he would capsize.
