Nine Hours

Chapter 9

The drive to Lonevåg is about a half-hour. Gunnar's house is indeed isolated, and we didn't pass any others as we made our way down the very long, narrow, dirt road. In short order we reached a small highway which wound through a forested landscape straight out of a fairy tale book. For a girl from Nevada, the lushness of the area is stunning. Of course, I've seen mountains and forests before, but nothing so wonderfully green. I was transfixed by the view for the entire ride.

Arriving at a tiny village, Gunnar parks next to a small boat dock.

"We're here." His excitement about our destination is infectious. Gunnar's demeanor is one-hundred-eighty degrees from the serious man I met yesterday—cheerier and quite a bit playful. His grin is as brilliant as the sun which, in turn kicks up his already devastatingly handsome appearance by about six notches. Maybe more. He quickly rounds the car to open my door.

The village consists of a smattering of charming clapboard buildings across the street from the dock separated by a narrow, two-lane road. "This is a cute village, but there isn't a lot going on here." A few cars drive past, one honking its horn at Gunnar who waves back enthusiastically. Wherever we are, he is glad about it and apparently knows the villagers.

"We'll have lunch later. But, first..." He rubs his hands together and nods toward the dock. "C'mon, then."

A dozen or so boats bob against the dock. They aren't anything special. No yachts or anything shiny and new. Rather, they're weather-worn and well-used. The water is an icy gray, slapping lazily against the pilings and concrete break-wall in a steady rhythm. If the bleak gunmetal color is any indicator, the water is probably damned cold. A slight breeze slices a quick chill through me as I follow Gunnar down the dock. He stops at a small boat—maybe only a twenty-five footer. It's well-maintained and freshly painted, but by no means new. A narrow varnished wood deck wraps around it, and in the center there's a small covered wheelhouse, just large enough for two seats and the controls. The rear of the boat contains enough open cushioned seating for about six people.

Gunnar hops from the dock onto the bow. "Let me help you aboard." In an instant, he reaches over and wraps his hands around my waist, hoisting me over the railing and onto the deck, making me squeal and release a girlish giggle.

"Gunnar!"

"What? You weigh practically nothing, sweetness. Like a feather." He grins again. "This is Der Flygender Krigeren. What do you think?"

"I think I don't know what that means." What I don't want to say is it looks like...a boat. Nothing special. My answer clearly amuses him. Gunnar tugs on my now- sagging pony tail in response.

"Ah. It means The Flying Warrior."

"Oh. Impressive." By now we've moved to the rear of the boat and into the small passenger sitting space. Gunnar's in his element, dressed in a bulky wheat-colored knit wool sweater with a blue pattern woven along the neck. It was probably handmade. He's pulled a pair of tall, olive green rubber boots over his shoes. His picture belongs on a box of fish sticks. That makes me giggle.

It's the first time I've ever been on any kind of boat. While I check it out, Gunnar putters around with various ropes and buoys, and it hits me. He intends to take us out onto the water. My stomach flips a few times.

"I'll go untie us and we'll be off." In a flash he returns to the bow and unwinds the thick ropes from dock cleats. His sudden movements cause the boat to shift back and forth. My stomach lurches.

Oh hell, we're not even out of the slip and my stomach is rocking. This won't be pretty. I inhale several deep breaths of the crisp, salty air, hoping it helps.