The Maiden VOYAGE

Maisy's first trip out with her dad was bittersweet but magical

- Mark Plummer

The village slept under a blanket of mist when Maisy made her way down to the water’s edge. The houses, hills and bay were shrouded in thick, white cloud. She stood among the lobster pots and buoys, breathing the salt tang of seaweed on the tideline, and waited.

Her father was up at the workshop, muttering as he cleared wood and paint tins out of the way. It was quiet for a moment, then came the squeak of the launching trolley's wheels. The squeak became more frequent as it picked up speed coming down the slope.

Her father emerged from the mist in his boots and smock, pulling the trolley with a wooden rowing boat on it behind him. He paused for a moment when he saw her.

‘Why are you up so early?’ he asked, but didn’t seem to want an answer. ‘It’s cold.’

Maisy shook her head and lifted the sleeve of her jumper to show the lack of goosebumps.

Her father carried on past her and pulled the boat down to the water. He put the oars straight and checked the ropes, then undid the straps that secured the boat to the trolley. He ran his hand along the boat's bow and the gunwales, checking they were smooth and even for the hundredth time. He’d just finished it, and it still smelled of varnish, paint and sawdust.

Maisy felt in her pocket to check the fishing rig she’d tied last night under the duvet with a torch — a hook and line made from a cork, needle and fishing line. She imagined her father’s proud smile when she'd later pull a big bass up into the boat with it. It made her feel braver too, like she was carrying a piece of her mum with her. She wiped the tiredness from her eyes and slowly stepped down on to the beach, a fingernail crescent of sand bitten at the top by rocks. She stopped a few steps away from the boat and pulled at a loose thread in the cuff of her jumper.

Her eyes kept focused on a string of seaweed in the sand as she rocked back and forth on her heels and chewed something over.

‘Dad?’