Sailing will be fun, they said. You have unlimited freedom, they said. And unless you get drunk and fall off the yardarm, you probably won’t die, they said. And now here we are at the edge of the world, watching as the waters drag our ship closer to the waterfall that leads to the depths of hell.

“Put your back into it,” they call. And I do; I row as if my life depends on it, which it does. I’m not sure which is louder: the beating of my heart or the drum that strikes a tempo with which we shove our legs and backs and burn our arms with the effort.

The oars splash, and the salt sea laughs as it strikes the sides of the boat. Even the sinking sun mocks us by changing the clouds’ hues to the gold of heaven. And the water drives us further and further to the edge of darkness.

I can’t help but think between heart beats and sharp inhales: Of the things I’ve never done. Margarette wasn’t going to wait for me to return, but what if I had never left? Our kids would have been so adorable with my curly hair and her blue eyes. What about Father? Who is going to care for him since the doctor amputated his leg? Work was hard enough when Mother passed. And what about Haden? That brother of mine is always getting into trouble. Who is going to be there to straighten him out? Certainly not Father.

You’re young, they said. You need to see the world, they said. And you’ll probably come back with enough riches to buy a farm, if you don’t die, they said. I laughed at the danger back then, and now it is death’s turn to laugh.

The boat creaks, the foreman screams orders in a faltering voice, and now I feel stupid that the only reason I left was for the adventure. It was presumptuous of me to think I would be the one in a thousand who survived and returned with a fortune. My back aches, the callouses along my roughened hands break, my skin is soaked with salt sea and sweat, and I can smell the fear of every man on the ship. The rush of the waters over the edge of the world roar like a monster announcing our one-way trip to hell.

The song Mother sang on her deathbed comes back to me, and I suddenly understand what I did not back then: That when you cannot control anything else, your voice is still yours. When death’s door opens, are you going to spend your last moments fighting in fear? Or are you going to give your last breath for something more.

I let go of the oar. Someone screams at me, but his panic is ephemeral in the face of eternity. I inhale as deep as my ragged breathing allows, and I begin to sing. It isn’t good. It’s barely on key. And my fellow mates stare at the tears streaming down my cheeks, one for each of the regrets and wishes piled in my head.

Someone else joins me, his voice steadier than mine, and then a third in a shaky bass. The captain rages at us, but as each of us accepts the inevitable, the song grows stronger until it drowns out the sound of the fall.

Call it a prayer, she said. Call it my last gift to you, she said. But this song is all I have left, and I am going to finish it before I die. The words of the song never stop leaving my lips, and I smile at the thought that I’ll see Mother soon.

The One That Started It All