Kolito

A quiet story about trust and return.

The morning dawned slowly over the water. A thin veil of mist still hung over the bay like a lingering thought. Isabel sat on the deck of her boat, wrapped in a Pendleton wool blanket. The scent of freshly ground coffee rose from the enamel cup in her hands. The boat’s name was painted on a narrow plaque at the bow: Kolito. Her father had once placed it there, the letters hand-painted in a steady hand.

Kolito carried her story. And his. She hadn’t searched for the boat. It had been passed on to her. Like a legacy. Like a living being entrusted to her care. The lake lay still. Only a heron glided across the water. Isabel stretched out her legs, her left foot brushing the cool wood. The ship was breathing. She heard it in the creaking of the planks, the gentle play of ropes at the mast, the soft gurgle of water against the hull.

The decision was made. She would have Kolito restored. It was time. She had postponed it for a long time. Thought it over. Read. Talked. Remained silent. Then dismissed the idea again. Dreamed. Made lists. Her thoughts had moved like waves – sometimes clear, sometimes crashing, sometimes aimless.

But something in her had begun to settle. A kind of quiet knowing. Not hurried. But certain. The hull showed signs of wear. The wood had turned gray, soft in places. The window frames leaked. The rudder creaked with every gust of wind. She wanted to preserve it. Out of love. Because she lived with this boat. And because Kolito was part of her.

Francois lived on the edge of a small harbor town in the north. His workshop stood on an old shipyard, surrounded by rusting machines and tired boats. She hadn’t searched for him. She had simply ridden out. On her bike. And then suddenly, she was standing at his gate. He sat in the shade of a container, smoking a Gauloises, wearing a wool cap despite it being June. His eyes were clear. His voice unhurried.

She spoke of Kolito. He listened. Said little. But he nodded and gestured behind him, toward the wide-open gate. Other boats lay there. The air smelled of sawdust and resin. He said: “Bring it here. I’ll take a look.” A few weeks later, Kolito stood on a trailer. Her lines looked unfamiliar, as if she’d been undressed. Isabel ran her hand over the wood before leaving. A farewell, for a while. She had decided to travel during the restoration. Not far. Just far enough. To gain distance. To let go. Vietnam. A small village in the mountains. Someone had told her that one could live there in wooden houses for very little money.

She rented a stilted hut. Each morning smelled of damp wood, rice, and smoke. There she wrote. And reflected. And did not wait. She lived. But eventually, the doubts arrived. Questions without answers. They hung in the air like mosquitoes at dusk. What if Francois stopped? What if the money wasn’t enough? What if he never finished? She couldn’t reach him. No reception in her hut. No messages. No pictures. Only the wind brushing through the bamboo roof.

One night, as a thunderstorm rolled through the hills, she sat on the floor and imagined Kolito lying there. Exposed. Vulnerable. In foreign hands. In his hands. And there it was – the shift inside her. Not escape. Not solution. An agreement. If she truly trusted, then this was the moment. Francois worked slowly. Not lazily. More like someone in dialogue with the material. Who asked the wood what it needed. Who didn’t make lists. Who simply saw.

He didn’t send updates. Just once, a postcard. On the back, he wrote: “I opened the hatches. Kolito is breathing again.” She read the line multiple times. Then she smiled. And folded the card into her notebook. In Vietnam it rained that day. A warm, soft rain. The drops sounded like voices on the roof. Isabel stood at the harbor again. A few months later. Kolito floated in the water. Renewed. Yet familiar.

The wood gleamed a warm brown. The ropes were taut. The windows clear. She stepped aboard. Let her hand glide over the railing. Sat down at the helm. The key lay right where she always kept it: under the compass. Francois emerged from the hall. With a cup of tea. “She carries well,” he said. She nodded. And said nothing. The next morning, she set off. The engine purred softly. The water was calm. A heron stood at the shore and watched her go. She moved slowly. Let the wind come. Let her thoughts pass. Kolito moved like an answer. Without a question.

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