Jonas and the Boat We four drove up and down the Wild Atlantic Way, a prehistoric landscape of bright sun and cold mist. Don't take shelter, said a fisherman, it's a soft day. The Cliffs of Moher are a coast you dream, captivated by giants of sandstone and shale. They dwarf us in size and spirit, shaped by the churning Atlantic. Jonas and I sat on a bench facing west, feeling small. The girls were at the cliff edge, laughing, taking pictures, a cold mist fell and you spoke as if radioing from abroad. When I think of my father, I think of the Estonia, the ferry. Over eight hundred drowned. It wasn't an air crash, sudden and done. It was slow. They knew it was coming, like my Dad. I think of the cold down below, in deep Baltic waters. I dream of the Estonia. It's a frozen nightmare. My idea of eternity is Dad's new world, the frigid Baltic, where one day all will come to rest. Sitting quietly in the wind, we waited for the girls to return. I patted you on the arm, trying to reassure, feeling your weight. Glad you're here, I said. It's past noon. We can grab a pint now.