Papa told her of hot, sultry cities where they loaded pungent spices; grand colorful cities where they loaded bale upon bale of fine silks and velvets; and the vast glittering all-consuming waters that made up the sea. He told her of the sea’s moods; of days when the sea was as calm as the water in her washbowl; and of days when the sea, in a fit of anger, picked up her skirts and tossed ships around in them as if they were no heavier than beans.
As time passed, his tales changed; no longer were they merely descriptions of other places. Papa began weaving tales of a young ship’s boy named Peter. At first he merely traveled, but then he began to get into scrapes. He was smart as a whip, and very resourceful, and he seemed always to come out on top of the villains. No matter how big or intimidating his adversary, Peter always managed to outwit him and make him look a fool while he was at it. When she was young, she rather wanted to be Peter. Though her life was nice, it got boring; Peter’s was never boring.