Ines was eleven, and she had never seen the sea. Her grandfather Matteo, who was seventy-three, had promised her years before: "When you turn eleven, I will show you." They lived in the hills, about three hundred kilometers from the coast, so they set off on his old tandem, a bicycle with two seats, two sets of pedals and a great deal of hope. Matteo talked about the sea the way people talk about things they know from a book: "It is big, it is blue, it breathes."
On the second day it rained and a tire went flat, and a farmer's wife dried their clothes by her stove. On the third day, on the big mountain pass, Matteo's knee began to hurt, and he said, not very convincingly, that perhaps they should go back. "No," said Ines, and she pedaled for both of them. On the fourth day they slept in a barn and shared apples; on the fifth they pushed the tandem up a hill that seemed to have no top.
On the sixth day Matteo had to sit down at the last ridge. Ines ran ahead and, before she saw anything, heard a long, soft sound, like a great breath. She ran back. "Grandpa, listen!" They climbed up together, and there it was, shining to the edge of the sky.
"I must tell you something," Matteo said quietly. "I have never seen it either. I only knew it from a book." Ines laughed. "Then we are seeing it for the first time together." He took off his boots, rolled up his trousers and walked into the water, shouting like a boy.
