My Estonia. Justin Petrone

in her seat with a mischevous smile and began to play the songs I had recorded alone in my parents’ basement that past summer.

      I could hear the drums of the second track of the disc beating from the headphones and I knew it was too late to even bother. Like it or not, Epp had peeled off another one of my layers. Her lips curled as she listened, and I settled, defeated, into my seat. I felt like a crab overturned on a hot beach, my insides open for the plucking.

      There, with nothing more than a journal to confess my thoughts, I sat waiting for Epp to give back my CD. I waited all day on the bus, but she kept walking around with the headsets, and I could hear my drums beating when she walked by.

      Our group was returning from the Åland Islands. We had gone swimming on a remote beach, or what passed for a beach in Finland. The glacial rocks that seemed to form most of the island of Kökar vanished abruptly into the murky waters. I was nervous about the water, which seemed incredibly black and deep, while Epp dove in and began floating in to the distance, far from the rest of our group.

      “Are there big fish in this water?” I asked our Swedish host.

      “What?”

      “Big fish. You know, like sharks or killer whales?”

      “No,” he laughed and puffed his pipe. “No big fish.”

      By the time our group had decided to leave the beach, Epp was just a tiny black speck in front of the orange setting sun. After my lake experience, I decided that she might get tired swimming back. I swam out after her. The Baltic Sea, to me, seemed completely foreign and a little threatening. Even if the Swedish host had said there were no killer whales, there could have been other creatures. Giant squids. Killer octopuses. Maniacal walruses.

      “What are you doing?” Epp shouted, paddling in my direction. She gasped for air and dipped a bit below the surface of the water.

      “I came out to see if you were ok; I was afraid you would get tired!”

      “Oh,” Epp laughed, as if I had surprised her with flowers. “I have to give you twelve points for this.”

      “Twelve points?” What was that supposed to mean? Many months later, I found out that it was a reference to the Eurovision Song Contest, an event that, at that point, I had never even heard of.

      “Aren’t you afraid of being so far away from the island?” I yelled.

      “Ha!” Epp declared, gasping again for air. “If you don’t struggle too much, the water will take you where you need to go. It’s like I learned in the ashram! You have to trust the water.”

      I didn’t like the way people looked at us when we got out of the sea. Even though we were all in our twenties, with all these new faces, I felt like I was back in third grade.

      “So how about you and Epp?” kidded Matjaz the Slovenian.

      “Shut up, Matjaz,” I snapped.

      “Aww, come on, tell us the details!”

      “Give it a rest.”

      “Did you two smooch out there on the waves?”

      “Let him be, Matjaz,” the Frenchman Florent scolded the Slovenian. “Not everyone is a gossipy little school girl like you.”

      I had told myself that I didn’t need a partner. I wanted to be detached and live as some kind of musical monk. Me and my guitar against the world. Sometimes while watching Finnish TV in our dormitory in Helsinki, though, my emotions got the best of me. Each afternoon, Kicki Berg, the perky Swede who hosted a music program called Up North, would come on and take all the pain away. You could say I had a crush on her.

      “Justin, you really need a girlfriend,” said Natalie, the British correspondent, as I sat like a zombie and watched my lovely Kicki.

      Natalie was a redhead from England and was covered from head to toe in freckles. She was the same age as me, almost to the day, and I felt as if she were some kind of lost twin sister.

      “I know,” I sighed.

      Epp had finally given me back my CD one day while we were walking around in a little town named Kotka near the Russian border. She followed me and Jevgeni into a music store and pulled me aside in the classical section.

      “I have been listening to this for days, and it’s all really good,” she said, handing back the disc. “You should know that you are really talented.” I could feel the energy from her body as it neared mine.

      “Talented?” I said, taken by her compliment. “Thanks.”

      “My favorite is the song where you sing ‘hopelessly, helplessly’ at the end.”

      “I know, I couldn’t decide which word to use, so I used both,” I said. That song meant the most to me, too.

      Jevgeni watched us from the hiphop section with a bewildered look on his face. “Why are you two looking at each other like that?” he interrupted.

      “Like what?” I said in response. I didn’t know what he was talking about. Epp didn’t even respond to Jevgeni. Instead she looked at me once more and left the store.

      I exhaled.

      At the start of the final week, we flew to Lapland. The bus from the airport took us over rocky hills through thick forests smelling sweetly of pine as our guides played for us joik music – the wild folk songs of the Sami people.

      At a bar in little Lappish town called Inari, we danced with the local people. Later at the bar Mitch and I began toasting one another and doing shots of whiskey.

      “The only sin is ignorance,” Mitch said, looking me squarely in the eye. “And missing your chance.”

      All my regrets began to line up inside my head. Unable to keep the ghosts away, I collapsed on the table.

      “Did you come up with that toast yourself?”

      “No,” said Mitch, swallowing his whiskey. “But I think it’s appropriate.”

      “Now, why the hell do you have to go and say that?” I slurred to Mitch. “Are you out to ruin my night?”

      “See, I knew it was good toast,” Mitch laughed wickedly. “It gets you thinking.” At 34, Mitch was older and wiser than most of us and he was engaged.

      “Fine,” I said, “No regrets.” I swallowed another hot whiskey, slammed the shot glass down on the table, and walked outside to find Epp.

      Even at 11 pm, the polar sun still shone in Inari. The thick dark trees lined a cool lake that stretched out caressing dozens of islands. Epp sat on a long wooden dock that stretched out into the lake. A biplane was moored at the end and the air buzzed with fat Finnish summer mosquitoes.

      As I neared her, the tiny voice surfaced again. Make babies with her, it demanded. This time, I was too consumed in the moment to even pay it attention.

      I sat beside Epp. We made small talk, but I couldn’t remember our conversation. All I could do was contemplate on the force of gravity that was drawing us ever closer together.

      After awhile Epp leaned towards me and pulled out a small piece of candy paper, which she folded into a miniature boat. She placed it at one side of the dock and it floated underneath to the other side, where I caught it.

      “The most important thing is to trust the water,” Epp said with authority. “Always remember it when you swim; if you really trust the water, the water can never hurt you.”

      I cupped the paper boat and stared at it for a moment.

      “There,” Epp said, satisfied. “Now, you have to promise to keep this boat for the rest of your life. Do you promise?”

      Was she joking? I looked at the paper boat again in the golden Lappish twilight, and then looked back at her. “I promise.”

      Our