My Grandpa Is a Giant Schnauzer

Iolka_Eson

May 2, 2025

My Grandpa Is a Giant Schnauzer

Chapter Three: The Research Vessel

I wanted to bury Grandpa. As he asked. At sea.

He lay in the boat, covered with sailcloth. His hands — cold. His face — like he had simply fallen asleep.

I tried to lift him. Hooked my arms under his shoulders. It didn’t work. Too heavy. And I — too small.

"Don’t strain yourself," the dog said. "They’ll come. They’ll help."

I nodded. Then we went to the hatch.

The traces of digging were still there. The sand around it was loose, tamped down. If someone came close — they’d know.

"Pour water over it," the dog said. "Run to the boat, get the bag, fill it with water, and come back."

I did exactly that. Once back, I smoothed the sand and sprinkled the water gently. The sand darkened, settled.

"More branches," he said. "Old ones."

We found driftwood — dry, pale limbs torn loose by the storm. We scattered them around, casually. As if they’d been thrown up by the sea. On top — some seaweed. When we stepped back, it looked ordinary.

"A fire," the dog said. "We need smoke. They’ll see us then."

I fetched the flint from the boat. We gathered a pile: dry boards, broken pieces of the dryer, branches. The fire wouldn’t catch at first. I got frustrated, striking again and again. Then — suddenly — it flared up. Crackled, hissed. Smelled like home.

We ate. The food was strange. Tasted of fish and nuts.

The dog ate silently, glancing at me now and then. Then curled up nearby.

When darkness finally settled, I spread the sailcloth. It was warm by the fire. The dog — close. I closed my eyes, listening to him breathe.

By morning, the smoke had nearly faded. But Grandpa woke me.

“He’s coming.”

“What? Who?”

The dog was watching the horizon. Out there — a dot. White. A ship.

I rushed to the fire. There was hardly any dry wood left, but I ran along the shore and found a few boards broken by the storm. I tossed them onto the flames. On top — some branches with green leaves still clinging. The smoke rose in a pillar. Thick, grey. Impossible to miss.

We stood side by side — me and my Grandpa. He sniffed the air slightly, as if sensing: everything was about to change.

The ship dropped anchor about three hundred meters from shore. Its white hull gleamed in the sun. Antennas above the bridge, a flag, a pair of lifebuoys. A boat unhooked from the side — inflatable, with a motor, the color of sunset. Five people in it: two men in matching jackets, and three in life vests — two women and one older man with glasses and silver hair.

The boat sliced through the water, hurrying to meet the land.

I stood by the fire. The dog sat next to me, looking straight ahead. I wrapped my arms around his neck. My hands were damp, but not from fear — more from how fast everything was happening.

When the boat came closer, one of the sailors jumped into the water and grabbed the side. The engine cut. The boat’s nose bumped the shallows. They all climbed ashore and pulled it further up.

The first to speak was a woman. Ash-blonde hair tied back, a serious face, no makeup. Her voice — firm, but quiet:

“May we approach?”

I nodded. The dog raised his ears, but didn’t move.

The woman stepped onto the sand. Behind her — a younger woman, in a bright windbreaker, a camera strapped to her chest. The others stayed by the boat.

“My name is Louise,” she said. “We received the signal. We’ve come for you.”

I nodded again. Words felt unnecessary.

“Are you… are you alone here?”

I pointed toward the boat. Beneath the sailcloth, my grandfather lay.

Louise looked. She didn’t ask anything. Just nodded softly. Her companion — the one with the camera — snapped a quiet shot. Then lowered it.

“What’s your name?” Louise asked.

I opened my mouth, but no real words came out. And then — as if it was the only thing left to do — I cried.

At first, silently. Then in gasps. Then for real.

I sat down in the sand, pressed my face into the dog’s fur. He didn’t move. Only gently touched my cheek with his nose.

Louise didn’t touch me. She just crouched nearby. The younger one stood beside her.

“It’s all right,” she said at last. “I’m Arina. We’re here.”

I nodded. Through tears. Through shaking. Because it was true — they were here.

And Grandpa… he was still here too. Sitting next to me. Breathing. Looking people in the eyes. And keeping watch.
“We need to bury Grandpa,” I said. “He asked… to be returned to the sea.”

I tried. I really did. But he was too heavy — I finally admitted through the tears.

The rest of it passed in a fog.

Two sailors — one thin, with reddish whiskers and glasses, the other broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, his brow lined like folded sails — just nodded. No questions. They looked at me, and somehow, they understood everything.

They wrapped Grandpa’s body carefully in the sailcloth. Slipped in a few flat stones — heavy, like all the unspoken wishes he had left behind. Tied the cloth tight with marine knots, clean and firm.

The dog, the two men, and I got into our old boat. The inflatable stayed on shore. This was our farewell.

We rowed out to where the water deepened. It was dark here. Quiet. As if the sea was preparing to take him back.

I sat at the stern with the dog. The boat rocked gently. No one spoke. Only the sound of oars and the creak of worn wood.

“All right. Say your goodbyes,” the red-haired one said. His voice was low, but steady.

I hugged the bundle — not tightly, just like before. The dog nudged it too, resting his muzzle on my knees.

Then, gently, the men lifted him and let go.

The sailcloth floated briefly, hesitated… then sank, as if it knew the way. A trail of bubbles rose behind him.

The dog and I watched the spot for a long time. We just sat there. Like after a conversation that’s ended, but still echoes inside. The sailors rowed back in silence.

On shore, they flipped the boat, looped the rope twice around a root — the kind of knot you tie when you plan to return. Or when you do something right. For real. Like professionals — not thinking, just knowing.

While we were gone, the rest of the crew had explored the shoreline. They gathered what they could — signs of the storm, broken things. Somewhere they found Aunt Miriam’s cloth doll, half-buried in the sand. Arina captured it all on her camera.

We climbed into the inflatable boat. The island shrank behind us. The smoke from our fire still drifted upward, as if waving goodbye.

We moved swiftly across the water, the surface smooth as glass. The boat barely bounced on the waves, as if the sea itself was carrying us gently toward a new chapter.

On board, everything smelled of iron, salt, and rope. The metal steps burned under the sun, the lines were wet and heavy. Around us, people moved quickly: someone tossed the anchor line, someone checked a tablet, someone else stood ready with a first-aid kit.

It was noisy — but not frightening.

Like being inside a machine that knew exactly what it was doing.Everything was loud, but not frightening — like a well-oiled machine at work.

I stood in my life jacket, still wearing my torn shirt, the dog pressed to my side. I didn’t know where to look. I wanted to hold Grandpa’s hand — just to keep myself from drifting inward.

Louise placed a hand on my shoulder — firm, but without pressure. She turned me toward the people waiting at the top of the steps.

“This is Captain Jules Branc,” she said.

The man had graying temples, neat mustache, a tired face. He nodded. He didn’t smile, but looked at me steadily — almost fatherly. I held out my hand. He shook it firmly, then smiled.

“Doctor Manuel Serrano,” Louise continued.

A short man with gentle eyes and fingers that looked like they were afraid to break anything. He said nothing, just studied my face and smiled as well.

“Christian Oberon — our technician,” she added, motioning to a tall man with a short beard. He nodded to me silently.

“And this is Maren Jacquet,” she said.

A freckled redhead with broad shoulders. He crouched and held out a hand to the dog.

“What’s your name, buddy?”

The dog didn’t answer. Just stared. But didn’t look away.

“And Remi Legrand,” the captain added. Remi, like the others, shook my hand.

Then the doctor examined me again. He listened to my chest, tapped my back. Said I was fine. Hungry — yes. Exhausted — yes. But alive. And that’s what mattered.

“He just needs to eat,” the doctor said.

I didn’t quite understand what he meant, but I nodded.

Louise led me across the deck.

“Come on. I’ll show you the ship.”

She showed me where things were: how the hatches opened, where the galley was, the mess hall, the common spaces. She spoke calmly — not like I was a child, but like I was one of the crew.

“For now, you’ll stay with me,” she said. “It’ll be easier. I understand your language better than the others.”

I just nodded.

In the mess hall, they were already waiting. They brought simple food: a bit of rice, stewed fish, some bread. It smelled good. Louise told me to eat slowly — you shouldn’t eat too much after going hungry.

The dog ate beside me, straight from a bowl on the floor.

Then we went to the cabin. Small, light. Two bunks: one made up, the other stacked with books and boxes. “It’s yours now,” Louise said, clearing the bunk.

“Go ahead and change — we’ll get your clothes washed.”

I took everything off and handed it to her. She nodded silently and told me to wrap myself in a sheet for now. Then she left with my bundle.

I slipped under the sheet, bare. The dog immediately jumped in beside me. He lay down close, resting his head on my legs.

I fell asleep instantly. I don’t remember any sounds, any feelings.

It was like someone switched me off.

I woke to find the dog sitting next to me, watching me, unmoving — like he had stood guard the whole time.

On the table lay a cloth doll — clean. Miriam’s. The same one. Now — mine.

The dog gave a soft bark. The door creaked open. Louise peeked in.

“How are you?”

I nodded.

She came in, sat down on the edge of the bunk, and held out some clothes.

“Try these on,” she said. “Yours are still drying.”

The shirt was red, with letters across the front. I couldn’t read them — not in this language.

The shorts were clearly someone else’s — too soft, with a button on the side. Someone had stitched them tighter so they wouldn’t fall off.

Then she gave me sneakers.

“I’m better barefoot,” I said.

“The deck gets hot,” she replied. “Trust me — in an hour you’ll ask for shoes yourself.”

I shrugged but put them on.

Then she started talking — about the ship, the people here, what would happen next.

I nodded. Listened.

Sometimes I looked at the dog.

He understood everything.

“This is a research vessel,” she said. “We study the Sargasso Sea. Try to save what’s left of the ocean.”

“Why try?” I asked. “Why not just save it?”

She shrugged.

“Because it takes a lot of money. And we don’t have much. Just enough to study.”

I thought about that. Then said:

“What if I help?”

She smiled, like it was a joke. But I didn’t smile back.

“I have treasure. Gold. A lot.”

That made her quiet.

“What treasure?”

I looked at the dog. He didn’t move — just watched me.

“My grandpa’s. He found it. Hid it in a cave. I can show you.”

Louise didn’t say anything. Just watched as I reached under the pillow and pulled out the little bundle.

It was tied tight so it wouldn’t rattle.

I untied it carefully.

The coins slid into my palm. I picked one — smooth, with a crown and little letters along the edge — and held it out to her.

She took it gently, like it might break. Looked at it. Then gave it back.

She didn’t say a word. Just left.

She came back with the captain.

“May I?” he asked.

I nodded.

He took the coin, brought it close to his eyes. Turned it over slowly. Then looked at Louise.

“Back to the island. Now. Before it gets dark.”

They left quickly. I heard their footsteps on the deck. Then a siren — one long, low sound. The captain’s voice came through the speaker:

“Changing course. Back to shore. Full turn.”

The ship began to turn. In the distance, the outline of L’Île-Échouée returned.

The sky was turning pink.

The water looked like melted metal.

We weren’t going back for hope this time.

We were going back because we knew.

The ship dropped anchor in the same lagoon.

The first boat went with the captain, Louise, two sailors, and the doctor.

I was in the second boat.

The dog pressed his nose into my palm — like he knew something big was about to happen.

When we landed, almost everyone was already there — all looking at me.

“Show us,” the captain said.

I led them up the hill — to the place Grandpa and I had dug.

I pushed aside the branches. Pointed.

They started digging. First with hands, then with shovels from the boat.

Not long after, the hatch showed through the sand — damp, closed.

“This it?” the captain asked.

I nodded.

They pried it open together.

Damp air rose from below.

Captain Jules Branc turned on his flashlight and went down first.

We waited.

Then we heard his voice:

“You won’t believe it.”

Louise and Arina followed.

I stayed up top, holding on to the dog’s fur.

Then came the shouting:

“We found it! Full crates! Coins! Rings! Some kind of map!”

They went down one by one. Carefully.

Nothing was touched.

Everything was logged.

But even from above — I could see.

It was real.

Shelves with gold and copper and silver.

Chests with carved lids.

Necklaces. Odd-shaped bars.

Boxes. Little statues.

All dry.

All waiting.

“Five million easy,” someone said. “Maybe more.”

When they came back up, the captain looked at me.

“You found this?”

I nodded. Then said:

“It’s Grandpa’s.”

The captain took off his hat. Ran a hand through his hair.

“We’ll call in the archaeologists. Everything needs to be logged properly.

Seal the hatch. No one goes back down until they arrive.”

He turned to the others.

“We’ll set up camp right here — at the entrance.

We keep watch in shifts.

Seal the hatch. Make sure it holds.”

That evening we pitched the tents.

Boiled tea.

The dog curled up by the fire. I lay beside him.

The fire crackled.

And in the dark, metal rings and rope-wrapped crates glinted —

as if the island was waking up again.

But this time — with our footprints.

With our story.

To be continued...

en 2

Correct

Corrections

foysteroyster

My Grandpa Is a Giant Schnauzer

Chapter Three: The Research Vessel I wanted to bury Grandpa.

As he asked.

At sea.

He lay in the boat, covered with sailcloth.

His hands — cold.

His face — like he had simply fallen asleep.

I tried to lift him.

Hooked my arms under his shoulders.

It didn’t work.

Too heavy.

And I — too small.

"Don’t strain yourself," the dog said.

"They’ll come.

They’ll help."

I nodded.

Then we went to the hatch.

The traces of digging were still there.

The sand around it was loose, tamped down.

If someone came close — they’d know.

"Pour water over it," the dog said.

"Run to the boat, get the bag, fill it with water, and come back."

I did exactly that.

Once back, I smoothed the sand and sprinkled the water gently.

The sand darkened, settled.

"More branches," he said.

"Old ones."

We found driftwood — dry, pale limbs torn loose by the storm.

We scattered them around, casually.

As if they’d been thrown up by the sea.

On top — some seaweed.

When we stepped back, it looked ordinary.

"A fire," the dog said.

"We need smoke.

They’ll see us then."

I fetched the flint from the boat.

We gathered a pile: dry boards, broken pieces of the dryer, branches.

The fire wouldn’t catch at first.

I got frustrated, striking again and again.

Then — suddenly — it flared up.

Crackled, hissed.

Smelled like home.

We ate.

The food was strange.

Tasted of fish and nuts.

The dog ate silently, glancing at me now and then.

Then curled up nearby.

When darkness finally settled, I spread the sailcloth.

It was warm by the fire.

The dog — close.

I closed my eyes, listening to him breathe.

By morning, the smoke had nearly faded.

But Grandpa woke me.

“He’s coming.” “What?

Who?” The dog was watching the horizon.

Out there — a dot.

White.

A ship.

I rushed to the fire.

There was hardly any dry wood left, but I ran along the shore and found a few boards broken by the storm.

I tossed them onto the flames.

On top — some branches with green leaves still clinging.

The smoke rose in a pillar.

Thick, grey.

Impossible to miss.

We stood side by side — me and my Grandpa.

He sniffed the air slightly, as if sensing: everything was about to change.

The ship dropped anchor about three hundred meters from shore.

Its white hull gleamed in the sun.

Antennas above the bridge, a flag, a pair of lifebuoys.

A boat unhooked from the side — inflatable, with a motor, the color of sunset.

Five people in it: two men in matching jackets, and three in life vests — two women and one older man with glasses and silver hair.

The boat sliced through the water, hurrying to meet the land.

I stood by the fire.

The dog sat next to me, looking straight ahead.

I wrapped my arms around his neck.

My hands were damp, but not from fear — more from how fast everything was happening.

When the boat came closer, one of the sailors jumped into the water and grabbed the side.

The engine cut.

The boat’s nose bumped the shallows.

They all climbed ashore and pulled it further up.

The first to speak was a woman.

Ash-blonde hair tied back, a serious face, no makeup.

Her voice — firm, but quiet: “May we approach?” I nodded.

The dog raised his ears, but didn’t move.

The woman stepped onto the sand.

Behind her — a younger woman, in a bright windbreaker, a camera strapped to her chest.

The others stayed by the boat.

“My name is Louise,” she said.

“We received the signal.

We’ve come for you.” I nodded again.

Words felt unnecessary.

“Are you… are you alone here?” I pointed toward the boat.

Beneath the sailcloth, my grandfather lay.

Louise looked.

She didn’t ask anything.

Just nodded softly.

Her companion — the one with the camera — snapped a quiet shot.

Then lowered it.

“What’s your name?” Louise asked.

I opened my mouth, but no real words came out.

And then — as if it was the only thing left to do — I cried.

At first, silently.

Then in gasps.

Then for real.

I sat down in the sand, pressed my face into the dog’s fur.

He didn’t move.

Only gently touched my cheek with his nose.

Louise didn’t touch me.

She just crouched nearby.

The younger one stood beside her.

“It’s all right,” she said at last.

“I’m Arina.

We’re here.” I nodded.

Through tears.

Through shaking.

Because it was true — they were here.

And Grandpa… he was still here too.

Sitting next to me.

Breathing.

Looking people in the eyes.

And keeping watch.

“We need to bury Grandpa,” I said.

“He asked… to be returned to the sea.” I tried.

I really did.

But he was too heavy — I finally admitted through the tears.

The rest of it passed in a fog.

Two sailors — one thin, with reddish whiskers and glasses, the other broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, his brow lined like folded sails — just nodded.

No questions.

They looked at me, and somehow, they understood everything.

They wrapped Grandpa’s body carefully in the sailcloth.

Slipped in a few flat stones — heavy, like all the unspoken wishes he had left behind.

Tied the cloth tight with marine knots, clean and firm.

The dog, the two men, and I got into our old boat.

The inflatable stayed on shore.

This was our farewell.

We rowed out to where the water deepened.

It was dark here.

Quiet.

As if the sea was preparing to take him back.

I sat at the stern with the dog.

The boat rocked gently.

No one spoke.

Only the sound of oars and the creak of worn wood.

“All right.

Say your goodbyes,” the red-haired one said.

His voice was low, but steady.

I hugged the bundle — not tightly, just like before.

The dog nudged it too, resting his muzzle on my knees.

Then, gently, the men lifted him and let go.

The sailcloth floated briefly, hesitated… then sank, as if it knew the way.

A trail of bubbles rose behind him.

The dog and I watched the spot for a long time.

We just sat there.

Like after a conversation that’s ended, but still echoes inside.

The sailors rowed back in silence.

On shore, they flipped the boat, looped the rope twice around a root — the kind of knot you tie when you plan to return.

Or when you do something right.

For real.

Like professionals — not thinking, just knowing.

While we were gone, the rest of the crew had explored the shoreline.

They gathered what they could — signs of the storm, broken things.

Somewhere they found Aunt Miriam’s cloth doll, half-buried in the sand.

Arina captured it all on her camera.

We climbed into the inflatable boat.

The island shrank behind us.

The smoke from our fire still drifted upward, as if waving goodbye.

We moved swiftly across the water, the surface smooth as glass.

The boat barely bounced on the waves, as if the sea itself was carrying us gently toward a new chapter.

On board, everything smelled of iron, salt, and rope.

The metal steps burned under the sun, the lines were wet and heavy.

Around us, people moved quickly: someone tossed the anchor line, someone checked a tablet, someone else stood ready with a first-aid kit.

It was noisy — but not frightening.

Like being inside a machine that knew exactly what it was doing.Everything was loud, but not frightening — like a well-oiled machine at work.

I stood in my life jacket, still wearing my torn shirt, the dog pressed to my side.

I didn’t know where to look.

I wanted to hold Grandpa’s hand — just to keep myself from drifting inward.

Louise placed a hand on my shoulder — firm, but without pressure.

She turned me toward the people waiting at the top of the steps.

“This is Captain Jules Branc,” she said.

The man had graying temples, neat mustache, a tired face.

He nodded.

He didn’t smile, but looked at me steadily — almost fatherly.

I held out my hand.

He shook it firmly, then smiled.

“Doctor Manuel Serrano,” Louise continued.

A short man with gentle eyes and fingers that looked like they were afraid to break anything.

He said nothing, just studied my face and smiled as well.

“Christian Oberon — our technician,” she added, motioning to a tall man with a short beard.

He nodded to me silently.

“And this is Maren Jacquet,” she said.

A freckled redhead with broad shoulders.

He crouched and held out a hand to the dog.

“What’s your name, buddy?” The dog didn’t answer.

Just stared.

But didn’t look away.

“And Remi Legrand,” the captain added.

Remi, like the others, shook my hand.

Then the doctor examined me again.

He listened to my chest, tapped my back.

Said I was fine.

Hungry — yes.

Exhausted — yes.

But alive.

And that’s what mattered.

“He just needs to eat,” the doctor said.

I didn’t quite understand what he meant, but I nodded.

Louise led me across the deck.

“Come on.

I’ll show you the ship.” She showed me where things were: how the hatches opened, where the galley was, the mess hall, the common spaces.

She spoke calmly — not like I was a child, but like I was one of the crew.

“For now, you’ll stay with me,” she said.

“It’ll be easier.

I understand your language better than the others.” I just nodded.

In the mess hall, they were already waiting.

They brought simple food: a bit of rice, stewed fish, some bread.

It smelled good.

Louise told me to eat slowly — you shouldn’t eat too much after going hungry.

The dog ate beside me, straight from a bowl on the floor.

Then we went to the cabin.

Small, light.

Two bunks: one made up, the other stacked with books and boxes.

“It’s yours now,” Louise said, clearing the bunk.

“Go ahead and change — we’ll get your clothes washed.” I took everything off and handed it to her.

She nodded silently and told me to wrap myself in a sheet for now.

Then she left with my bundle.

I slipped under the sheet, bare.

The dog immediately jumped in beside me.

He lay down close, resting his head on my legs.

I fell asleep instantly.

I don’t remember any sounds, any feelings.

It was like someone switched me off.

I woke to find the dog sitting next to me, watching me, unmoving — like he had stood guard the whole time.

On the table lay a cloth doll — clean.

Miriam’s.

The same one.

Now — mine.

The dog gave a soft bark.

The door creaked open.

Louise peeked in.

“How are you?” I nodded.

She came in, sat down on the edge of the bunk, and held out some clothes.

“Try these on,” she said.

“Yours are still drying.” The shirt was red, with letters across the front.

I couldn’t read them — not in this language.

The shorts were clearly someone else’s — too soft, with a button on the side.

Someone had stitched them tighter so they wouldn’t fall off.

Then she gave me sneakers.

“I’m better barefoot,” I said.

“The deck gets hot,” she replied.

“Trust me — in an hour you’ll ask for shoes yourself.” I shrugged but put them on.

Then she started talking — about the ship, the people here, what would happen next.

I nodded.

Listened.

Sometimes I looked at the dog.

He understood everything.

“This is a research vessel,” she said.

“We study the Sargasso Sea.

Try to save what’s left of the ocean.” “Why try?” I asked.

“Why not just save it?” She shrugged.

“Because it takes a lot of money.

And we don’t have much.

Just enough to study.” I thought about that.

Then said: “What if I help?” She smiled, like it was a joke.

But I didn’t smile back.

“I have treasure.

Gold.

A lot.” That made her quiet.

“What treasure?” I looked at the dog.

He didn’t move — just watched me.

“My grandpa’s.

He found it.

Hid it in a cave.

I can show you.” Louise didn’t say anything.

Just watched as I reached under the pillow and pulled out the little bundle.

It was tied tight so it wouldn’t rattle.

I untied it carefully.

The coins slid into my palm.

I picked one — smooth, with a crown and little letters along the edge — and held it out to her.

She took it gently, like it might break.

Looked at it.

Then gave it back.

She didn’t say a word.

Just left.

She came back with the captain.

“May I?” he asked.

I nodded.

He took the coin, brought it close to his eyes.

Turned it over slowly.

Then looked at Louise.

“Back to the island.

Now.

Before it gets dark.” They left quickly.

I heard their footsteps on the deck.

Then a siren — one long, low sound.

The captain’s voice came through the speaker: “Changing course.

Back to shore.

Full turn.” The ship began to turn.

In the distance, the outline of L’Île-Échouée returned.

The sky was turning pink.

The water looked like melted metal.

We weren’t going back for hope this time.

We were going back because we knew.

The ship dropped anchor in the same lagoon.

The first boat went with the captain, Louise, two sailors, and the doctor.

I was in the second boat.

The dog pressed his nose into my palm — like he knew something big was about to happen.

When we landed, almost everyone was already there — all looking at me.

“Show us,” the captain said.

I led them up the hill — to the place Grandpa and I had dug.

I pushed aside the branches.

Pointed.

They started digging.

First with hands, then with shovels from the boat.

Not long after, the hatch showed through the sand — damp, closed.

“This it?” the captain asked.

I nodded.

They pried it open together.

Damp air rose from below.

Captain Jules Branc turned on his flashlight and went down first.

We waited.

Then we heard his voice: “You won’t believe it.” Louise and Arina followed.

I stayed up top, holding on to the dog’s fur.

Then came the shouting: “We found it!

Full crates!

Coins!

Rings!

Some kind of map!” They went down one by one.

Carefully.

Nothing was touched.

Everything was logged.

But even from above — I could see.

It was real.

Shelves with gold and copper and silver.

Chests with carved lids.

Necklaces.

Odd-shaped bars.

Boxes.

Little statues.

All dry.

All waiting.

“Five million easy,” someone said.

“Maybe more.” When they came back up, the captain looked at me.

“You found this?” I nodded.

Then said: “It’s Grandpa’s.” The captain took off his hat.

Ran a hand through his hair.

“We’ll call in the archaeologists.

Everything needs to be logged properly.

Seal the hatch.

No one goes back down until they arrive.” He turned to the others.

“We’ll set up camp right here — at the entrance.

We keep watch in shifts.

Seal the hatch.

Make sure it holds.” That evening we pitched the tents.

Boiled tea.

The dog curled up by the fire.

I lay beside him.

The fire crackled.

And in the dark, metal rings and rope-wrapped crates glinted — as if the island was waking up again.

But this time — with our footprints.

With our story.

To be continued...

ardeor

He lay in the boat, covered ~~with~~by a sailcloth.

HI hooked my arms under his shoulders.

You can omit the word "I" in English but here it sounds weird if you do it

"They’ll come."

"They’ll help."

With your style of short sentences you should use quotation marks twice here

The sand darkened, and settled.

"More branches," he said.

Did you mention branches yet?

They’ll see us then."

Same thing as before. Maybe this one is okay

SIt smelled like home.

I understand your style, however for pacing it is nicer to include words like this - just a bit

And in the dark, metal rings and rope-wrapped crates glinted — ¶
¶
¶
as if the island was waking up again.

Iolka_Eson

May 3, 2025

Thanks for the correction)

Now.