The Magic Ukulele

When I was ten, my grandpa gave me a magic ukulele. He carved it from driftwood when he was just a boy. The frets are uneven, and the strings have been replaced dozens of times. When my grandpa plucked the strings, he made the waters calm. If there was a storm overhead, the clouds began to part.

“Where does the magic come from?” I asked him.

“From the ocean spirits,” he told me. “When you see wood that has washed ashore, do you know why it is so white?”

I shook my head.

“It’s because of the spirits of all those men who were lost at sea. When they find a piece of wood floating in the ocean, it gives them a place to rest for a while. And when they swim away, they leave a little bit of magic behind. Each little bit makes a mark, and eventually, after a log or a branch has travelled to every ocean in the world, not a single spot is left unmarked.”

At this point, he began to strum. The waves began to crash to the rhythm of his fingers.

“What can it do?” I asked.

“Many things,” my grandpa said. “It will bring what you offer it. I know how to be peaceful and slow and gentle. When I play, I make the world peaceful. And sloooooooooooow…” He scrunched up his face and moved his arms like a turtle.

“Can I try?” I asked. My grandpa patted his lap, and I hopped up.

He placed the body across my chest and held the ukulele’s neck.

“You strum,” he said. “I will play the notes.”

“What’s it going to do?”

My grandpa raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

“I don’t know. What do you want it to do?” he asked.

I moved my thumb up and down the strings in an uneven pattern.

Duum-Dah...Dah-dah-dah...dum...dum...Dah-duuuuum…

As I strummed, my grandpa moved his fingers in knots along the neck. He anticipated my unsteady rhythm, and began to hum a simple tune.

“I want…” I began. I frowned for a moment, and looked at the sand. My eyes followed our footsteps back to the road. “I want some ice cream. And to play baseball with my friends.”

My grandpa chucked. He ruffled my hair, and I looked up at him, confused and annoyed.

“Silly boy,” he said. “What do ocean spirits know of ice cream or baseball? You would be lucky to conjure a ball of slimy seaweed or a sea urchin!”

I tilted my head to the side, but kept plucking the strings one at a time.

“Do the ocean spirits like to play?” I asked.

“Perhaps,” said my grandpa. He scratched his chin. “But playing with the ocean is dangerous.”

“Can I ask it for a pet? Like a shark?”

My grandpa’s finger slipped, and he missed the beat.

“You don’t want a shark. If you ask for something living, then you will have to take care of it. If you don’t the ocean spirits will become angry with you, and then you will only be able to summon curses.”

I scratched my neck, and noticed that it was burning from the sun.

“I’m hot,” I said. “I want to be cold.”

“Then think of the cold, and play,” my grandpa said.

I thought of the wind, and of clouds, and I started to strum faster and faster, like my hand was a fan. A breeze started to move through the trees along the shore. It got faster and faster, and by the time it reached us, it was a cloud of dust and sand. I shielded my eyes, and raised both arms.

“Ahhhhhh!” I cried. But my grandpa picked a couple of strings, and the wind vanished.

I rubbed my eyes and spat sand from my mouth.

“That was good,” said my grandpa. “You were very excited and forceful, and so was the wind.”

I sat back down in his lap, and he let me strum again.

We played the ukulele for several minutes without saying a word. My grandpa leaned back and forth. My mind drifted, and my fingers moved on their own. They found their strings in time with my grandpa’s hands. I watched the horizon as the sun began to set.

“Grandpa,” I said. “Can I ask to be funny?”

“Yes,” he said, “but you will need to learn, as well. If you practice, you can learn to make people laugh, to make them dance, to make them cry. It takes hard work, and when you play, you cannot hold back. What you wish to make others feel, you must feel as well.”

“Will you teach me when I’m older?” I asked.

My grandpa smiled, but not with his eyes.

“When you’re older, you will teach others. You can sit on this beach, or maybe another, and tell your grandson about music and the ocean spirits.”

“How long will that be?” I asked.

“Sooner than you think,” he said.

I looked up and my grandpa’s face, but his gaze was lost at sea. For a moment, I thought he looked sad, but then he turned down to look at me. He smiled and winked.

“Come on, what can I teach you next?” he asked. “We have to go soon, before it gets dark.”

I stopped and thought for a moment, then answered. “Can you make the sun set slower?”

“Yes,” he said. “I can do that.”

A lilting tune filled the air, and we sat together, and played. The sunset lasted for hours.