Growing Up Viking: Fond Memories of Iceland by Herman Ieda

Author:Herman, Ieda [Herman, Ieda]
Language: eng
Format: azw
Published: 2017-05-31T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 20

The North Fjords

Like an over-endowed, elderly, dowager elbowing herself through a crowd, the Gullfoss plowed through the ocean waves at a full roll toward Bakkaflói. The sky was lead-grey, the abominable stiff breeze bit my cheeks, and the gusts watered my eyes. The tip of my nose was red and ice cold.

Summer was over, and I was on my way back to Reykjavik.

I tucked my chin deep into the thick collar of my lopi sweater as I sat, hunched up, in the fo’castle amid coiled up brown rope and wood crates. I wrapped my arms tight around my chest as I rocked back and forth. Just a few hours of sailing and already I missed everyone at Vopnafjörður. I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to go back to Reykjavik.

A whiff of tobacco-smoke caused me to look up. Two men were standing by the rail. One of the men was round and short. The top of his head was covered with a black, limp hat. He had a curled-down, shiny black pipe clenched between his teeth. The pipe bobbed up and down as he spoke rapidly, both hands jammed into the pockets of his overcoat. The other was a taller, lanky, bareheaded younger man. With his heavy coat unbuttoned, he’d reached inside and looped his left thumb under one strip of his frayed, black suspenders, yanking and snapping as he used his straight pipe as a pointer. He would remove the pipe from his mouth with his right hand and jab it into the air as he made comments. The smoke odor reminded me of Grandpa and his attic. I squeezed my eyes hard.

“Are you alright?” I lifted my head at the concerned voice and felt a hand gently grip my shoulder. I looked up into the dark-brown eyes of Einar. He’d graduated from Iceland’s Navigation School with my Father so I was quite comfortable with him “looking out” for me.

At age forty, he was two years older than my dad. His hair seemed to be of no particular color but he had lots of it; it stuck out from under his cap above his ears and curled at the neck of his black turtleneck sweater. Whereas Father was a stocky, short, solidly built man, Einar was tall, stoop shouldered and wiry. Both men had the strong, weather-beaten face of the seafaring man. Einar was a father of twins who were a year older than I was.

But right now I was wanting to talk to Sólveig, who had been so understanding as we traveled the fjords last Spring. Maybe she had answers for the questions that were churning inside of me. I knew she was going to meet the ship when we docked in Akureyri, and she just might be going back to Reykjavik. I was looking forward to that.

“Yes, thank you.” I answered politely as Mother had repeatedly taught me.

“You’re getting pretty wet from the spray. You look like a lamb that’s fallen into a creek!” He chuckled as he brushed the water off my sweater.

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