The Last Whaler by Cynthia Reeves

Author:Cynthia Reeves
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Regal House Publishing
Published: 2024-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

EQUINOX

Kvitfiskneset

21 June 1947

The cuckoo tells me morning has broken. The fire died overnight, the kitchen gone cold. I lit the stove and crawled back into bed with the folio and hot tea and a plate of biscuits while I waited for the cabin to warm. The day is overcast, with the kind of icy rain typical of June that makes being outside unpleasant. A good day to stay in bed with the covers pulled up.

They say such idleness is the devil’s workshop. I say mindless busyness is equally wicked. This rare solitude, especially here where every corner yields abundant memories, where every page forces me to confront all that I’ve been avoiding for so many years, may finally give my angels their due.



Much of September had passed without Astrid writing a letter to Birk. Not surprising, since we were all trying to make up for lost time. A strange expression, that. Where does time hide when we lose it? And how is time “made up” by working harder? Isn’t that simply a way to lose more time? Could I tap my wife or my mates on the shoulder and ask, “Have you seen my lost time?”

In any event, the whaling ledger didn’t lie. By the end of August, we’d barely recouped expenses, so the men and I decided to extend the season into September. Lo and behold, in a few short weeks, we caught almost half again as many whales as we had all season. The men were thrilled by our good fortune.

We halted the catch in mid-September and finished the trying-out. What followed was a whirlwind of loading the ship with barrels of oil and beluga skins and the crew’s personal gear. In the past, we’d taken the ship and the motorboat back to Longyearbyen, put the boat in dry dock, and proceeded home in quarters even more cramped than on the journey north. To relieve the overcrowding, Anders and I decided that he would proceed directly to Tromsø while Astrid and I took the motorboat back to Longyearbyen to catch the Lyngen’s October sailing.

A simple plan. Beyond the practical considerations, the prospect of spending time alone with Astrid influenced my decision—days spent strolling side by side as the sun set over the fjord and enjoying the first light snowfalls over a moonlit landscape. To say the least, the summer hadn’t been the second honeymoon we’d envisioned. I knew beforehand that whaling was an all-consuming business, but I’d thought that sharing my livelihood with her would bring us closer and help heal the rift that had grown wide since Birk’s death. I’d also thought that the opportunity to study Arctic flora would give her personal satisfaction.

In fact, it had. One of the few bright spots that summer was the time she spent in the field. One day, she rushed in breathless with excitement. I thought she’d found that one-of-a-kind flower that would make the trip (in her mind) worth the trouble. She unfolded a damp towel with the day’s find.

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