“Seafaring, my love”, said the old sailor, blisters on his hands, holding on to his badly worn, hand-knitted, navy blue pom-pom hat. Peacefully we stood next to one another, in a little harbor on Eysturoy, dressed in woolen pullovers and rubber boots. Rising wind all round us, on a windswept day in September, island world calendar sheets indicating the inevitable end of another summer. Unspoken thoughts floated out to sea, an ascending, glowing bubble, his thoughts and mine, full of ships, longing and strange desire. Above us, an imaginary flag fluttered in the wind, as a sign of esteem, sending chills up and down our spines, telling stories, packed with pirate raids and restless souls, lost at sea.
Shortly afterwards, we found ourselves in a tiny house, in a quaint kitchen, blowing on steaming mugs, accompanied by the sound of a ticking clock, talking about cod. Fishing has been the main source of income for the islands since the late 19th century. The ocean is never far away. Calm. Turbulent. In a towering rage. Waste. Rippled. Azure. Silky-smooth, on one out of twenty days. It proves fallacious. “The sea is a harsh mistress“, said the old sailor. Lost in thought, he made the sign of the cross and stirred his coffee.