Lofoten – Hindsight

BENGT GROPED HAND OVER HAND along the rail leading aft. The gale snarled and raged, heaving the sloop like a monstrous cat playing with a mouse.

19th century painting — *“Stormy Sea,” 1857, by Marcus Larson (1826-1864)*

Several times Bengt nearly lost his footing on the slick deck. “I heard a cry of ‘Land ho!'” he called to the sailor at the helm. “Will it be safe haven in a cove or shipwreck on the rocks?”

“You should stay in your berth, Herr Holbek,” Johan shouted from the stern. “You’ll be washed overboard!”

“If we’re bound to break apart, I’m headed for the deep anyway. What does the lookout say? Any idea where we are?” Bengt saw nothing ahead but mountainous waves. He lashed himself to the rail, tested the quick release of the knot, then tied again.

The sloop slid sideways into a trough, keeling to the side. Johan wrestled the tiller until the ship grudgingly heeled about to plow head-on into the coming billows. “Thought it might be Røst, our last chance. But no, lookout says it’s too low.”

“Have we been blown past Røst in the storm?” Bengt asked.

“No way to tell, with the compass smashed. Whatever it is, if we can work our way around, we might find shelter in the lee.”

Bengt wiped sleet from his face and peered again into the murky rain veils ahead, swirling in heavy hues of grayed purple and slate blue. They had warned him, back in Bergen, it was late in the season to voyage north.

But they’d had clear sailing past Trondheim, such fine weather that the captain reasoned it a good risk to set out across open ocean, heading for the Lofoten Islands.

In autumn, how quickly the weather changes.

Bengt straightened and stared at a glimpse of emerald green through the dark shrouds to port. “Did you see–” he began.

Voices clamored on the wind. The lookout. Other sailors. Then the captain shouting orders.

Johan hauled on the tiller, guided the skittish sloop into the calm waters of a bay.

Bengt gaped at the sight. Beautiful green-and-gold meadows sloped down to meet the sea. The low island seemed to curl around the harbor, unruffled by the storm howling past in the heavens.

A chain rattled as they lowered anchor. Bengt untied his safety line and joined the sailors along the rail, staring at the shore where barley grew thick and golden as the pelt of a fox. The field didn’t end at water’s edge, but continued underwater. Bengt leaned over the rail and gazed into the depths where barley still thrived, waving with the current.

No one suggested going ashore.

At last the storm broke. As sailors labored to haul the anchor aboard, the land began to sink. The whole island vanished beneath the waves.

The crew halted all movement, everyone staring at the anchor dripping on the deck, ready for stowing. It was twined with barley ears. The barley of Utrøst, the hidden island of bliss.

Good luck followed them until their journey’s end.

Folktale from Tysfjord, Ofoten, and Lofoten, Nordland, Norway

artwork: 19th century paintings. Public domain info here.

At dawn on the seventh day after the shipwreck, Quim clambered once more up the rocky headland. The winter wind blowing in from the North Sea tasted of salt as it combed its cold dry fingers through his hair. He wedged himself into a crevice to rest, poor shelter from the constant stiff breeze. It dried his sweat, chilling him to the marrow.

Quim shivered as he gazed out to sea. Billows rolled, grey and silver, nothing like the roaring black mountains that had driven the Golfinho Azul so far north. Yearning for sight of white sails, he saw only the froth of sullen waves. A bleak, hopeless view. None but the foolhardy would set to sea during the season of winter storms.

19th century painting of a storm off the coast of Norway — *“Storm off the Norse Coast,” 1846, by Knud Baade (1827-1879)*

A smoke tendril spiraled up from the beach. Three sailors crouched there, huddled against the cold, tending their injuries, muttering curses at the ship’s owner, safe at home in warm Lisbon.

Quim braced himself against the cold and set out again. Quim the cabin boy, hero of the deserted island, had prowled the rough coastline until he found a stream to slake his companions’ thirst. He’d gathered what little driftwood had lodged on this desolate shore. He’d braved the horrors of the haunted hillsides where hundreds of monster skulls gaped at his feet.

Fish heads, he had realized after that first terror. Empty eyes. Mummified flesh stretched tight over bone. Lopped clean off at the gills.

He had kicked his way through the ugly mounds, climbed to the brow of the headland, and found racks of drying codfish, a treasure worth more than gold to the starving men below.

detail from a 19th century painting of a cod fish — *detail from “Study of Fish, Skate and Cod,” 1842, by David Cox (1783-1859)*

Now Quim again surmounted that last stretch, then halted in astonishment. Around the fish racks moved figures, men dressed in coats and cloaks and felt caps.

Quim whooped and ran to meet the strangers. They were tall and fair-haired, their eyes as icy blue as the sky. Quim babbled greetings, questions, pleas for help until his breath ran out.

They stood about, staring down at him, silent as stone. Then one spoke, words as sharp as the gravel underfoot.

Quim shook his head. He tried a few words in Spanish, then in French.

One of the men spoke back in the stilted tones of Normandy. Quim at last had answers. The storm had driven the Golfinho Azul all the way to the Lofoten Islands off the northern coast of Noruega, where ever-blowing winds served ideally for drying the winter catch of cod. There was a harbor and village on the next island to the east.

19th century painting of the seas off Lofoten Island — *“Lofoten Island,” 1895, by Lev Lagorio (1826-1905)*

Quim explained about his companions, and apologized for his theft from the drying racks. “The cod saved our lives,” he told the fishermen, and kicked at a fishhead. “They taste much better than they look.”

That fetched a smile from the dour Norueguês.

Norwegians fetched the stranded Portuguese sailors to their village, and arranged for their passage home in late spring.

A decade later, Quim returned with his own ship, bought up all the monster skulls, and began lucrative trade with certain folk in Africa who prized the delicacy of fishhead soup.

*A dried codfish head posted beside a public path in Norway; the sign says “open.”* *Photo 2006 by Joyce Holt*

Story based on an account related at the Codfish Museum at Lofoten Islands, Norway. The names of the ship and the cabin boy are of the author’s fabrication.

artwork: 19th century paintings: in the public domain, according to these sources:

wikiart: “This artwork is in public domain in its country of origin and other countries and areas where the copyright term is the author’s life plus 70 years or less.”

wikipedia: “This work is in the public domain in its country of origin and other countries and areas where the copyright term is the author’s life plus 100 years or fewer.”

{{PD-US-expired}} : published anywhere (or registered with the U.S. Copyright Office) before 1926 and public domain in the U.S.

Tag: Lofoten

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