a sketch of Hestmannen
THE WEATHER
Before long my attention was recaptured by the unyielding weather.
Everything and everyone onboard was being rearranged as we rolled
over huge swells. Staying in my seat became a challenge, and
as darkness fell, I wondered if things could get much worse.
Then the captain announced that travel conditions had become
perilous, and that hewas now afraid to continue. We would
return to the mainland, preventing anyone from connecting to
the outer islands. I hoped to ask the captain three simple questions:
Where am I? Where can I stay tonight? How can I find my way to
Myken tomorrow? But before I could reach him, a stranger approached
me. His eyes were dark, his face as weathered as the coastline.
What could he possibly want with me? The stranger spoke first.
His dialect was like nothing I had ever heard before. Was this
also Norwegian? Grasping for everything I had learned from Hårek
and guessing at the meanings of key words, I managed to piece
together what he was saying. His name was Tomas and he
knew that I was on my way to visit his nephew Hårek. Also a resident
of Myken, he had gone to the mainland for some Christmas gifts.
Tomas had a plan. "Take the next boat," he advised, "I will get
my car and meet you on the other end." He seemed an unlikely
angel, but I had to trust him. The half hour long boat ride was
horrible, and back on solid ground I saw nothing of Tomas. Had
I misunderstood him? When he finally arrived, it was clear that
Tomas had no room for me in his small car. He did have a new
plan. "Take the next boat," he said, "it's not far. Catch the
bus near the pier and tell the driver you are going to the seaman's
refuge." Then, he and his car vanished into the night, leaving
me alone on the pier in the driving rain.
a fisherman's Skuta
By now the sea had become so rough that the next boat was unable
to dock properly. Secured by only a pair of loose lines, it was
thrashing violently
back and forth with the pounding surf. I threw my backpack into the arms
of a deckhand and he motioned for me to jump. I paused to study the tug-of-war
rhythm between boat and pier, and calculated the void to be no more than
five or six feet. Then, at precisely the right moment, I leaped from
the pier and grabbed the guardrail around the boat. The deckhand took
hold of the seat of my pants, pulled me aboard and calmly offered, "You
must come back sometime when there is a storm at sea." The small boat
ricocheted across the fjord, and there as Tomas had promised, stood an
idling bus. A mile or two inland I was deposited onto a dark, deserted,
residential street and pointed toward the house on the corner. A dog
growled from the shadows near the house, so I waited in the street until
someone came to the door. Inside this private home I was given a hot
shower and a warm meal, followed by coffee and conversation. I learned
first from my hosts that I had come to the coastal town of Vågaholmen,
a full day's travel from my destination. At eleven o'clock Tomas called
to make sure that I was safe. He had also phoned Myken to explain our
delay. Soon after, Hårek also called. He had just two questions; "Did
you understand my uncle?" he asked. I told him I had. "And did you get
sick on the boat?" he asked. I assured him I had not. Hårek laughed and
said, "I don't believe either answer. See you tomorrow." Tomorrow. I
wondered how it could be any more exciting than the nearly thirty hours
of travel I had now completed.
boat schedule for Rødøy
THE SEA
Morning brought more rough seas and yet another boat. This large,
lumbering, vehicle laden ferry offered little excitement while
retracing much of the same route I had traveled the previous
night. But all of that would soon change, as I transferred now
to a small, run down boat, possibly the oldest in the entire
Norwegian fleet. Its three-man crew did not project an image
readiness either. Was this the vessel that would deliver me safely
to Myken? Large black, weathered letters revealed the name; Rødøyløven.
The thought of making a four hour trek into the open mouth of
the Norwegian sea with this boat made me a little uneasy, but
I had come too far to turn back now. Besides, I was their only
paying passenger, so I climbed aboard and prepared myself for
still more adventure. This authentic lokalbåt - local
boat,was transportation in its purest form, explaining in
part, why tourists would not be found here. Below deck I found
a crude passenger cabin doubling as cargo hold. It had four small,
well worn tables with stiff, straight benches that were simply
bolted to the belly of the boat. Hårek had never mentioned this.
I was about to learn how the last leg of my journey would be
my greatest trial. As the small boat rode up over huge swells,
it pitched outrageously from bow to stern, then rolled from side
to side before slamming down against the bottom of the swell.
Bracing myself between table and bench, I threaded one leg through
the frame of my backpack to keep it from sliding away. It was
like spending the day on a roller coaster, and if ever I were
going to be sick, it would surely happen now. Hoping to avoid
this, I tried to focus on the horizon, but depending upon which
way the boat rolled, my porthole was either under water, or I
was left gazing into the air as the horizon bobbed erratically
up and down. Curtains alternately clung to the wall or stood
straight out from it.  Ironically, the only reading
material I had was a paperback novel from the immensely popular
Norwegian western series about a fictional Texas ranger; Morgan
Kane. The episode I was reading was titled Uten Nåde - Without
Mercy.Just then, two idle crew members sat down opposite
me, presumably to play cards and munch peanuts. But I knew that
they had come for another reason. The expression å matte krabban - to
feed the crabs,describes how sea sickness, is relieved by
vomiting overboard. Now, these two seasoned seamen wanted to
watch me do exactly that. Determined not to become their entertainment,
I somehow managed to endure the nausea, without ever having to
feed those crabs. But would Hårek, or anyone, ever believe me?
After nearly four hours the suffering was over, and in the distance
I could see it at last. Like a beacon in the night, the only
light in this vast dark Norwegian sea, I saw the island of Myken.
As we moved closer I could hardly believe my eyes. The island
was nothing more than a very large rock with a couple dozen houses
haphazardly clinging to it, their gabled roof lines offering
little relief in this horizontal world of sea and sky. The pier
was cluttered with pallets of fish and a small group of people.
Hårek was there with them, and as I stepped from the boat he
reached out his hand to greet me saying, "Velkommen til Myken,
alle vet du er her." - "Welcome to Myken, everyone knows
you are here."
THE ISLAND
Austere in every sense of the word, Myken was organized around
one hundred beings living in just twenty homes. Other than the
school and a general store that had opened its doors six months
earlier, there were no public buildings or any streets. The lone
vehicle was an old truck used to move fish around at the pier.
Until nineteen sixty-five electricity had been provided by a
generator, then replaced by underwater cable from the mainland,
primarily to serve the lighthouse. Not a single tree grew here,
only patches of coarse grass among the rocks. A narrow gravel
lane linked residences, sometimes turning abruptly to avoid a
large outcropping of rocks, at other times reduced to a footpath
between them. Homes were well kept places of refuge from this
harsh environment. Each had its own cistern to collect and store
rain, their only source of fresh water. Hårek's parents lived
in a modest house, perched on a hill, overlooking the harbor.
His father had been a fisherman and this location afforded him
a clear view of any boats coming or going. Like a retired railroad
man who continues to monitor the movement of passing trains,
he set his biological clock to the tide, heralding its ebb and
flow. Hårek's mother was both skillful and amusing in the kitchen,
creating a varied menu with little more than fish. Throughout
my twelve day visit, fish was served at nearly every meal, yet
no two meals were the same. My very favorite was grateng - a
casserole of grated fish and vegetables.Strangely, lutefisk was
not served or ever mentioned. I wanted to ask them why not, but
decided against that. Though small in number, the inhabitants
of Myken represented all ages from children to retirees. There
was even a young school teacher who had come all the way from Stavanger on
the southwest coast. Among the people I met, none offered any
hint of discontent with life in this far away place. Some had
gone off to seek employment on the mainland, but most preferred
the simplicity of life on the island, where fishing was everything.
Inside their homes I found them to be warm and gracious, but
also critical of the larger world with all of its excess. Liberation
from that world had required great sacrifice, to be sure, but
the reward was far greater. Not surprisingly, my impressions
of life out there on the island were of great interest to them,
and as someone who knew that larger world, I assured them that
whatever Myken did not have they could probably do without.
mid day sun over Lovunden
THE DARK
Those travel bureau people had been right. This certainly was
a dark place in winter. Tourists experience the wonder of
the midnight
sun in summer, but in winter the rule is darkness. Morning twilight
was followed by evening dusk only four hours later, with daylight
occurring between the hours of ten in the morning and two in
the afternoon. Even on the clearest day the sun itself was not
visible. With so many hours of darkness, people often slept during
dark daytime hours in an effort to shorten the unbearably long
winter nights. Hårek and I would routinely eat breakfast around
nine, stay up during the daylight hours and then nap in the late
afternoon until dinner. In the evening we would talk or watch
television until nine or ten o'clock before visiting other islanders
who kept similar late night hours. Then it was home again and
back to bed by five or six o'clock in the morning. This darkness
was responsible for an entire nighttime culture on the island
and during those hours we met many an interesting character.
One of these was uncle Kåre , a bachelor and former teacher.
Together we spent hours playing Scrabble while snacking on smoked
salmon, hard boiled egg, and flat bread. A retiree on Myken,
he welcomed the darkness because it gave him time to read, and
to reflect on life's purpose. Was this an unhealthy introspection?
On the contrary, in surroundings as stark as these, there was
really little else to contemplate. One night we visited a young
woman named Ragnhild, as her husband had just returned
from a trip to the Lofoten fishing grounds. We feasted
on fresh king crab and tales of the hunt. Later, we played a
game called din venn - your friend.Using only the
clues provided, a single person had to identify a common, ordinary
object clearly visible somewhere in the room. When it was Hårek's
turn we defied the prescribed rules, characterizing instead,
the island itself. Fooled for only a moment, he soon recognized
that Myken was his friend. I was intrigued at how intimately
the others described their home and tried to imagine what it
might have been like for them to have grown up in this odd place.  Several days later I was made an honorary member of their youth
group. Its unusual name was Dragsug - Undertow,and
it offered ample evidence of how closely their lives here were
joined with the sea. Its character, it seemed, determined also
theirs.
Tradition dictated that every young adult of Myken both single
and married, meet at the school building for a Christmas Eve
meal and program. The
menu was a closely guarded secret, and I could not conceive that there
was any kind of fish I had not already eaten. Would it be lutefisk? Imagine
my surprise when I found it not to be fish at all, but reindeer steak
with new potatoes and brussels sprouts. Later, we played an amusing game
of charades using obscure Norwegian idioms. Teamed together with Hårek
and the school teacher, our first task was to convey an expression that
had never appeared in my text book. It was nød loerer naken kvinne å spinne - necessity
is the mother of invention.Dessert was followed by a short program
of amateur talent, and just when it seemed that the party was over, a
surprise guest arrived from Trømso. It was Oluf, one of
northern Norway's best known comedians who personifies the collective
wit and wisdom of the region. Using stories and word play with great
skill, he parodies day to day life in the far north. It was, of course,
an impersonator and none other than Hårek himself who offered a routine
of jokes for his fellow islanders. The face was not entirely convincing,
but the costume certainly was. There he stood in true Oluf uniform; full
length woolen underwear, shabby vest, oversized boots, and tattered,
sheepskin cap with flaps pulled down over the ears. Hårek was hilarious,
even if much of the humor escaped me. When the evening was over, we set
out across the island, hoping to find someone else to visit. Instead,
we discovered an ethereal winter night sky brightly painted with nordlys - northern
lights.Whole tapestries of color danced across the sky, filling much
of the three hundred and sixty degree horizon around us. The night air
was mild, so I laid down on my back in the snow to enjoy this once in
a lifetime sight. Hårek turned homeward, having seen it all before.
Christmas day
was spent at home with Hårek and his parents. After
dinner we sat quietly and compared holiday customs, but exchanged
no gifts. I had already received mine the day that I had arrived
on the island. This had been a Christmas like no other. Never before
had I celebrated the holiday so far from home, yet enjoyed myself
more. Sadly, just four days remained before I must leave Myken.
And although I did not want to believe it, I understood that after
leaving this place, I would likely never return. Hårek and I would,
of course, meet again in Oslo after the holidays, but my trip to
the island had been a singular experience.
symbol for the community of Rødøy
THE FAREWELL
I left Myken on the last day of December at five o'clock in
the morning. Hårek and his father said good-by at the door.
Then I walked down the hill to the harbor where Rødøyløven had
been moored overnight. Bound for the port of Ørnes,
I would meet the south bound Hurtigruta - a large
coastal steamer.From there I would continue on to Brønnøysund for
New Years with friends. I wondered if they would believe any of
my stories about the island. Alone on that long trip back to
the mainland, I now had time to think about all that I had
been witness to on the island, about the people I had met and
how they had embraced me. My experience there clearly contradicted
the stereotype of cold Scandinavian indifference. I recalled
too, the first time that I had met Hårek, and how I had imagined
his home based on the bleak picture he had painted. How fortunate
I was to have seen it first hand, to have experienced this
side of Norway, one that most on the mainland would never know.
Others could not begin to appreciate the raw determination
required of those early islanders to first settle there, and
then to stay on under such unforgiving circumstances, living
out there on that desolate rock, severed from the world. I
understood more fully now, what Ragnhild had meant when she
said, "Is it surprising that we Norwegians are so stubborn?
Just look at the land where we live."
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