THE tolling sound of a distant bell rouses me from my slumber. I peel my eyes open. ‘Where am I?’ The room is dark and warm and smells of oiled oak. And then I remember. I’m in Arctic Norway, onboard a Swedish former minesweeping vessel called HMS Gåssten.
The tolling sound is getting louder and louder, now interspersed with a bellowing voice that I recognise as Simon Idsø—the boat’s chef. ‘Orcas,’ he cries. ‘Wake up, there are orcas.’ I exit my cabin—once home to the ship’s ammunition—and scurry onto deck. To the left of the bow bolts of golden light have successfully broken through leaden clouds; to the right, the water’s surface is interrupted by one onyx dorsal fin after another, a symphony of orcas rising and falling. Minutes pass before I realise that I’m not the only one on deck—my group stands silently, in bemused awe.
Our journey begins sometime before the orcas’ arrival in Henningsvaer, a quaint fishing village on the south-west of the Lofoten archipelago. Gåssten’s Royal Navy-blue hull see-saws back and forth on its mooring. Built in 1973, Gåssten spent 26 years sweeping the Baltic Sea and the Gulf of Bothnia for mines before serving the UN as a coast guard vessel. Now, the last ship in her class still afloat, gentle adventures around Lofoten seems a fitting retirement for her. As she lies at anchor, skrei cod dries on wooden racks along the harbour’s edge, as it has done for centuries (the technique preserves the fish and means it can be stored almost indefinitely and shipped long distances), its distinctive scent passed around by the breeze.
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