One for the Birds

As the days went by, Mr. Samuelsson did not give much thought to taking his daughter along for trips of any sort.
Freda, however, thought about it constantly.
Early one morning, she sat across from her mother. Her mother was eating a bowl of Skyr.
“May I make a bowl of hraeringur?” asked Freda.
“If you clean up after yourself.”
The most common way of enjoying Skyr was the exact way Freda always ate it: stirred. In fact, the word ‘hraeringur’ was the Icelandic word for ‘stirred’. She mixed the Skyr with an equal portion of porridge, which she heated in the microwave. Freda then added molasses and raspberries to her hræringur.
Freda loved the smooth, creamy texture of the hraeringur. It was Icelandic Ice cream. Freda dug her spoon to the bottom of her bowl, churning the ingredients with every bite. The spoon chopped the berries, turning the normally white hraeringur to a dark pink color.
Coincidentally, hraeingur was the Icelandic word for ‘stirred’. Most Icelandic folk stirred something into their Skyr, whether it was porridge or fruit or sweeteners, like sugar and molasses.
“Mama?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Would you ask daddy if he could take me with him to Ólafsfjörður?”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” prompted her mother.
“I don’t think he wants me tagging along with him.”
“You will never know unless you ask.”
Just then, she heard her father, ‘clunk-clunk-clunking’ down the stairs in his steel-toed boots.
“Góðan daginn,” said father, which was Icelandic for ‘Good morning.’ It sounded like goden-doggin.
“Góðan daginn, Daddy,” replied Freda.
Mr. Samuelsson sat down between his wife and daughter, helping himself to a bowl of Skyr. Just like Mrs. Samuelsson, he ate his plain.
At that moment, Mrs. Samuelsson motioned towards Freda, coaxing her to speak. Freda, however, would not.
“What are you two doing?” asked father.
“I was wondering if you could take me with you to Ólafsfjörður today.”
“Don’t you have school?”
“Not today.”
“Then I don’t think it would be any problem at all.”
“See?” said mother, “All you had to do was ask.”
Freda was relieved that she got to go with her father. Her older brother Stefan had accompanied him on several trips since Freda went ice fishing. Freda had grown very jealous of Stefan, but did not say a word to anyone.
“You’d better hurry up and finish your hraeringur, because you’ll have to pack an overnight bag.”
“We’re staying overnight?”
“I have to deliver haddock to the fishmongers and pick up salmon from the fishermen. Then, we’ll bring the salmon back to Dalvik.”
“Sounds like a plan,” said Freda.
“It sure is, now hurry along.”
Freda hurriedly stuffed her backpack. She added items of clothing in sets of two, for both tomorrow and tonight. She scampered downstairs as soon as she felt she’d packed everything. She entered the kitchen, only to find her mother sitting alone, sipping a cup of tea.
“Where’s Daddy?”
“He’s waiting for you in the compact.”
“We’re not taking the Arctic Truck?”
“Stefan needs it to run some errands.”
“And the hatchback wagon?”
“I’ll be running some errands, too. I’m going to the Andersson’s to pick up some groceries.”
Freda nodded.
“Your father is waiting outside.”
Freda joined her father in the compact. Although it was cramped, it was better than nothing. The compact belonged to Stefan, but all the adults shared the vehicles equally. Since there was no mass transit in Iceland, everyone relied on his or her own means of transportation, whether it was an Arctic Truck, an SUV, a snowmobile, or even Stefan’s compact.
Mr. Samuelsson drove to the docks and parked his car behind an old warehouse. Although she hadn’t been to Dalvik’s shipyard in a long time, she was very familiar with everything around her.
Dockworkers busily loaded and unloaded cargo ships and seaplanes. Forklifts raced between the docks to the warehouses, carrying giant crates. Most were filled with fresh fish.
Freda grabbed her backpack and followed her father through the warehouse. This place was familiar to Freda, too. It was where one of her daddy’s business associates, Mr. Thorvald, worked. Mr. Thorvald ran the Dalvik Fish Market. He was a fishmonger. He sold fish to restaurants, grocers, and exporters. His fish sometimes traveled half way around the world. He also sold fresh fish to the people of Dalvik. His market was the most popular in town.
“Arni! How are you doing this morning?”
“Oba! I’m doing just fine. How about you?” shouted Mr. Thorvaldson.
“I’m a little groggy, but I brought my co-pilot,” said Mr. Samuelsson.
“It’s been a long time, Freda,” said Mr. Thorvaldson, “How old are you now?”
“I’ll be ten in just a few months.”
“You’re growing into quite a beautiful lady.”
Freda blushed as the two men chuckled. She turned her attention to the Fish Market as they turned their attention to business.
The people who worked at the Fish Market were called fishmongers, too. As they pried open crates full of fish, the sound of nails bending in wood and crowbars clanging on the concrete floor of the warehouse filled the air. The men grabbed the fish, which were as nearly as big as Freda herself, and tossed them to other men. The men caught the fish in their hands and tossed them onward to another man. It was the fastest way to get the fish from the loading area, where forklifts unloaded the crates to the stocking area where other fishmongers sold the fresh fish to the public.
Freda loved the smells and noises of the Fish Market.
“Come on, Freda,” said her father, interrupting her thoughts.
“Already?”
“The plane’s waiting. All it needs is you and me.”
Freda followed her father to the docks. His seaplane sat between two piers. On one side, men were loading crates into another seaplane. On the other side, the cabin door was unfolded. Its steps leaned over the water, ready to accept two passengers.
Mr. Samuelsson lifted his daughter onto the steps.
“Up you go,” he said.
They eased into the pilot’s cabin, buckling themselves into their seats. A dockworker ame up and handed Mr. Samuelsson a clipboard. Mr. Samuelsson signed it and returned it to the dockworker.
The man went to the front of the seaplane and signaled to Mr. Samuelsson. The dockworker jerked on the propeller, giving it a turn. The seaplane sputtered and coughed before whirring to life.
The dockworker checked to see the dock was clear before he twirled a finger above his head. Mr. Samuelsson backed the seaplane into the bay and turned it around.
As the seaplane sped through the bay, Freda stared out the open cabin door.
Heavy waves undulated like a black linen sheet being flipped over an empty bed. Every so often, bitter winds whipped through the cabin door. Freda tucked her chin under the neckband of her jacket. After that didn’t work, she curled her body in her seat, avoiding direct contact with any wind at all.
“There’s a mummy bag in the back, if you want to bundle up,” offered her father.
Freda glanced into the back of the cabin at the two sleeping bags rolled, tied, and stuffed into the corner. A whip of wind hit her in the face as soon as she jumped from her seat. She tried untying one of the mummy bags with her mittens on, but soon realized that would not work at all.
She tugged off both mittens and worked feverishly on the knotted rope. What seemed like minutes was only seconds as she unfastened the mummy bag. She kicked off her boots and jumped into the bag. After she was safe inside, she hopped back to her seat and sat beside her father, tucked into her mummy bag like a moth in the comfort of its cocoon.
Seagulls and terns took their places as the seaplane took for the air.
The seaplane turned northwest as it rose over the bay. Soon, Dalvik vanished behind them. Ólafsfjörður lay just an hour or two ahead.
Even with her wool coat and mummy bag, Freda’s face remained frozen cold. She was happy when the seaplane’s engine slowed. It skimmed over the surface, landing in a far away bay.
“Puffins!” exclaimed Freda.
The little black, white, and orange birds took flight as Mr. Samuelsson’s plane touched down in Ólafsfjörður Bay. Unlike the seagulls, the puffins were quite a quiet flock. They did not squawk like the birds of Dalvik. They also kept together, whether they were wading in the bay or flying overhead.
“I hope Mr. Steinnar is here,” said her father.
“I can hardly wait to see him again,” said Freda.
As the seaplane navigated its way through the traffic of seaplanes and fishing boats, Freda watched the puffins gathered at the far end of the pier. Like the seagulls and terns, the puffins scavenged for free fish. Some even swam into the way of Mr. Samuelsson’s seaplane.
“Get out of here!” shouted Mr. Samuelsson.
The birds could not hear him over the rumble of the seaplane’s engine. Mr. Samuelsson slowed the seaplane to an idle, steering through the flock of puffins.
Mr. Steinnar was on shore, waiting for the Samuelsson’s seaplane to arrive. He waved to Freda and she waved back. Mr. Samuelsson shut off the engine as the plane floated the last few meters toward the dock.
Dockworkers grabbed the seaplane by the wings and carefully steered it to the mooring posts. They tied off the guide lines and unfolded the cabin door. Freda stepped out, helped to the docks by Mr. Steinnar.
“How was the trip?” he asked.
“Very chilly,” she replied.
“My house is cozy and warm,” said Mr. Steinnar.
“I remember,” she said.
“We’re not going to the haberdashery. I own another house where I live when I’m not working. It’s a turf house, so you know it’ll be warm.”
“Is it very far?”
“Not at all.”
They left the seaplane behind so the dockworkers could reload it with a fresh batch of fish to take to Dalvik. Freda had seen turf houses before, but had never had the chance to stay inside one. Freda wondered what the houses under the ground would be like.
Soon, she would get a chance to visit one and see for herself.