Two for the Shore

Not even the first rays of sunlight broke across the horizon when Freda was stirred from sleep. All was dark and quiet. The sounds of dockworkers and heavy machinery moved through the cold, crisp morning air.
Fish-filled crates boomed as they dropped to the concrete. Forklifts whined whenever they backed through the piles of crates. Buzzers signaled a warning to anyone in their way.
In the next room, three adults were also carrying on a conversation. Freda, ever curious about the goings on of adults, eagerly listened to every word.
“Maybe it’s time to wake Freda,” said her father.
“Let her sleep just a little more,” replied Mrs. Steinnar.
“We’ve got lots to do today,” replied her father.
“It’s nothing that cannot wait a little while longer,” said Mr. Steinnar.
“The fishmongers start early. If I want to make the people back home happy, we’d better get going.”
Someone sipped from his or her cup. Freda figured it was her father, drinking a mug of Skyr and coffee. The mug tapped against the wooden dining table. The wooden chair scratched against the concrete floor. Finally, the soles of hiking boots clopped against the floor.
“Freda, wake up,” said a voice.
“I’m up,” she replied.
The room was dull gray. The day outside was dull and gray just beyond the shadowy figure cast by her father.
“It’s time we get going.”
Freda rushed to the bathroom and got ready. In a few moments, she was dressed as everyone waited in the front room. When she emerged from the bedroom, she noticed he was drinking Skyr and coffee, just as she had imagined.
“I fixed some eggs for breakfast,” offered Mrs. Steinnar.
“May I have a cup of Skyr and coffee?” asked Freda.
“I don’t think you’ll like it,” said her father.
“It smells so good,” replied Freda.
“Take a sip of mine first.”
Freda took a sip of her father’s coffee. She had always imagined that coffee would taste like a good chocolate bar. Instead, the coffee tasted like coffee, strong and bitter. Even with the Skyr, all Freda could taste was coffee. Her face curled in disgust.
“I’ll pour you a tall glass of goat’s milk,” said Mrs. Steinnar.
Freda nodded.
“It’s a drink you have to grow to like,” said her father.
As Freda gulped her goat’s milk, it helped to get rid of the awful taste of coffee in her mouth. As she sipped, she also realized the last three words her father said, “grow to like.”
“I think a little bit of coffee would help it taste better,” she said.
Her father cast a suspicious gaze her direction.
“What? I kind of like it.”
Mrs. Steinnar grabbed the coffee pot and held it over the cup of milk.
“Just say when.”
She poured a small portion into Freda’s cup and hesitated.
“More, please,” said Freda. She motioned with one finger, as if she was encouraging a mouse to come out of a hole and eat a piece of cheese hiding in the cup.
Mrs. Steinnar added another small portion. Freda motioned again.
“More.”
“Freda, that’s plenty,” reprimanded her father.
“I would like some more, please,” said Freda in her most pleasant voice. Mrs. Steinnar obliged, filling the cup with coffee.
Freda took three sips. Each time, she kept her grimace to herself. After she’d cleared space in the cup, she added a dollop of Skyr and and several sppons of sugar. After a taste test, she was good to go.
“Ahhh, perfect!” she said.
She drank it all and then clopped her cup just as her father did. She had shown him she was ready to be adult. He chuckled under his breath. Freda frowned.
“Time to go,” he said.
She fetched her pack and followed him to Mr. Steinnar’s truck. The ride was quick and short. Mr. Steinnar slowly veered through the traffic at the dock, stoping just outside Mr. Samuelsson’s seaplane.
“Thanks, Magnus,” said Mr. Samuelsson.
Thank you, Mr. Steinnar,” added Freda.
“No problem at all, my dear friends.”
“I’ll see you soon,” said Mr. Samuelsson.
“Very soon,” replied Mr. Steinnar.
As Mr. Steinnar left, the dock foreman approached them.
“Is this your seaplane?” asked the foreman.
“It sure is.”
“Then you’re just the person I wanted to see.”
“What can I do for you?”
“One of the planes came into Reyjkjavik late last night. The truckload carrying your salmon just arrived.”
“How long until we’re ready?”
“Two hours, maybe three.”
“I guess that will have to do,” replied Mr. Samuelsson.
“We’ll get your seaplane ready as fast as we can.”
The foreman shook Obadiah’s hand. After that, Obadiah turned to his daughter.
“Let’s go to the beach,” he said.
“The beach?”
Obadiah pointed out an outcropping of rock just beyond the docks. A sheer cliff stood 50 meters high. At the bottom of the cliff, a narrow strip of dark brown sand.
“Okay then,” said Freda as she took her father by the hand. The calluses on his palm made her think of sand on her feet. She thought it would be nice to walk barefoot along the beach.
They climbed down the steps at the far end of the pier and across a small landing flanking the water. After another set of steps, they were standing on the beach.
“I think I’ll take off my galoshes.”
“It’s too cold,” said her father.
“May I for just a little while?”
Obadiah looked down at his daugher, who was already loosening the laces on her galoshes. He did not know how to say no to his only daughter.
“Just a little while,” he agreed.
She took of her galoshes and knotted the laces together. She hung tucked her socks inside and hung them about her neck.
“Now I’m ready,” she said.
She walked out onto the sand, which was bitterly cold. However, Freda did not complain, because it would mean her father was right.
“Are you cold?” asked father.
“Not at all.”
The cold water washed between her toes, leaving a circule of foam wherever she left a footprint. As the tide pulled away from the shore, it erased each old footprint.
“Why is the sand black?” Freda asked her father.
“See those cliffs?”
Freda nodded.
“The sand is just a bunch of old rocks the water has scrubbed into a fine black powder.”
“You’re joking, right?”
Obadiah shook his head. “Not at all. Those volcanoes in central Iceland created this island, through hundreds, maybe thousands of eruptions. The rock flows down the volcanoes and meets the sea. The sea cools the lava, just like a cold day chills the ice. Soon, the rock becomes solid. Some rocks, just like the ones further along the shore, break into smaller pieces. Water erodes the rocks and breaks them into tinier and tinier pieces until they are as fine as dust.”
He scooped up a handful of sand and let it sift out of his hand. Freda did the same. The gritty sand filtered through her fingers. She could feel the roughness of the sand, like thousands of tiny rocks.
Mr. Samuelsson crouched down and untied his boots. He leaned on his daughter as he removed one sock and then the other, all the while balancing on his boots. Afterwards, he tied his laces together and looped them over his neck, just as his daughter had done.
“It’s very cold,” he stated.
“I know,” she said.
“But it feels good.”
Freda smiled as she took her father by the hand. They walked to the end of the beach, where the cliff cut into the sea. Freda looked up.
“Do you think Vikings had to climb these cliffs?”
“Why do you say that?” asked her father.
“I imagine pirates climbing up the rock face to get to the top.”
“I think it would be much easier if they just plowed their ships into the beach and got out.”
“I suppose you’re right, but I still like the idea of Vikings climbing the rocks.”
“I don’t know of many Icelandic rock climbers,” said her father.
“Maybe I should be the first.”
Freda hopped from rock to rock along the edge of the cliff. Soon, she jumped onto the knoll of grass and weeds that ran along the edge of the beach.
“Come on,” she called to her father.
“I’ll stay here.”
“You could be the second rock climber.”
Freda moved back onto the rocks, working her way back to the pier. Her father walked to the pier just ahead of her. He waited at the bottom of the steps as she finished playing on the rocks. As she reached the pier, she hopped down onto the beach and then up to the pier.
“That was fun. You should’ve tried it, too.”
“I had plenty of fun just watching you,” he said.
They put on their socks and boots before heading up the stairs. When they arrived at the seaplane, it was loaded and ready to go.
Mr. Samuelsson signed his name on the dockworker’s clipboard and got into the seaplane’s cabin. Just like before, he turned a key and the dockworker flipped the propeller. After a few tries, the old seaplane rumbled to life.
Mr. Samuelsson headed out of the bay and into the air. Freda looked out her window at the cliffs below. Across the horizon, she saw the jagged protrusions carving their shape against the shore.
Mr. Samuelsson followed the shoreline the whole way to Dalvik. As he landed the seaplane, a jet of water sprayed across the window. Freda looked at the shore of Dalvik. It was plain and flat. The grassy fields came right up to the water’s edge. Freda wished Dalvik had cliffs or rocks to climb upon. Instead, they just had farmland.
At the dock, Mr. Samuelsson gave Freda the keys to the compact before turning his attention to the fishmonger. Freda unpacked her things and took them to the compact.
She leaned back in her seat and waited for him. After half an hour, he knocked on her window. She jumped in fright.
“You asleep?”
“Not at all.”
“Then let’s get home and eat some dinner.”
“What do you think mom will cook us?”
“Atlantic Salmon,” said Mr. Samuelsson as he pointed to a small container in his hand.
“I hope she makes salmon burgers,” said Freda.
“I’m pretty sure she’ll make whatever your heart desires.”
Freda held the small container on her lap. The smell of fresh salmon was one of her favorite smells. The only thing better was the smell of fresh grilled salmon. Freda knew that her father was right this time.
“Whatever I wish for…” she thought to herself.
She drifted in and out of sleep until they arrived home. Sure enough, her mother made her a salmon burger. Freda said it was the best salmon burger she’d ever eaten. Mr. Samuelsson thought maybe it was her empty stomach talking.
Then again, maybe they were the best salmon burgers ever. After they ate all the salmon, everyone slipped into bed with full stomachs and full hearts, too.