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Hrolfur glanced at it with the corner of his eye. He spat and bared his teeth. The wave rose and rose, and it reached us just at the mouth of the creek, its overhanging peak so sharp as to be almost transparent. It seemed to be making straight for the boat.
The man on the jetty cast off, threw the rope down into the boat and jumped in after it. One of the crew thrust the handle of an oar against the breakwater and pushed off. Then they rowed for a short spell to get into the wind, whilst old Hrolfur fixed the rudder. The sail filled out; the boat heeled gently over and ran in a long curve. The islets at the harbour mouth rushed past us.
The crew told me so much about their fishing adventures that I longed to go to the island with them. Suddenly Eric gave me a nudge. The conversation stopped, and we all looked back at old Hrolfur. Now he's talking to himself. We all held our breath and listened. Hrolfur sat like a statue, holding the rudder-lines. His eyes wore a far-away look and a curious smile of happiness played over his face.
By now we were far out in the fjord. The sea was rising and becoming more choppy because of tide currents. Good steering became more and more difficult. Hrolfur seemed to do it instinctively. He never once looked up and yet seemed to see all around him. He seemed to sense the approach of those bigger waves which had to be avoided or passed by.
You were asking, my lad, what the journey costs it costs nothing. Nothing? What nonsense! Not since you got wet, said Hrolfur and smiled, though you could still see the tears in his eyes. It's an old law of ours that if the ferry-man lets his passengers get wet, even though it's only their big toe, then he forfeits his toll.
His sea-green, light-shy, pig-like eyes would glare malevolently up at his tormentors, and in his maddened fury he would bite, snap and fight until he almost capsized the boat. For centuries our forefathers had hunted the shark like this in open boats, but nowadays men preferred to use decked vessels. No one in the district still used the old method, apart from old Hrolfur.
The rocks were drenched with spray from the breakers, and the booming of the sea as it crashed into the basalt caves resounded like the roar of cannon. There'll be no landing in the creek today, Hrolfur, the man said and yawned again. The breakers are too heavy. Hrolfur pretended he hadn't heard.
Oh, not really. Sometimes one gets unpleasantly damp out there. Hrolfur stood still, chewing his quid of tobacco and staring out at the entrance to the creek. He seemed to have forgotten all about answering my question. Sometimes one gets unpleasantly damp out there, he repeated, laying great emphasis on every word. I looked straight at him and saw there were tears in his eyes.
Don't you think it's blowing rather hard, Hrolfur? asked the doctor after a long silence. Oh, so-so, answered Hrolfur, without looking up. Again there was silence. It was as if Hrolfur had neither time nor inclination for gossiping, even though it was the district medical officer talking to him. The doctor looked at me and smiled.
My eyes scarcely left old Hrolfur, and as the men told me more, my picture of him became clearer and clearer. He sat there silent, holding on to the steering ropes and staring straight ahead, not deigning us a single glance. The crew's story was roughly this. He was born and bred in the village, and he had never left it.
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