A Perfect Storm with Davíð Oddsson

I arrived in Reykjavík around midday and happened upon a small shop on Posthusstraeti where I bought a T-shirt with "skipstjóri" emblazoned across the front.  By the time I got to the old harbor, there were only a few fishing boats showing signs of life and I chose what appeared to be the finest vessel and advanced towards it with antipodean optimism.  The owner introduced himself as David Oddsson.  I told him that I had an innate gift for fishing.  He looked at me skeptically - I took no exception to this, having never fished in my life - before shaking his head at the prospect of submitting me to the arduous and physically demanding responsibilities of a deck hand.  He shook his head, clicking his tongue, then said "I know a captain when I see one."

The sun was setting as we set out against the tide with one of Reykjavík's best pylsers in each hand, Oddsson gritting his teeth against the wind and gathering poetry in his head like a storm.  The sky was filthily overcast, fostering the sort of pathetic fallacy that for millennia has lent pregnancy to paganism.  I thought I spotted a mermaid off the starboard side and told Oddsson so.  When he raced to peer over the left side of the boat, I realized my mistake and called "PORT, PORT."  He clamboured beleagueredly back over to the right but the apparition had evaporated.

It was after midnight when the storm hit and we were both asleep in the depths of the vessel.  I made my way up on deck where I was soon joined by Oddsson, in a nightshirt.  I asked him if he had seen the film 'A Perfect Storm' and he admitted regretfully that he had.  I said that I hadn't seen it myself but had been markedly intimidated by the trailer.  He nodded, constructing in his mind a semblance of the preview out of half-recalled highlights.  The immense wave, Mark Wahlberg's beard.  We returned downstairs and hid.