In what world?

After a few minutes Pall hung up the phone and motioned to Bonnie who was still trying to console Larina about the loss of her purse. Bonnie raised her eyebrows in an unspoken question.

"The purse, sweater and camera were found and turned in to the airport authorities. They have given them to a police officer who is going to meet us at the toll booth on the other side of the tunnel so that we don't have to pay for another crossing. Would anyone like to go with me to pick up Larina's things."

You could have heard a pin drop.

"You've got to be kidding," I said, giving voice to what everyone in the room with the exception of Pall was thinking. I laughed out loud at the realization that we Americans were not in Kansas anymore.

"What is the matter?" asked Pall, clearly unaware that we had pretty much written off the purse, money, tickets, camera and sweater. When we explained it Pall replied in a matter of fact voice that there was very little crime in the Faroes. Bonnie and Larina and I went with Pall down the switchback trail to the parking lot, got in his car and headed for the Vagar tunnel.

I went along because I could not get enough of the scenery and knew I'd see more of it on the road than sitting at the house. This was to become the default decision of choice for Bonnie and I throughout our stay. If there was a vehicle available, we were in it and on the prowl. True to Pall's word, a police officer was waiting at the toll booth when we arrived. Larina retrieved her items and thanked him and we zipped back through the tunnel and took the turnoff to Leynar. On the way through the tiny village I noticed a road leading down to the beach and decided to go check it out as soon as possible.

Back at the house Louie had moved his and Bonnie's things into the one bedroom and Cristof and Gabe had staked out the livingroom. Nobody wanted my spot on the porch. In short order we'd settled in and were planning the next days activities. Pall had scheduled an interview with a reporter for Socialurin for the afternoon. Turns out they wanted to write an article about us, the film crew from Hawaii. We gathered around the coffee table and began to hash out responsibilities and the do's and don'ts of our crew during our stay.

First and foremost was the question of how to answer when asked what our stance was on the Grindadrap, the Faroese practice of herding pods of Pilot Whales onto a beach and butchering them for food. I couldn't speak for the others but I was determined to keep my mouth shut one way or another until I had learned more about the citizens of the Faroe Islands. This afternoon I'd learned that my ideas about people's behavior, their actions and how they lived their lives was colored by my experience living a world apart from the land we were there to learn about. First day on the job and I had let who I was interfere with seeing who the Faroese were.

I vowed not to let it happen again.

Leynar and Home

After an hour and a half Pall Hammer returned with Bonnie and we all crammed ourselves into the car for the trip to Leynar. Bonnie's presence made the trip a kind of clown car experience, what with four of us in the back seat and three in the front of a car designed to fit five people. She realized as we piled in that she'd complicated things but was beside herself with excitement.

"I had to talk to you guys," she said. "Wait until you see where we're staying. And I'm sorry we took so long but Pall and I had to schlep the luggage up a...well, you'll see."

The road led us through Vatnsoyrar and Midvagar and Sandavagur, all pristine villages with houses painted bright colors or the traditional black. Some had grass roofs, a sight that amazed us no end yet seemed not the least bit out of place. Churches were prominent, each a different shape and size, but all well kept and very obviously an integral part of their communities. These three villages were separated by several miles open land covered with short, thick grass growing in rocky soil. The farther we drove the more it became apparent that trees were in short supply. All was vista and panorama. White clouds rode the wind like galleons through a blue sky that framed a green and mountainous land. The strange newness of the view kept my eyes roaming and my mind busy trying to sort out what I was seeing and how it related to the map I'd studied at the airport.

Before long we reached the terminus of the Vagar end of a five kilometer long tunnel beneath the sea. On the other side was Stremoy, home of Torshavn, the capitol of the Faroes and of Leynar, our destination for the day. (See photo above for view of Vagar end of tunnel with Stremoy Island in the distance.)

( http://www.thefullwiki.org/Vágoy )

The tunnel is one of many built to link the islands and the toll was 130 Faroese Krone. That equals about twenty dollars. (Still, it beat the alternative, which was swimming. Even in June the water at 62 degrees north latitude was very cold.)

The car zoomed into the tunnel and descended perceptibly. The roadway was well illuminated and the air smelled only slightly of exhaust fumes. Huge fans mounted in the overhead of the tunnel were designed to keep the tunnel clear of noxious gasses, but Pall told us that at times the entrances are blocked should traffic overload the ventilation system. We reached the bottom and started to climb and I thought about the weight of water above us. Again my life aboard submarines gave me a perspective that others did not have. Pressure and cold and water held at bay by technology. Bright sunshine greeted us at the Stremoy end of the tunnel and we almost immediately entered a roundabout and took a right hand turn where the road signs pointed toward Leynar.

On our right a small river ran picturesque down through a winding valley to a grey shingled beach nestled between two wide arms of the coast. Above the left hand side of the beach was the village of Leynar, a quiet community of about sixty houses. We were on the southern coast of Stremoy and headed southwest. The road began a gentle climb and the sea to the right dropped away. A half mile outside of the town proper and a few hundred feet in elevation Pall pulled the car into a stony parking area on the left hand side of the road and we piled out.

The parking area was bordered on two sides by a steep wall of rock. Steps and railings bolted to the stone face led up to a group of three houses high above us. To the right, paralleling the steps a brook splashed and trilled down the steep slope, crossed the road via a wide culvert and continued through a narrow gorge down to the sea. Sixty feet above the parking area the trail turned into a series of switchbacks that led to the lowest of the houses.

"We had to carry all the luggage up to the house," said Bonnie with a rueful grin. "That's why we took so long getting back to the airport.

"Better you than than me," I replied as I trudged upward and ascended the stairs of the house.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Leynar,_Faroe_Islands.JPG

http://www.360cities.net/image/leynar-faroe-islands#271.95,-6.27,70.0

Our home for the next three weeks was small and tidy, perched upon wooden piers sunk into the bedrock that rose precipitously for a mile or so to a high tor and connecting ridge that towered over the town and beach. The stairs led to a thirty foot long covered porch or lanai that ran the length of the house. In the center of this a door led into the house proper and the living room, the largest in the house at about twenty feet wide by fifteen feet deep. A couch and some chairs surrounded a small coffee table. Our baggage was piled in this room and seemed to fill the space. Through a small entrance at the back of this room was the only bathroom, a tiny room with a shower, toilet, wash basin and a strange contraption that turned out to be a combination clothes washer and dryer. Through the far side of the bathroom was the only bedroom and bed in the house. It was small and if the bathroom was occupied, you were trapped until whoever was in there was finished. To the left of the living room was a small kitchen that contained a refrigerator, stove, some cabinets and a small pantry. On the wall facing the sea was a sink and counter top, above which was a window that looked through the lanai, over the rail and out to one of the most beautiful views I had ever seen.

I walked back out to the lanai and put my sleeping bag down on the rough planking beneath the kitchen window. Here in the open air, closest to the sea and sky would be my sleeping spot. Cold nights and moist air ensured that I would have no competition for the space. I placed my pack against the wall and went to the lanai rail or parapet and looked out at the world.

In the distance the island of Vagar rose from a fjord like channel that snaked north and west between Stremoy and appeared to open on the sea far off in the mist. To the left, south and east the channel widened to frame two islands, Koltur and Hestur rising from the sea on the horizon. Leynar and the beach around which the town had sprung up in years long past was laid out before me like a picture post card.

Home.

At that moment a wail sounded from inside the house. Larina was missing her purse and with it her passport, return tickets and all of her money. Along with those items she realized that her sweater and camera were also missing. The last place she remembered seeing them was on the table where we waited at the airport.

Larina was beside herself and nothing Bonnie said could comfort her. No one mentioned that she should have been more careful. Pall got on the phone and dialed the airport, an act I thought futile in the extreme. Too much time had passed between our departure from the airport and the discovery that Larina's purse and possessions were missing. To my way of thinking they were, like the proverbial dog's dinner, long gone.

(To be continued.)

(If you've found this story and liked it, please leave a comment and join my blog so I'll know you visited. Manna from heaven is what comes to mind when I think of those who read and say hello.)

Mahalo,

Doug

Orientation

The Vagar Airport arrivals concourse was also the departures concourse. It was a large rectangular building with a small entrance lobby which opened onto a spacious glass walled waiting area that looked out onto the runway and contained a concession stand, souvenir store, news stand and a few displays of Faroese cultural items. About thirty square tables with metal chairs allowed passengers and their loved ones to wait in comfort for departing or arriving flights. Security was present but there were no oppressive choke point searches or endless lines of shoeless passengers filling bins with their personal items. Comfortable was the word that came to mind. It was a throwback to an earlier time and not the worse for being so.

The Faroese language was dominant throughout, as one would expect, yet careful listening revealed that many people, both workers and travelers, were speaking english when necessary. The concession stand had a large variety of food for sale but what caught my eye was a type of hot dog, thin and long, that was held in a long crispy one piece bun carried in a piece of paper or a napkin. Ketchup, mustard or mayonaise was squirted down a perfectly sized hole in the open end of the bun and then your choice of hot dogs, cheese filled, hot and spicy or regular, were slipped into the hole, wrapped in paper and handed to you. I filed this appetizing delicacy away for future research.

On one wall of the Atlantic Air ticketing booth a large map of the Faroes showed a tight group of eighteen islands that covered a space in the North Atlantic that was seventy miles from north to south and fifty mile from east to west. It was like looking at a Rorschach Blot test. The names of each island all seemed to end in 'oy' and all of the place names were composed of ninety per cent consonants with a few vowels sprinkled in for good measure. Trying to guess how to pronounce any of them gave me a headache. The knowledge that it took me three years before I felt at ease with Hawaiian place names put things in perspective. I resolved to try to learn the correct pronunciation of every word, but would not beat myself up if I got them wrong the first few times.

Closer examination of the map revealed a pattern in the layout of the islands. Each was in general, separated from the next by a fjord or narrow channel of water. The channels were oriented from northwest to southeast. I tried to imagine what forces had contributed to the shaping of the islands and the channels between them. Glaciers? Geologic uplift? Several hundred miles to the northwest was Iceland, a land mass created entirely by volcanic eruptions. Could the Faroes be volcanic in origin? It was at this point that first noticed the similarities between the Faroes and the Hawaiian Islands. The notion was vague and nebulous at first, but would later grow more substantial as I learned about the unique archipelago we had come to visit.

Bonnie's plane arrived and I was reunited with what I began to think of as 'the gang'. They walked from their plane to the terminal with the same wide eyed fascination that I must have displayed an hour earlier. As they collected their baggage Bonnie introduced me to a tall, blue eyed young man with soft brown hair and a very quiet, yet attentive demeanor. Páll Georg Hammer had responded to Bonnie's ad in Socialurin, on of the major newspapers in the Faroes, and had agreed to act as a liason and guide for her endeavor. Páll dove right in and got us organized and sitting at two tables. He then explained that he would have to take Bonnie and the majority of our luggage to Leynar, a small village on another island, where he had rented a house for us to stay. They would offload the luggage and Páll would return for the rest of us. We helped them load up in a small blue sedan Bonnie had rented and waved as they drove off, then returned to our tables to pass the time until Páll returned.

As would become my habit during our time in the Faroes, I got out my notebook and began to jot down my impressions of the place, our trip thus far and impressions of the team Bonnie had assembled. Larina, Bonnie's daughter, was a high strung young woman with brown hair and a petite frame. She was pretty and pert and had been brought along by her mother because Bonnie wanted someone to connect with the youth of the Faroes. Louie was Bonnie's brother and closest relative. They shared a tight bond from their youth and Louis' cosmopolitan nature would allow him to merge smoothly into the club scene and city life in general. Christof Putzel, Bonnie Carini's nephew, was a budding film-maker fresh off of the success of Left Behind, an award winning documentary about AIDs orphans in Kenya. Cristof had the most journalistic chops and a mindset that was focused and sharp. He had an eye for details and the quiet confidence of youth. Gabe was a tall, handsome, dark haired Hawaiian youth and friend of her family that Bonnie had recruited to mix with the locals and report. He was a direct counterpoint to the stereotypical blonde haired, blue eyed Scandanavian and as such would attract a great deal of attention from many young women throughout the following weeks. Gabe was an accomplished SCUBA diver and Ukulele player whose outlook on life was simple and to the point. Hang loose and go with the flow.

The last guy on the list was the writer. I wanted to help wherever I could, but in reality what I most wanted to do was observe and absorb and document everything we experienced on the trip. Mine was the easiest job on the crew because it was exactly what I wanted to do. Years ago I had written one novel with a friend and was in the middle of another when I decided to drop everything to travel and work with Bonnie. My mind was geared toward the big picture and the overarching view. What, I wanted to know, was the story? Any additional help I gave to the effort would be a plus for her team, but I think Bonnie knew I would be the recorder of things. She knew also that I was a person of like mindset when it came to one of the reasons for her travel to the Faroes - The Pilot Whales and the Grindadrap.


(To be continued...)

Touchdown on Vágur

The next morning I woke to the alarm and went downstairs to check out. Four in the morning and Copenhagen was as quiet and still as a large city can be. I asked the clerk to call me a cab and walked out to the sidewalk to wait. A doorman/porter greeted me and we passed a few minutes with polite conversation. The big news of the morning, which he related to me after looking up the street in both directions, as though there might be someone besides me listening, was that Bono had just left the hotel. I didn't know how to react to this momentous news. After I left would he tell the next person that Doug had just left the hotel? Somehow I doubted it. Precious anonymity. Have to guard it.

Taxi to the airport as the world woke around me. Glimpses of huge wind turbines on pedestals in a body of water seen between passing buildings. Sights and sounds and an unending flat aspect to the land. A sea level city.

Airport check in and security. Back in the homogenized zone with a slight European flavor. Found my gate and waited for Bonnie and the gang to arrive. I was shoe-horning myself into the middle of a team of unknowns. Odd man out and acutely aware of it.

Bonnie and company showed up a few minutes later and I was introduced in short order to Bonnie's brother, Louie, her daughter Larina, nephew Christoph and a friend of Bonnie's named Gabe. They were to fly out a few minutes behind me on a different airline and after greeting me they continued on to their departure gate. Bonnie remained behind and we caught up. Though it was obvious my appearance on the scene had thrown her for a loop she took it in stride and assured me that she had meant what she'd said about joining them, but that she could not believe I actually had. I told her I would find my own accommodations if necessary and still contribute to the team effort. She told me not to worry, that it would all work out and that she'd see me at the airport in the Faroes. With that, she followed her crew toward her gate and left me to my own devices.

The national airline of the Faroes is Atlantic Airways. They operate a fleet of eight Avro BAe 146-200's, a small, quiet and efficient four engine jets. Once on board and airborne I realized quickly that many of the passengers knew each other. They were friendly and polite to a fault. I struck up a halting conversation with a schoolteacher from Suduroy, though at the time I did not know what or where Suduroy was. His name was Swen Johansen and when he heard that I was going to be participating in the filming of a documentary he offered to put me in touch with several people on his island that might be of assistance.

The flight was uneventful until we descended out of the clouds over the island of Vágur, site of the Faroes' only airport. The pilot announced on the intercom that there were substantial crosswinds and to make sure our seat belts were fastened. Looking out the window I saw a verdant green land of hills and rugged peaks wreathed in grey clouds. There no roads or houses in view. We were flying right down the middle of a valley toward the distant (I assumed) runway when the jet was buffeted severely. Everyone on board screamed and laughed as if they'd ridden this roller coaster before. If they weren't upset then I wasn't going to worry, but after several more gyrations I moved the approach right to the top of the list for turbulence I'd experienced while flying.

We touched down at Vágur Airport and taxied to a stop at a small terminal. A set of stairs was rolled out to the jet and I was reminded of the days when there were no jetways on interisland flights in the Hawaiian Islands. I felt right at home. Walking across the tarmac to the terminal I marvelled at the blue sky and beautiful green plateau that the runway was perched upon. Looking to the north-east I could see the valley we'd threaded on our approach from the sea. It was narrow and steep sided and framed the distant sea.

A feeling of amazement and anticipation filled me. Whatever was going to happen in the next few weeks had begun. After a three day journey, for better or worse, I had set foot on the Faroe Islands.

I went into the terminal, collected my pack and sleeping bag and began to explore the building while I waited for Bonnie's plane to arrive.


(To be continued.)

Omen

I could almost hear the cosmic gears spin and the tumblers click into place one by one as I scraped together what money I had, purchased a ticket and verified that my passport was still in order. Explaining to my girl friend that I was going to go live in the Faroes (where?) for twenty-three days (how long?) in an as yet undetermined location (where are you staying?) with five other people, one of whom was a dear female friend of mine was not easy. (It didn't matter that she was married.) The need to write (scripts, interview questions, a journal) did not seem to register with her and any other experience I would gain (gaffer, cameraman, roadie and roustabout) might as well not have existed. It was just as well that I had to leave quickly. One can only explain something simple in so many ways.

Kona to Honolulu is a short flight. I've done it many times. An hour to the airport, hugs and kisses goodbye, then a half an hour through security, board a Hawaiian Air jet and take off. Thirty minutes later I'm at Honolulu International late at night and after a three hour layover I'm airborne again and leaving my island home behind.

Outbound from Hawaii you fly with tourists returning to the mainland and Hawaiians of various stripes headed for Vegas or business or to military bases following a leave at home. There are enough familiar looking faces and local attire so that the flight seems like a trip with friends. It's a comfortable feeling and I was able to rest and listen to voices in the night and the powerful muted thrum of the engines as they pushed us east toward the rising sun.

Los Angeles is Los Angeles. If you know the airport there's not a lot I can tell you. If you don't there's nothing worth knowing. Homogenized is the word that comes to mind. I spent another three hour layover seated near a power outlet in the wall of the departure concourse so that I could use my laptop. Airport food from a faceless Mexican food establishment. Bud's Burritos or Tanya's Taco or something like that. People watching. The endless stream of harried travelers flowing past was mind numbing and vaguely discouraging. The colors and flavor of island attire were gone, swallowed up by the throng. I was now officially on my way to somewhere else.

Los Angeles nonstop to Copenhagen. It was my first time doing that but I'd spent months in a cramped submarine far beneath the surface of the sea. How bad could flying coach for fourteen hours be? Don't ask. I'm six feet three inches tall. My seat was the small side of one size fits all and I spent at least half of the flight back aft in the galley getting to know the flight attendants. Thank goodness they knew the drill and didn't mind me being there. I tried to stay out of the way and meditate my way East. Time and miles passed and eventually we landed at Copenhagen Airport. I collected my backpack and sleeping bag, exchanged some dollars for Danish Krone and took a taxi to the Palace Hotel in the middle of town. My room had a distinctly European feel to it, small and cramped and slightly musty. I thought I had been given a closet with a bed. The bed was six feet long and about four feet wide and the room was barely big enough for the bed. Okay, more submarine accommodations. I could deal with that.

I stashed my gear and went down to the lobby to try to find Bonnie. Inquiring at the front desk yielded nothing. All I knew was that she was supposed to be staying at the Palace Hotel. I didn't know whether she'd checked in under her name or that of her brother, Louie's, or of her nephew, Christoph Putzel. I was kind of nervous about connecting with her because though she had invited me to come along, Bonnie did not know I had taken her invitation to heart. As such I really wanted to talk to her prior to boarding our separate flights to the Faroes in the morning. Details.

The hotel sits on one side of the main square in town and has a great little bar that looks out onto the street next to the entrance. I introduced myself to Peter, the bartender, and ordered a Carlsberg. I don't know whether it was the location or the fact that I'd finally come to rest after over twenty-four hours of travel, but that beer was, and still is, the best I've ever tasted in my life. As I drank I talked to Peter about Copenhagen and Denmark and found myself doing double takes every few seconds as one after another, an endless parade of blondes walked by the windows that opened out onto the sidewalk. Bonnie Carini is blonde and in Hawaii her hair color stands out. She's easy to find. But not in Copenhagen. I laughed to myself and explained to Pete that I was looking for a friend whom I thought was staying at the hotel. I ordered a dinner of grilled sausages and had another beer. Across the town square the entrance of Tivoli Gardens began to glow as the sun set. On all sides of the square huge electric billboards lit up the night and people strolled in the warm evening air.

I was thrashed and could feel a food coma coming on so I decided to call it a day. My flight in the morning required that I get up at four to beat traffic on the drive to the airport. Back in my room I called Bonnie's cell phone, not knowing whether it would work. After a few rings she answered. I could hear a lot of voices in the background and had a hard time making myself heard.

"Hi, Bonnie," I said. "Guess where I am right now."

She said she didn't know, but I had the feeling she thought I was still in Hawaii.

"I'm in room 142 of the Palace Hotel in Copenhagen."

"You're what?" Bonnie exclaimed incredulously. "What are you doing here?"

My heart sank. Had I made a huge mistake? Flown halfway round the world only to be told I would not be able to join the group?

It was one of those moments that seem to go on forever and before I spoke again I remember thinking that I was going to go to the Faroes with or without them. The tickets were all paid for and there was no turning back. Whatever happened in the next few seconds was important, but it didn't matter. I was on a fixed trajectory, headed for Toshavn, Faroe Islands at eight-thirty the following morning. Stranger in strange land, but I would survive. And I'd had a really good beer in the bar of the Palace Hotel.

It was an omen.


Had to be.....


To be continued. Thanks for reading. D.

The Origin of Pilot Whale Fog (The Movie)

This is a story about a story.

A tale, as J.R.R. Tolkien said, "that has grown in the telling." It is the recounting of the origin of a screenplay that will become the movie Pilot Whale Fog that I have had the pleasure of co-authoring with Bonnie Carini. It is a story of perseverance, love, and beauty in a land that has to be seen to be believed. A story of a people and the great pods of Pilot Whales that have sustained them through long Winters down through the centuries. And most of all it is a story about change and how it will occur, one person at a time, one whale at a time.

In the Spring of 2003 I was working construction on the west side of the Big Island of Hawaii after having left my position as Operations and Maintenance Manager of Atlantis Submarines in Kailua-Kona. While taking a friend to the airport I met Bonnie Carini, a woman I'd known for years since she worked as a diver for Atlantis in the late 80's. Bonnie was headed to the east coast for a week to visit relatives and then was flying to the Faroe Islands. I'd known of her plans to film a documentary on those rugged and isolated islands for some time and now she'd finally gotten the grant from Boston Sea Rovers that she'd been waiting for. All the pieces were in place, bags packed, crew ready and travel arrangements made. We had talked at length about her desire to learn firsthand about the inhabitants of the remote North Atlantic archipelago and I'd always been amazed by her zeal for adventure and her love for all creatures of the sea. The trip and the film she envisioned sounded amazing and ever since her first mention of it I wished I could participate in some capacity.


Imagine my surprise when she said to me in the ticket line, "Douglas, why don't you come along?"


"So", as Mick Jagger sang in The Girl with the Faraway Eyes, "I did." "And all my dreams came true..."


This is the story of how.



(To be continued.)(This week and many more for as long as it takes.)

(Mahalo to Madison Woods for the kick in the ass and Bonnie Carini for being a true friend for the ages.
Please pass this around once it gets rolling and comment if you like. Thanks for reading. Aloha, D.)

Up From the Ashes

I just received a rejection letter from an agent I had been recommended to by a good friend and published writer. The news came in the form of a two sentence e-mail that set me back to square forty-three in my journey to publication for The Bones of the King. I can't say square one because I would not be in a position to be rejected if I had not checked off a lot of squares prior to now. Having a completed novel counts for something. Still, it has not been read by nearly enough people and I would love to be paid while I write the sequel.

Like the legion of writers who walked this road before me I'm going to continue seeking representation buoyed by the conviction that my stories will resonate with readers, that all hurdles will be cleared and that I will prevail. Is it possible to be a writer without your glass being half full? I'm not sure, but I do know that when I'm writing, my glass is overflowing. Must be a sign.

A good friend of mine from the Faroe Islands, a man who has seen his share of reversals and successes in life would look at me right now with a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face and say. "It's a hard life!" He's right, but if you don't ask, the answer's always no. So the journey continues. I'm up from the ashes and flying once more. For entertainment and motivation I'm going to track my progress here. If nothing else, perhaps some other fellow traveler will learn from my mistakes and be able to negotiate his or her own agent search minefield successfully.

If you're a writer and you know of an agent that specializes in action-adventure with a literary bent please let me know. If you're that agent, well, you made it this far. Drop me a line. The story is original and well written and you won't be kicking yourself later because you didn't ask to see it.

The next week will be spent making a list of prospective agents and honing my query letter. Then I'll begin 'asking'. Stay tuned and keep writing.

Aloha,

Doug