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National Geographic : 1969 Aug
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National Geographic, August 1969 the peninsula's shores take second place only to the south coast. On our second morning out the sun rose again as an ominous red ball. At 10 o'clock a northerly gale whistled in to lay Delight flat on the water. I brought in the mainsail, a task made unpleasant by snow driving almost horizontally across the deck. Weary Sailors Face New Fear Relieved, the yawl came to her feet and settled to her job, doing seven knots under jib and mizzen. Sleet, replacing the snow, slashed our faces; our heaviest clothing could not keep out the cold. Pat had a chill. I sent her below. Alone at the tiller, I suddenly caught a glimpse of a stark black headland only a quarter of a mile ahead of us. The Horn of Vestfirdhir? The taffrail log said it couldn't be; we had not come that far. I let Delight sail herself while we pored over charts and sailing directions. There could be no doubt about it: A magnetic anomaly had drastically affected the compass. We were well south of our course and headed directly for the Hornstrandhir, a place of wicked head lands, pinnacle rocks, and shoals we would never see until we drove upon them. We trimmed the sails flat as they would go. Soon another black headland appeared to windward. Horrified, I realized we were well into the area of shoals; one of them could tear Delight's bottom out any second. Frantically I put her about. We plunged for the open sea, and after a tense 15 minutes gained the safety of deep water. Had we struck, it would have been the end. Eric the Red built his first home on the Hornstrandhir; later he left for more fertile and hospitable Breidhafjordhur to the south. Only a lighthouse keeper at the Horn lives on the Hornstrandhir today. After we rounded the Horn and Straumnes, 20 miles to the west, the wind died to a whis per; we had barely enough breeze to push us up a small fjord to the town of Isafjordhur (page 264). Dark basaltic walls, rising to 2,500 feet, bracketed the passage. Unlike most fjords we had seen, this one-Skutulsfjordhur-is bisected by a narrow sandspit. Although the tongue of land is only half a mile long and nowhere more than a quarter of a mile wide, it is one of the few flat places on the entire peninsula and therefore home to most of the area's 3,000 inhabitants. We anchored in its sheltering crook and turned in for some much needed sleep. Next day a friendly Icelander, Mr. Svein bjorn Sveinbjornsson, offered to show us about in his Russian-built Moskvitch sedan. Driving with him through a verdant little valley, we came across a scattering of some 30 small houses. "Summer homes," our host explained in answer to our quizzical looks. "Why do they bother," Pat asked, "when they're only a mile from town?" "It's far enough," said Mr. Sveinbjornsson, "to escape one's neighbors and the ever present sea." It had never occurred to us that seaside living could become monotonous. Pat was feeling so uncomfortable by now that it seemed unwise to delay the last leg of our journey any longer. Sheep browsed on the narrow beaches beside us as we again swung Delight into the fjord's narrow chan nel. The clouds above Vestfirdhir's glacier appeared afire in the crimson light of the setting sun. Night fell and the green fluores cence of the aurora borealis flashed and twisted across an incandescent sky. It was such an awesome and haunting sight both of us were loath to go below. Quick Cure for a Now-rare Illness The run to Reykjavik was a romp. The wind held fair, the compass behaved itself, and we had the feeling the gods of the north ern seas had tried us, found us not wanting, and rewarded us with a perfect passage. Once in Reykjavik we wasted no time in finding Pat a dentist. His diagnosis: scurvy. The disease stems from a lack of vitamin C in the diet; in the old days it affected the crews of wind ships long at sea. It can be averted by drinking fruit juice. Although we had cans of juice aboard, constant crises made it difficult to follow any schedule, and Pat had obviously consumed too little. But vitamin C tablets and fresh oranges cured her within a few days. Sanctuary in a desolate domain, a Lutheran church at Skilholt huddles in winter's chill. Trenches in chevron patterns drain farm fields that would otherwise become bogs during spring thaw. Less than five hours of daylight brighten Iceland's face at midwinter. As if in recompense, the midnight sun often makes a glimmering twilight of summer nights. EKTACHROME © NATIONALGEOGRAPHIC SOCIETY 258
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