Margaret Willson - Woman, Captain, Rebel: The Extraordinary True Story of a Daring Icelandic Sea Captain

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A cold spring morning, bright sun, infinite skybut most importantly a flat, windless sea.

Thurdurs father, Einar, noted this with satisfaction. A good day to give his eleven-year-old daughter her chance on the boat. With her red-gold hair and bright blue eyes, Thurdur was irrepressible, almost impossible to deny when she wanted something. And what she wanted was to go fishing.

The family had all survived the 1783 eruption and ensuing famine, five years ago now, in part by eating seaweed and beach plants theyd dug from the shore before the sand froze. Hed made a good deckhand. One day hed inherit the rowboat, their single precious asset.

Einar turned from his musings and consideration of the weather to inform Thurdur this was her day to try her hand at fishing. Shed be on the boat for up to twelve hours, he sternly reminded her, without food and only sour whey to drink.

Thurdur was so ecstatic that this warning flew past without seeming to make an impact. Hed expected that. She was a special one for sure, clever, already with a mind of her own. Whether that would serve her well or ill, he had no idea.

To go to sea, Thurdur would need some skin sea clothes. In the open wooden rowboats, this sea clothing, usually made from the skin of sheep, Einar spoke about the clothing with his forty-seven-year-old wife, Helga, ten years his senior.

Helga looked up from caring for their newest child, a two-year-old daughter theyd named Salgerdur. but Salgerdur was doing all right so far. Thurdur can borrow Bjarnis extra set, Helga told Einrar. The one she usually dried and rubbed with fish oil while Bjarni wore the other set to sea.

Bjarni also had extra skin sea trousers, tied at the waist and ankles over knit underwear. But Thurdur didnt need thosetheyd never fit her anyway. She could just wear her usual two black wool skirts like most women and girls.

Einar knew of only a few women who wore trousers at seaalthough no one said much if they did. He and Helga burned dried sheeps dung and seaweed when they had it. The dung burned smoky and the seaweed fastbut at least it burned. Sometimes when they got lucky, they found driftwood along the shore. But none of this would dry a wool skirt.

The skirts were also lethal. It was a given that most people drowned in the freezing water if a boat flipped. But women in their heavy wool skirts didnt stand a chance.

No matter. Lots of women wore skirts to sea. So could Thurdur.

Bjarnis oversized sea anorak hung on Thurdurs petite frame flapping like a cape behind her; the mittens dwarfed her delicate childs hands. She didnt care. She was going to sea! She bounded across the rocky, seaweed-covered shore past infant yellow grasses and lacey lichen newly emerged from snow.

Pulled up high on the bank and set in place with blocks, Einars boat of timber imported from Denmark boasted a rounded bottom, no decking or sails, only simple sitting thwarts placed crossways to its beam. the bigger ones all belonging to the church or landowners, out of reach for a small tenant crofter like Einar. Still, he did have a boat. That was more than most people.

No one was surprised to see Einar with a child in tow; they expected teenagers, even children to work at seaBjarni had started at the same age as Thurdur and at fourteen was already an experienced deckhand. Einars bringing his daughter was also fairly common; they all knew women and girls working at sea. They had too few people to choose from to be picky; anyone with decent strength was a good candidate.

But even being accustomed to female deckhands, Einars waiting crew of two or three men surely greeted with some skepticism the news that he was bringing this girl in her outsized clothes to fish with them; sitting down, Thurdur barely reached above the gunnels.

Oh well. He was their skipper, and it was his boat. If he wanted to bring this child with him, that was his choice.

After Einar and his crew dragged the boat to the waters edge, they stopped to recite the Seamans Prayer: Almighty merciful and gracious GodI ask you, my Lord, for protection and blessing on this dangerous voyage. Be close to us Protect our lives and souls, boats, and catch from all dangers

No one went to sea without the Seamans Prayerthey needed all the protection they could get.

Einar and his fellow skippers faced a particularly tricky shore in the Stokkseyri area. Between the land and the fishing grounds lay a filigreed labyrinth of jumbled lava skerries framing narrow channels just big enough for small boats to navigatea ten-oar was really too big. These skerries sit above sea level at low tide, but as the water rises, they submerge, lurking just beneath the surface of a deceptively tranquil sea. All the local skippers knew these channels, their currents, and tides like the backs of their hands. They had toa mere bump against razor-sharp lava could shatter a boat in seconds. No matter how close to shore, that almost always meant death.

Beyond the reefs, the seabed drops rapidly to deep, gravel-bottomed pools populated by migrating deeper-water fish such as haddock, halibut, and cod, making for a very short row from shore to rich fishing grounds, perfect for these easily maneuvered rowboats. But where the rising seabed of the open ocean meets the already treacherous skerries, high surf can quickly build in even a fairly mild southwest wind, creating a terrifying gauntlet through which any returning boat must pass.

Einar and his crewwith Thurdurrowed this skerried traverse until they reached a spot Einar considered had potential. He told them to stop, and letting the boat drift along the current, they put out their handheld, single-hook lines. and dropped it over the side.

As soon as her line hit the bottom, a fish bit the hook.

Cod and haddock each bite a hook differently, a cod taking it in a sharp jerk while a haddock tugs it in a series of subtle bumps best felt by holding a taut line between thumb and forefinger. Einar and his entire crew knew this, of course, so they immediately recognized the fish on Thurdurs line as a haddock. Haddocks, having soft mouths, are easily lost if not steadily brought in. They can also be quite large, a full forty-four inches and weighing as much as thirty-seven pounds.

Everyone on the boat paused to watch as, with no little enthusiasm, Thurdur worked to pull in her first fish. In the contest between girl and fish, Thurdur at first appeared to be winning, then the haddock, clearly as strong as she was. Bjarnis huge gloves engulfed her small hands, making the line almost impossible to grasp.

Then one of Thurdurs gloves fell off. Seeing she could control the line better without the enormous flapping mitt, she shook off the other one and used her bare hands. The silvery, purple-gray haddock gradually grew short of breath as she brought it in. Proudly she tossed it to the bottom of the boat, where it flopped in airless despair.

Quickly she put out her line again, still using her bare hands. And immediately she got another bite. That one went the same way as the first. Repeatedly. Over the hours, Thurdur learned to leverage her frame against the boats gunnels so she wouldnt exhaust herself bringing in one fish after another.

By the days end, it had become clear Thurdur was luckier with the fish than most. Being a skipper who recognized a good deckhand when he saw one, Einar quickly had properly sized sea clothes made for her and hired her for the spring season. As was normal for all young beginners, he paid her half of the share given to full deckhands when the fish catch was divided. But she couldnt work winter season, he told her firmly, until shed passed her catechism at fourteen. When he was a child, his father had been fined for keeping Einar from his studies, something he was determined wouldnt happen to him.