Two days before I’m due to land in Iceland, a brief email from the skipper simply reads:
“There’s a storm brewing in the Denmark Strait, the forecast from Sunday to Tuesday is crap, so to get ahead of it, we’re leaving 24 hours early.”
Panic! Change flights. Cancel meetings. Pack bags. Kiss wife.
30 hours later I land in the pretty little town of Ísafjör∂ur in north west Iceland and go straight to the quayside where the crew are assembled and ready to go – six from Iceland, three from the Faroe Islands, a German, a Finn, a New Zealander and now an Irishman – we slip lines and make for the Denmark Strait.
