Text: Ellen Wild
There is something about the sound of the sea. Pebble crashing over pebble. Water rushing in and out. Salt in the air. In our country of oceanside villages, the sound is always there. Rushing, whispering, howling. Like an ever-present pulse that’s woven into our lives. The ocean’s voice, with its infinite changes, a heartbeat for those of us who live along its edge.
One day an unbroken mirror, promising horizons. The whole world at our feet. The next day we are closed in as everything trashes in grey and white. Life an unending murmur in between extremes.
They say that the ocean has a rhythm. Ebb and flow, predicable.
Wave after wave after wave rolling ashore. Islanders know that the ocean isn’t something to predict. One moment, you think you’re sure of it, certain you understand its ways. And the next, you’re swept under, scrambling for breath. It’s a life in constant balance, trusting and fearing. Living here means knowing when to stand your ground and when to yield, learning to dance with a force that can’t be controlled.
They say that islanders are a special kind of people. That they are a lot like the sea. Predicable and yet changing as quickly as the tide, rooted deeply but always ready to move. Always there, always the pull of home. They say a lot of things. About islanders, about Icelanders. They speak of resilience, of strength, of a quiet knowing that comes from lives lived close to the edge of things. And while some of it may be myth, there’s a truth in it – in the way they hold fast to the land and yet carry a piece of the ocean’s wild spirit within them.
And now we have sailed into the darker half of the year.
Have you ever been at sea at night? Blackness stretching out forever. You need a strong heart. It takes a core that knows its place, an inner compass to guide you. Because here, when daylight slips away, we are reminded of the endurance, of facing whatever storm rolls in next.
Winter here is as much a test of the spirit as it is a change in season, a time when each of us digs deep to find the strength that lies beneath the surface, waiting.
In Iceland, we do not simply brace against the elements; we embrace them, letting each season shape us. For, just as the waves are unyielding, so are we. Salt, cold and fog. The Icelandic will sail through the dark waves of winter once more. The ocean, our beating heart. However far the stories bring us, they always bring us home.
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