We had been planning the adventure for months. There were clandestine coffee fuelled meetings during the darkness of winter.  However, as the days grew longer, preparing the bikes occupied most of our time, and this is when we learned most about each other.

Chris, my cousin, was the most practical.  His strategy was simple; weld as many home-made accessories to his bike as possible.  He wasn’t worried that it looked like an extra from the film ‘Mad Max II’.  He never really seemed concerned about anything.  ‘It’ll be alreet!,’ that was his motto, and he casually tossed it into most conversations. 

Timmis left the practical work to us, for he was our social expert.  Good looking (apparently) and possessing a friendly smile.  The pursuit of women and sugary foods seemed to be his main passions.  I wouldn’t be surprised to discover that, on the day of his birth, he had asked the midwife, ‘Do you have any cakes?’  It was a phrase he used often.

Eventually, the day of departure arrived.  The smell of sizzling bacon drifted into the garage as we listened intently to the shipping forecast crackling from a tiny radio, ‘Wind, west veering north-west severe gale force nine, increasing to violent storm force eleven.  Sea state very rough, very high imminent...’

‘It’ll be alreet,’ blurted Chris.

‘It’ll be fine,’ I echoed.

‘Sounds exciting,’ stated Timmis confidently, ‘I hope they don’t close the bars on the ship.’

Nothing could dampen our wild enthusiasm, not even the sombre monotone of the shipping forecast.  Our heads were filled with excited anticipation, dreaming of exhilarating adventures.  Traversing the North Atlantic was just a necessary inconvenience, and a brief spell of inclement weather was not going to hinder us.  We would be like brave adventurers from a long departed era of exploration, overcoming every challenge that nature could lay in our path.  Our ship, Norrona, would resolutely crash through the onslaught of treachery thrown at her by the wild winds and punishing ocean.  Triumphant, we would arrive as all conquering heroes, standing tall, primed and eager to forge onwards into the unknown.

Unfortunately, the stark reality of the crossing had been horrifyingly different.

True, the journey had commenced with buoyant excitement and bravado.  The intense wind had been a new experience and a source of juvenile entertainment.  On deck, we dragged ourselves along the cold steel handrail to reach the bow of the ship.  Somewhat predictably, we each replicated the memorable pose from the epic movie ‘Titanic’, then lay our bodies on the supporting arms of the wind, amused by our inability to fall.  The storm relentlessly grabbed tears and dragged them across our reddened and grinning faces. 

Soon though, the exhilaration passed, and our moods sank into the depths of despair as the mighty storm exerted its irresistible influence on the shifting ocean.  Mammoth waves tested their new-found strength against the protective steel shell of the hull.  Concerned crewmen ushered passengers inside, locking the robust metal hatches against the growing horrors outside.  The tempest intensified.  As the reassurance of daylight faded, the ship started to roll violently with the passing of each relentless wave.  A small plastic cup fell from a nearby table and rolled across the floor, before being crushed under the indifferent boot of a rapidly stumbling crewman.

Sleep was impossible on that dreadful night.  The cabin was as dark as ‘King Tut’s tomb’, the atmosphere rank with the stench of vomit and stale sweat.  I lay with my sleeping bag pulled tightly over my head, utterly alone in a room full of strangers.  An occasional nauseous groan was the only sound that could be heard over the thunderous booming of water smashing against the hull.  The night dragged its feet, and each minute felt like an hour.  This was not quite the excitement I had anticipated, when I had earlier discovered I would be sharing a cabin with five French women. 

Eventually, deep into the unforgiving night, I climbed from my bunk and left the cloying ambience of the cabin. Wearily, I ascended the stairs to the upper decks, like a hopeless drunk tracing a zig-zag path in time with the violently rolling ship.  Never again, I thought to myself, regretting the decision to save a few pounds by booking a cheap cabin below the car deck.

Scanning the distressed faces of the other passengers, I spotted Timmis and Chris, sitting on the floor by an emergency exit.  Nearby was a small pile of, mostly empty, cans of ‘Viking’ lager.  ‘Fancy a beer?’ asked Timmis, offering me a can, in case the heaving of the ship wasn’t quite enough to make me nauseous.  Unable to think of a witty reply, I simply shook my head and settled down beside them.

The ship’s dance became increasingly wild, each desperate lunge followed by a mighty crash as the bow smashed its way through the ceaseless waves.  The vociferous storm was matched by the mighty roar of the giant engines.

Without warning, the devious ocean changed direction.  Enormous mountains of icy water battered the side of the ship. Everything listed violently to starboard. A woman screamed.  The piercing sound dug its sharp claws into my spine.  Norrona tilted further, and then stopped.  The tortured steel of her hull groaned and creaked.  Desperately, I inhaled sharply and hung on to my breath.  Would it be my last?

Teetering on the brink of capsize, our fate was to be determined by the roll of a ship like a giant die on some vast oceanic board game.  The bleak faces of Timmis and Chris mirrored my own ghostly expression.  Disorientated, I braced myself against the skewed wall.  Sickening dread sank to the pit of my stomach.  The lights flickered, and then expired.  Darkness.  I closed my eyes.  My heart thumped, each beat a thousand lifetimes.

Eventually, the ship ponderously began to right itself.  The reassuring lights blinked back to glorious life.  My long held breath slowly tasted freedom, now able to escape past my unclenched teeth.  Instinctively, I knew in that instant that the battle was won, the subdued ocean would allow us to pass.

The wild rage of the storm gradually subsided as the sky slowly brightened into a glorious morning.  We stood on deck, side by side, bathed in the comforting warmth of the northern sun. The horrors of the previous night melted away, like an early morning frost in springtime.  Casting our penetrating gazes forwards, we caught tantalizing glimpses of the Icelandic coast.  Battered and exhausted, but resolute, our thoughts now strayed to the wondrous adventures that lay ahead.

Kris Martin 2009