Suddenly she felt quite sure that total failure was the best they could hope for, but chose not to imagine the worst-case scenario. Instead she'd gone along with it, letting herself be carried along by his enthusiasm and his certainty that it would all go according to plan, but now that he seemed to be wavering, her own confidence in it had ebbed away. She'd never been as excited as him about this adventure, though neither had she opposed it outright. Garðar shook his head, studiously avoiding looking at Katrín, who was trying to make eye contact with him so she could nod, or indicate in some other way that she really didn't mind going back.
#I remember you free#
You're welcome to come back with me free of charge, of course." Were you expecting it to?" The skipper didn't hide his surprise. "This place isn't exactly buzzing with life," he said, with false cheer. It wouldn't be long before it was completely dark. Although it was early afternoon, the faint winter light was fading quickly. He shuffled his feet and exhaled loudly, then turned his gaze inland, where several houses were visible above the line of the beach. "No problem." Garðar smiled faintly at the man but made no move to start unloading the boat. There should be a wheelbarrow around here somewhere." You'll have time to sort all this stuff out once I'm gone. "It looks like I'd better get back as quick as I can. "I'll help you move this off the boat, but I can't help you take it to the house, unfortunately." He squinted at the surface of the sea. He turned to the three passengers, his expression serious, and said: "There you go, but be careful stepping up." Then he jerked his chin at the boxes, bags and other things that they'd brought with them. In the end the man managed to secure the boat, but it was unclear whether the waves had grown bored of teasing him or whether the captain's experience and patience had got the better of them.
It was as though the sea were playing with them, showing them who was in charge. He patiently repeated the same movements over and over, pulling the frayed rope in the direction of the post, but each time the coarse loop was about to fall into place, it seemed to be yanked away. The skipper struggled to fasten the little boat to a narrow steel post, but the weathered floating dock kept retreating, as if it were part of a game. The prow bobbed gently up and down as sharper movements shook the vessel, rocking it fiercely from side to side. The waves rolled the boat to and fro in a constantly changing rhythm.
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