We set off—from a fishing village that was called simply Å—in a powerful rubber boat. The skipper was Stig Einarsen: he had hands the size of dinner plates and the stance of an ox. There was a lumpy following sea, and we bumped uncomfortably southward, the cliffs rising ever higher on our right, flocks of seabirds swooping down to see who was bent on such madness.Friends, that is some big goddamn writing right there.
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Although you did add more international suckness to this fpp...
posted by HuronBob at 1:19 PM on March 29, 2010