We started out early. The first scientists were at the operation room
already at 5:30. The white beauty should be the proverbial early bird, so
not a minute could be lost. Plans were outlined and the crew took off to
the airfield. Meanwhile I drove Ivan out to catch the morning bus to his
homely forests where he intended to have a couple of peaceful days while
killing innocent birds. Little was I aware that his plans could be seen
upon as some nasty form of voodoo. They reflected directly back on our
bigger bird (the beauty), and thus caused her to turn ill.
Yes, there is no doubt in the cause/effect here. Due to Ivan the evil's
plans to kill birds, the brake system of the Falcon broke down. She had to
be towed back into the hangar for medication. The condition was so serious
that medicines have to be collected by help of other planes from the
lovely city of Paris. The rumors say that Christian, sitting in the plane
ready to drop his sondes, was never told about this mishap. He just stay
on board thinking that this was the least turbulent research flight ever.
Well, we had to cancel today's flight, a great tragedy for those who had
studied the charts for winds at Helgeland. Less troublesome for all
others, except for the few whose weeping for The white beauty made a
measurable contribution to sea level rising.
Some of us decided to spend part of the spoilt day touring the northern
part of this beautiful island. We studied the local wind mill with a
peculiar villa-like apartment 30 meters above ground. We visited the
homesteads of both rocket range manager Enoksen and former Norwegian
speed-skating ace Nils Aanes. We looked at fish and swans (sound like
English pubs). But most of all some of the passengers were deeply
mistrusting the computing skills of yours truly. It is certainly not a
problem to start a lengthy trip with the "fill gas"-lamp blinking, as long
as you know that you have clever pushers in the car. We reached back to
lunch with several deciliters still on the tank.
Today's main event was the long awaited project banquet at restaurant
Lysthuset downtown. We were 25 merry people, and we all enjoyed our mølja.
(That is, our veggie friend Muralidhar enjoyed his pasta, a strange course
he has come to appreciate while being here.) There were three servings,
and as always with a good mølja, the only thing lacking was the ability to
fall directly back on a sofa for a nap.
In stead the friendly Icelandic campaign tyrant, Mr Kristjansson, held a
brief speech, commemorating the origin of the project two years ago - and
finishing off with a salute to the friendship among nations created at
this small site, especially tanking our friends of the DLR for excellent
contributions throughout the week. He handed them a small token in form of
a nice photo of the local polar lights. (Now they don't have to run out
every night to get a glimpse of it.)
The shy German, Mr Dürrenkracker, showed some real emotions and replied
weepingly to this, sea level now being dangerously high.
Then suddenly some unexpected incidents entered the stage. Yours truly was
overwhelmed by gifts as token of gratitude for his excellent performance
in facilitating washing machines and pistachio ice cream. This of course
was most well deserved (modesty is for sissies), but nevertheless came as
a surprise. The DLR group handed over a wonderful picture of the day's
patient, her highness The White Beauty of the Northern Skies. I now
consider piercing my chest with a hook, so as to be able to hang this
photo close to my heart. From the operation room I got a grand handbook in
digital photography. As this has been on my list to Santa Claus for a
time, I choose to overlook the most obvious assumption that these
newsletters have shown the need for such literature.
After some quick dessert and unmentionable wet stuff thereto we returned
to home base, where our German friends had fixed a nice nightshow. Having
been so heavily bribed earlier this evening yours truly has decided not to
gossip from this event. But it is worth mentioning that as I left the
party I could hear the thrilling rythms of Wencke Myhre's wonderful "Er
hat ein knall gelbes Gummiboot".
What a wonderful end to a disastrous day. I really hope that the
journalists lurking around have managed to realize the excitement and
friendship of true Thorpexians.
Tomorrow we go forth planning for the hopefully healthy beauty and her
weekend flights, hoping that we even might get an hour or two of mission
done on Monday before the return flight. Follow this unique story in full
depth here at this location.
Still weeping a little,
Gudmund-
