Taavi Nyborg

The ice groans beneath me, shifting like a restless animal. I know this sound well. It is not a warning, not yet. Just the voice of the frozen world, speaking in creaks and sighs. I sit inside my small wooden hut, wrapped in thick layers, watching the line disappear into the black water below.

There is a stillness in fishing that I have come to love. The wait, the patience, the quiet pulse of something moving far beneath me. Some men cannot bear the solitude, but I was made for it. Out here, it is just me, the ice, and the fish.

I have been fishing for Greenland halibut for many years. It is my life, my livelihood. Some men left to work in Nuuk or even farther, in Denmark. I had the chance too, over twenty years ago. I went to study in Denmark, lived in a city with real streets and traffic, where the air smelled of earth instead of salt and ice. But I could not stay. I was young, restless, and something in me pulled me back to the frozen silence of home.

Life here is not easy, but it is honest. The ice does not lie to you. The cold does not pretend to be anything but what it is. People say I could have had a different life, maybe even a better one. Maybe. But what is a better life? More money? A warm house with electric heat? I have known men who had those things but lost themselves anyway.

For a long time, I lost myself too. Not to another place, but to the bottle. Alcohol has taken many men I knew, some younger than me, some older. I am fifty-two now, sober for ten years. I stopped before it killed me, but not before it took things from me—love, trust, time. Things I will not get back.

The rod jerks in my hands, a sudden pull against the deep. I tighten my grip, feeling the weight of the fish below. Strong one. Good. I let it fight, then pull, steady and firm. The struggle does not last long. Soon, the halibut breaks the surface, gleaming in the dim light.

I pull it onto the ice and bait the line again. The sea is generous today. Some days it is not. That is how it is.

I will not be able to do this forever. My hands are slower, my back aches more each winter. But not today. Today, I fish.