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Loy Air Fritthorzson swims slowly through the ice-cold Atlantic Ocean. It's pitch black,

and he can't see a yard in front of him. He just hopes he's heading towards land.

Images of the last few hours flashed through his mind. The dragnets that he and his colleagues

lowered into the water from their fishing trawler. The jolt as

the net snagged on the seabed. The gruesome noises the outriggers made as they bent and buckled.

The sinking ship, the moment the lights went out. His shipmates, Varlour, Engelbert, Peeter, Hiurter,

all now dead. Loire is all alone in the ocean,

miles away from his home, the Icelandic island of Hemae. Beneath him are the watery depths of the ocean. Above him, the starry night sky. Slowly but surely he moves forward with consistent

strokes, but he has no idea if he's headed in the right direction. Suddenly, he sees light,

and it's as if Loire has been released from a trance. At first, he thinks he's imagining it,

but there they are.

Orange and green streaks that dance across the sky,

the northern lights.

Toward their ends, the orange turns to red,

and Loya is reminded of the glow of the lava

when the volcano erupted on Hemae.

That night they had to leave their home.

Loya was just 11 years old.

He woke up and went to look out the window.

He saw his neighbors moving quickly but calmly in the direction of the harbor.

...