The ferry from Bodø to Moskenes leaves at three in the morning in summer because in summer there's no such thing as morning; there's just a long yellow afternoon that forgets to stop. The terminal at two is thirty people, forty bikes, and a light like the inside of a peach.
Everyone was whispering. Nobody had agreed to. The sun was on the horizon, going neither up nor down, and it produced in the whole terminal the reverence of a library or a hospital. I recorded twenty minutes of people not talking, and it's one of the loudest things I own.
You could hear the gulls, the harbour water, a generator, a child asking why and being shushed, and under it a hum I eventually placed as forty bicycle dynamos still spinning down. Then the ferry horn — one note, huge, and every whisper stopped at once.
Three hours to Moskenes. I slept on a bench with the recorder on my chest and woke up in the Lofoten, which look like mountains that fell in the sea and decided to stay.