Alarm

 

The factory constantly creates sounds in the background of life here, day and night. One particular alarm catches my attention as it is in tune with a Norwegian folk melody I am listening to. On the fiddle I play along with the alarm and discover its pitch: G. I later find out that this is a dynamite-explosion warning.

Spring weather: sweeps of grey hail moving slowly, altering the light and exposure of the sun. Millions of tiny glass bells are chimed as the hailstones hit the water. The sound is beautiful to me yet apparently disturbing to cetaceans who swim deeper to avoid the noise.

I lie on the jetty, nose near the water, hand in the water. Out of nowhere white horses appear all over the fjord. I swiftly retreat. Wave after wave bashes the rocks relentlessly. I enjoy the splashes but I am suddenly in awe of the dangers in this dramatic and wild landscape and aware of the line of peril that humans think they can cross to dominate nature.

Here rocks fall, waves appear, temperatures drop.
There is no warning.

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