Donar lowered his arm until it was straight out. In precise unison, all sixty men in each of ten ships set their oars in the water and got ready. Stefan's chest swelled with pride, for now he was not just another number in the crowd watching, but was himself aboard ship and about to taste the delights of the entire world. He had only a slight twinge of regret when he leaned out so he could see around the steep upward swing of the carved back and take one more look at the beloved aunt and uncle who raised him after his mother passed.

Then his father dropped his hand, gave a shout and the race began.

In every race it was at this very point that the winner and the losers were determined, for it was not enough to simply lower the oars in the water. They must be lowered at precisely the right angle so that when the shout was given, the men could immediately pull with enormous force at the same moment and the same angle, lift the oars, put them back in the water and pull again in perfect harmony. It was a skill they practiced often at sea.

Not at all his first time on the ocean, Stefan knew enough to hang on, but he did not expect the profound jerk sixty powerful men could create. He lost his grip and went tumbling forward. But then the oars were lifted, which stopped his momentum and he rolled back. It took him two more attempts to get himself upright long enough to grab hold of anything at all, which happened to be an ax handle with the blade driven hard into the deck.

He quickly looked up to see if his father had noticed his blunder, and was relieved when the commander seemed only to care about the competition. Nevertheless, Stefan could not have been more chagrined for they were fast approaching the fjord and he had nearly missed the whole race.

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He leaned out again to look back at the figures of his aunt and uncle growing smaller on the shore of his Scandinavian homeland. Then he looked to see where all the other ships were. The Sja Vinna was ahead, but not by much. He held his breath. Surely his first race would not be a loss. If it were, it would be a terrible omen, so much so his father might take him back home for fear of what it could mean.

But then the Sja Vinna shot ahead and when Stefan looked, a group of men standing as close to the high walls of the fjord as the flat land would allow, judged the winner of the race and held up Donar's colors of blue and gold.




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