Moscow
Illustration: Jia Sung. It is said that when the car ferry Skagerak, which sailed daily between Kristiansand and Hirtshals, sank and the passengers had to abandon the lounges, board the boats, push out uncertainly onto the open, rather tempestuous sea, one of the boats was hacked up by a Russian trawler.
Over the years, one has read in the newspapers from time to time about Russian trawlers that travel just outside our fishing borders. Our country stretches longitudinally and is shrouded by mist in the fall; at times it seems harsh, weather-beaten, and bleak. And further out at sea, Russian trawlers steal past; the news stories have left their impression on me of noiseless gliding, that these are ghost ships that inspect our coasts with their long, subterranean tows. On the radar: intense yellow lights and an arrow that floats across a round screen. And all the while in that tiny room, where people sit bent over the dial: a ticking noise and a suppressed hum emitted from wires and cables.
From a headline: Who is watching our coast? A photo of a trawler screams from every kiosk, tobacco shop, and newsstand.
It is said that when they came on board, none of the officers could understand English.
Even the tow that the trawler lugs behind it resembles a creature with a scissored jaw sniffing along the bottom of the ocean. When it is lugged up, millions of herring writhe, silvery, glistening. I have often had fish scales on my fingers; they smell
