THE tolling sound of a distant bell rouses me from my slumber. I peel my eyes open. ‘Where am I?’ The room is dark and warm and smells of oiled oak. And then I remember. I’m in Arctic Norway, onboard a Swedish former minesweeping vessel called HMS Gåssten.
The tolling sound is getting louder and louder, now interspersed with a bellowing voice that I recognise as Simon Idsø—the boat’s chef. ‘Orcas,’ he cries. ‘Wake up, there are orcas.’ I exit my cabin—once home to the ship’s ammunition—and scurry onto deck. To the left of the bow bolts of golden light have successfully broken through leaden clouds; to the right, the water’s surface is interrupted by one onyx dorsal fin after another,
