They weren't rowing though, but held their oars up, waiting for their opportunity. All this while, wave after wave came riding through the entrance to the creek, pouring their white cascades of foam over the reefs.
Hrolfur watched them steadily and waited, like an animal ready to pounce on its prey.
Now, my lads, cried Hrolfur suddenly. The oars crashed into the sea, and the boat shot forward.
Just so, I thought, must the vikings in olden time have rowed to the attack.
Hrolfur's voice was lost to us in the roaring of the surf, but he seemed to be urging the men on to row their utmost. They rowed, indeed, like things possessed, and the boat hurtled forward.
At the mouth of the creek a surf-topped wave rose against them, sharp and concave, as it rushed on its way to the reefs. We held our breath. It was a terrifying but magnificent sight.
Hrolfur shouted something loudly, and at the same moment every oar hugged the side of the boat, like the fins of a salmon as it hurls itself at a waterfall. The boat plunged straight into the wave. For a moment we lost sight of her in the swirling spray; only the mast was visible. When we saw her again, she was well out past the breakers. She'd been moving fast and was well steered.
Hrolfur took his place on the crossbeam as if nothing had happened, just as he had sat there earlier in the day, whilst he was 'on the frigate'.
Two of the crew began to set the sails, whilst one started to bail out. Soon the boat was once more on the move.
I felt a strange lump in my throat as I watched old Hrolfur sailing away.