I grew up in a small community, just outside Oslo. At the end of the road from my parent’s house was the fjord and, one way or another, my most intense childhood memories are all about the sea. We were a small gang of friends from the neighbourhood who would go sailing together whenever we had the chance. Mid-water, we would tie our small motor boats together and, while drifting, we would hang out just like city kids on a street corner. All summer, the boys would try to impress us, racing by in their boats or diving from the tallest rocks, doing all sorts of crazy acrobatic tricks in the water. And we would be sitting on the dock by the boat houses, with freckled cheeks, dressed in shorts and nylon swimming suits, laughing and gossiping all day long.



In the winter, the fjord would freeze over, and we would break every rule, and cross the ice on foot to get to a nearby island without our parents knowing about it. The sea was our playground and, although I had immense respect for the power of nature, I do not remember ever being scared of the water. On the contrary, growing up so close to the fjord, and the wooded mountains above it, filled me with a sense of security, and I took to the water without fear or hesitation.
When I was in my mid-twenties, I left Oslo for London to study communications at Goldsmiths and, after my degree, I got a job as a runner in a film production company, and later I worked for a lifestyle magazine. However, as much as my hunger for adventure had drawn me to life in the big city, I never really felt at home. There was always this frustrating ambivalence.





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