San Diego

The planes were coming in low. They appeared silent at first, almost ghostlike through the jagged outline of San Diego.

It's a strange place to be anchored. We had a huge miltary base behind us, and every now and then we could hear the thumping sounds of distant helicopters. I watched as five grey choppers took off like a pack of wolves, following each other suit over the low rectangular buildings.

I rowed the dinghy to town. I walked with the camera, trying to be open for something new. Planes were constantly coming in at the airport. I could hear the short squeeks of rubber and sudden roars from thrust reversals. It was a noisy place. Cars and trains added to the constant buzz of modern infrastructure. But the high-tech buzz would not give anything away.

After awhile I realized that this place was forcing me to accept photography as something else. I had to stop lying.

Living without knowing

Living without knowing Henrik Nor-Hansen by Henrik Nor-Hansen | Make Your Own Book

This is the second book from our stay in Alaska. Please view in fullscreen.

Nova Scotia

Landfall in Nova Scotia was tricky. Coming from Bay of Fundy we had patches of fog and the world's highest tides to consider. It was crucial to time it right before entering Grand Passage. But everything turned out right and we had a good rest at Brier Island.

Leafing through the guidebook I suddenly realized that Joshua Slocum had spent parts of his childhood here. I got the feeling that Brier Island was holy ground. 

There was a guy at the dock who casually informed us about his distant relative. In fact, he invited us to his old house where the documentary about Slocum had a scene or two. History came to life. Everything in the house seemed untouched for a generation or two.

We left Brier Island in dead calm, but with a 4 knot current and standing waves in the riptide. It spat us out in a grey wall of fog. It's hard to imagine a place like this without gps. Joshua Slocum had the trickiest training ground on earth.

This place of love and darkness by Henrik Nor-Hansen | Make Your Own Book


This book is from our winter in Alaska. (It's not possible to leaf through it on iPad)

This is the cat

We got a new cat in Canada. It disappeared after a couple of weeks. We plastered missing cat posters all over. Then I heard a woman calling out to the boat. This is the cat, she shouted.

It turned out to be a different cat. But I couldn't say for sure, since our cat had been missing for two weeks already. I thought she might have changed.

Nina found our cat the next day. Now we had two cats. They were almost identical, a siamese mix of some sort.

We entered Hudson River in the autumn. The trees were all ablaze. I had really radiant dreams. 

But the hunting season had started and we could hear what sounded like regular shootouts at dusk. These guys were serious, with camouflage painted faces.

I was about to take the cat ashore. The cat was at the bow, hesitating. From the dinghy I could see her puffy upper lip and I suddenly got a vague thought about John Malkovitch. I might have been worried about the hunting militia. We hardly saw any wildlife but I felt unsafe in the ongoing war against ducks and deers. 

So I rowed slowly ashore, kind of reluctant. I had promised to take better pictures of the cat. Just in case she disappeared again.

Glass doors

She said her children was quite picky when it came to food. Children's strict likes and dislikes are apparantly connected to their identity. "Later we realize that we're no one, and can't stop eating."

Weapons of Mass Deception

The past and the future takes place right now, in our minds. It's possible to get away from it all. Not by death but by living.

Fat crotch

I never really liked this picture because the way it intruded the privacy of a stranger. I also didn't like the feeling of humiliating others. But pictures do change over time. In this case I would say it has something to do with me forgetting the woman's face. It's just a crotch on a bus stop. But then again it's something more. This particular crotch now has me groping for words. I have always found photography to be a profoundly sad activity.

Night photography

Our stay in Nome, Alaska, was way too short. I walked around for hours every night, trying to photograph as much as possible.

Then it struck me that houses really looked different when people sleep. The houses seemed more vulnerable. There was even intimacy. And the more intimate it felt, the creepier I become. 

I wished people somehow could project their dreams on the walls outside. But I just snapped a pic- ture and quickly moved on. 

Searching for a boat

Last week I took a flight to London and embarked the night train to Falmouth. In that way I didn't have to pay for a hotel. I arrived early morning. There was a lot of seagulls in the harbour. I felt fine for a while.

I met the broker and had a look at the boat, a Heard 28. It's a lot of hype around British built boats in Britain. After half an hour I had enough.

I walked around in Falmouth town for the rest of the day. I felt a cold coming and the seagulls was getting on my nerves.

I took the night train back to London and again I saved money on not having a room. It was damn cold, or maybe it just felt so cold because I hadn't slept two nights in a row.

I walked around Paddington station. I kept drinking tea to keep my warmth. Later it got sunny but I was still freezing. I sent an email to Nina saying the boat was no good and that the cockpit looked like it was created by a drunk designer.

I took the tube to Victoria and walked around in the area. After an hour of this I returned to the airport. By now I was feeling really sick. I couldn't stand myself. 

Beige couple

There's an elderly couple in front of us. They're talking about her going to the hospital. Everything is going to be alright, he says.

She's silent for a while. Then she asks: why do I have the feeling that you are talking about the car? 

Brown horse, brown cow

We're walking into the green foliage. I have a feeling that Fatu Hiva is one of those destinations where no one really have been.

 

I suddenly want to get online but there's no such thing on the island. Why sail halfway around the world to go online?

  

I start to think about Thor Heyerdahl. He arrived on Fatu Hiva in 1937, hoping to escape civilization. But he didn't get along with the locals. Eventually he and his wife took shelter in a cave, anxious to get home.

Selling, falling

Nina says she is loosing something of herself, selling our beloved little boat. Sure, it's been our home for the last ten years.

But I've been struggling with sinusitis and whatnot the last months. Saturday I was coming fog- brained and miserable along the dock in the dark, and misjudging the distance I jumped right out in seemingly nothing before my chest hit the toerail. Nina dragged my out of the water and I had cracked a couple of ribs by the feel of it.

Fiji

After eating at a restaurant we're walking through the park in Suva. I'm feeling incredibly happy because I didn't have the fish. Then it suddenly strikes me: I've become an old worm.

Samoa

I'm walking in downtown Apia, the only city on Samoa. It's a rather conservative place. Walking with a camera and tripod I get the feeling that most people view me as slightly insane.

But now it's festival week. I figure most people will take it for granted that I'm photographing the fire dancers.

After eight years of travelling it's pretty clear that I'm not a good tourist. I'm almost never interested in the sights and events that's being presented.

Fear eats the soul

We often hear that sailing a 26 foot sailboat without an engine is brave indeed, but this is not even what I would call risk taking. 

I'm actually a rather nervous guy. And I'm back in Norway to sort out some health problems. It seems like the nasal spray for allergies involves steroids with severe side effects. 

Now the anxiety is really getting to me. I'm having feelings and sensations so cold that they can be taken for thoughts.

Lakeshore Loop

I kept coming back to this neighborhood in Wasilla, Alaska. Although it wasn't really a neighbor- hood. Not yet.

I've always been slightly afraid of old houses. I guess an old house is somewhat associated with the deceased.

But this was different. It was as if I felt uneasy about the future, and everything that will take place in the years to come.

What kind of people will be living here? How many kids will grow up, and what kind of people will they become? What will their memories be?

Getting around

"Imagine that we could share each other. That would eventually mean less walking."

At the bookstore

"I saw this beautiful woman at the bookstore, and — afraid of being looked upon as too old — I looked at her with disgust."

Vancouver in the dark

I still wonder why the Chinese were so afraid of me taking pictures. They ducked their heads as if they were dodging bullets. Or they picked up a phone, letting me discreetly know that steps were taken.

I kept riding. I had borrowed a bike from some friends and in the dark I could stop wearing that damn helmet.