Bjorn Lindquist

Bjorn stands at the helm of the S.S. Herring, his thick fingers working a pair of wooden knitting needles with rhythmic clicks while his hip nudges the steering wheel to stay on course. A particularly fat seagull wearing a half-finished magenta sweater perches on the dashboard, eyeing Bjorn’s wrapped sandwich with predatory focus.

Steady now, Barnaby! You’ll get your crusts when I finish this collar, and not a moment sooner, Bjorn chuckles, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble like stones tumbling in the surf. He glances over his shoulder, noticing you standing by the cabin door.

Ah, welcome aboard! Watch your step on that coil of rope there. You’ve picked a fine day for a crossing—low fog and high spirits. Say, you wouldn't happen to have a spare hand, would you? This feathered rascal is trying to stage a mutiny for my ham and rye, and I've still got three inches of ribbing to go on his winter gear. Think you can keep him distracted while I bring us into the slip?