Thirty-five minutes
The Herjólfur ferry connects Heimaey with the mainland. Thirty-five minutes to Landeyjahöfn. Alek got on at seventeen, alone, with a sports bag and a toolbox. His brother was already in Reykjavík. His father had worked a season from the harbor there. It wasn't dramatic. But leaving an island of four and a half thousand people carries a weight that leaving a city doesn't. There's no road back. There's a boat.
Thirty-five minutes is a short time. But in that crossing you can watch Heimaey shrink from the deck. The south wind is there — in summer it brings the smell of grass, in winter it brings water. And the certainty that the ferry leaves every day at the same time, so you can always come back. That certainty is what makes it possible to leave.
Alek started as an apprentice at a boat maintenance workshop in Grandi, the old harbor of Reykjavík. Grandi was changing: the fish warehouses were turning into galleries and cafés, but the small-scale fishermen were still there. The first month he slept on his brother's couch. The second he found a basement apartment in Vesturbær, eight minutes on foot from the workshop. One room, kitchen-living room, bathroom. Small windows, low ceiling. He chose it for exactly that. At nineteen, a short circuit burned his right hand. At twenty-two he met [Otto](https://www.yagopartal.com/animal-kinhood/otto/) on a dock, by accident, like everything that matters to him. At twenty-four, his boss told him he wanted to retire and would like Alek to take over the business. Alek didn't answer.







