Nina, our spiky haired pixie guide, motions to look up. Bobbing along the surface, unphased by the cold, she points to the sheer cliffs descending beneath us. “North America.” She pivots, bubbles, and points left. “Europe.” I bury my face in the frigid waters to see what she means. I’m snorkeling. In Iceland, the land of the midnight sun. In Jesus-screaming, freezing cold glacier water. My friends are back home living the summer teenage dream — food, beach, weed — and I’m wedged between America and Europe.

Having discovered this adventure in the Icelandair in-flight magazine, I knew it had to be. I wrote of the tale of pixies and troll hair and tectonic plates here. Check it out! (Don’t get bitten by a sand fly while over there. Or hypothermia).

 

Snorkelin'