He wanted to get away from her, from them. If he was honest, from himself.
He didn’t announce it because it wasn’t planned. One day he’d grabbed his passport and driven to a used car lot, taken the salesman’s first offer and hitched a ride to the Greyhound station.
On the San Diego docks, he talked his way onto a container ship.
He stood on the deck as the ship wended through the Panama Canal, been sick in his berth when storms battered the craft, learned rudimentary Filipino from the crew.
Three months and nine countries later he found himself in Paamiut. He did not plan to stay, but somehow feels he belongs there.
Now he sits with Agdlak, who is teaching him to speak Kalaallisut.
“Your case is not unusual,” says the old fisherman. “Paamiut is very difficult to get to, but somehow it is much harder to leave.”