Only Columbus And Leif Ericson Had As Much Fun As Loftleidir Passengers

Leif Ericson and Columbus would never have believed it, but crossing the Atlantic has become a bit of a bore. The smooth anonymity of jet travel has turned the journey from the Old World to the New into a humdrum ride with rather less excitement than a crosstown bus trip. To relieve the monotony some years back, I considered hitching a place in that transatlantic rowboat with Ridgway and Blyth, but they wouldn't have me. Then last summer I hit upon the perfect answer for the traveler who seeks a colorful voyage on a slender budget—I flew the Atlantic in a prop plane that passes only a harpoon's throw from the Arctic Circle: from London to New York via Glasgow and Reykjavik, with Icelandic Airlines.

The airline is otherwise known as Loftleidir, which students of Old Norse will readily translate as Sky Trails. I had heard stories about the company. How it was started in 1944 by three eager Icelanders with one four-seater plane and $22,000 in cash between them, hopping at first from one Icelandic fishing village to another. How its doughty pilots have been known to dig icebound planes out of glaciers and get them started again. How a New Yorker, stranded in Gander by some mechanical fault in those early days, said, "I expect another of your planes will be along soon to take us," and was told, "I am sorry, sir, but our other aircraft is in Stockholm."

Things have changed since then, but Loftleidir is still the only airline flying the North Atlantic that is privately owned and not subsidized by any government. It boasts a perfect safety record since 1952. Last year it carried more than 185,000 passengers in its five Canadair-built jet prop planes, plus dozens of glorious Valkyrie goddesses thinly disguised as stewardesses. Because its Rolls-Royce turboprop engines operate more economically than jets, it can offer bargain transatlantic fares, saving its passengers 15% to 25% on the cost of their flights. Hence its sturdy refusal to join the price-fixing International Air Transport Association, which sets uniform rates for all other transatlantic carriers.

Because of its maverick habits, you feel you're doing something naughty, almost piratical, in flying with Loftleidir. And this helps to create a special atmosphere of camaraderie during a flight. The transatlantic route is long and eccentric, zigging a thousand miles north to Reykjavik then zagging a couple of thousand back again. Sitting shoulder to shoulder six abreast, Icelandic passengers feel they are all in it together: brave, pioneering souls who can face up to the discomforts of an arduous journey for the sake of seeing a fascinating country en route. An informal survey convinced this Icelandic passenger that one is 80% more likely to talk to one's next door neighbor on an Icelandic flight than on any other airline—and he or she is 80% more likely to be worth talking to. You have, at any rate, a ready-made opening gambit, which goes like this: "What on earth made you travel Icelandic?"

On my last flight, the plane was crowded with eager travelers, most of whose passports were stamped MAGYAR. Because they hadn't flown before, everything was new to them: seats, seat belts, ventilators, light switches. The Magyars had a hatchet-faced wardress, or tour leader, with them, who explained that Hungarian citizens of pensionable age were allowed by the government to travel to the West, provided their fares and expenses were paid in full by relatives in the U.S. Their visas were mostly six-month visas. "But no doubt," she said smoothly, "many of them will fail to return to Hungary."

We landed in Iceland for a couple of hours, not in Reykjavik but at the international airport at Keflavik. The airport building is the nearest thing the North Atlantic has to a crossroads. Wandering around the lounges in a daze of exhilarated sleeplessness, you meet other zombielike creatures in the same state. Have they sat sleepless bound east or west? "Which way are you heading?" you ask. Delirious with fatigue they have to think for a moment and do some calculations. No sunset up here to help them: that unblinking Arctic sun is filling the place with glittering light although it's 2 in the morning.

After a time you reboard the plane for the last leg of the journey. Iceland as you leave it in the early morning light is all green and red tin roofs, blue sea and white concrete-box houses; snow-covered mountains, A-shaped racks where they dry the fish, and the huge reservoirs of Reykjavik's free hot-water supply. Drowsy, you glance at the plastic card in the seat pocket in front of you. It lists ORYGGISTRADSTAFANIR, or Safety Rules, but you're too tired to care.

You doze; the Hungarians doze; you eat a couple of breakfasts and listen to announcements in English and Icelandic. And suddenly your head jerks upright, you're awake, with smarting eyes, swollen ankles and furry teeth, and—19 hours after leaving London—here you are at Kennedy Airport.

I have made many, many transatlantic crossings. Mere bus rides, every one. But this time I feel—with the Hungarians—the sense of infinite adventure which arriving in America can give. I think fleetingly of Columbus, but mostly of that other chap before him—yes, Leif Ericson, that's the one. The very first America-bound adventurer to travel Icelandic.