At the end of March, 2001, the Maltese vessel Baltic Carrier collided with another ship in waters southeast of Møn. In the days that followed, 2700 tons of heavy fuel oil spilled into the Baltic. We listened to radio reports of the oil slick, spreading with each passing day in strong winds from the west. During the night of 28-29 March, much of the initial oil slick had reached through the Grønsund Strait; by morning the wind had died down and was replaced with a light mist.

Glassy-smooth waters – usually only seen after several windless days – can despite a strong current turn the Grønsund Strait into a single, shimmering sheet. But on this morning of dead calm, there was an ominous stillness about the glassy waters. The entire surface was covered with a thin film which made the water take on a light, brownish-gold shade. Small lumps of thick tar formed themselves into shapes with long, octopus arms, playing in all the colours of the rainbow in the shallow waters near the shore. All the birds were gone.
When I came back from that first trip past the harbour and along a bit of the shoreline, I went into the gallery past one of my leftover eider duck busts, which I thought I had given a proud and almost haughty expression. And for the first time I saw a pleading, desperate look in its polished eye.