The Brisingamen rarely ventured far south of the equator, but the same could not be said of the ship’s cook - a Norwegian man of brusque manner and colourful simile.

When the ship cracked and tore, and the cook fled the galley with rushing water snapping at his heels, he had no time to consider the fate of the fine ingredients he abandoned to the deep, nor the bottles of liquor he’d safeguarded for an appropriate celebration.

Now a solitary bottle of aquavit rocks back and forth with the ebb and flow of the reef; its seal remains intact, its aniseed-and-caraway vintage not yet dashed against the rocks.

Perhaps a dram of aquavit a day will not grant eternal life, but the wondrous forces which surround the wreck appreciate the power of names.

One day, in the reef’s darkest hour, the seal will fail, the glass will shatter, and the water of life will flow once more.