Last fall in Iceland, the magic money maker, Icesave, an Internet bank that helped drive Iceland’s red-hot economy, plunged into receivership.

Icesave had been attracting big sums of money abroad by paying up to seven per cent interest. In Britain alone, mostly small savers, like families and retirees, had $7 billion Cdn in Icesave accounts.

Icesave was just one of three Iceland banks offering attractive interest. Then the subprime mortgage fiasco hit.

It triggered a run on Icelandic banks. A bank run is a situation in which depositors try to withdraw all their money at once. Banks traditionally keep only 20 per cent of people’s deposits on hand, lending out the rest. That’s how they make money.

All three of Iceland’s national banks collapsed. Savings and pensions were wiped out. The value of Icelandic currency fell to zilch, although the government is now propping up the krona to about half what it was worth. Inflation is projected to hit 20 per cent in 2009. Tens of thousands of people have lost their jobs. This in a country of just 320,000 people.

Steinthor Gudbjartsson, a journalist for one of the country’s daily newspapers, is among those laid off.

So what did Gudbjartsson do after he was laid off? He went ice fishing in Gimli.

It’s not some traditional stress-reliever among Icelanders: When times are tough, go fishing. Gudbjartsson is using the time to write a book on what he says is one the greatest fish stories never told: the Icelandic diaspora into Manitoba, from the perspective of the fishing industry and the dynasties of fishing families here.

“It’s never been told before. Can you imagine?” said Robert Kristjanson, a 75-year-old third-generation commercial fisherman in Gimli.

Gudbjartsson has been playing Boswell to Kristjanson for the past three weeks, writing down his stories and recollections.

Gudbjartsson’s legwork has included waking up at 3 and 4 a.m. to go ice fishing commercially with the Kristjanson family. “That’s their life, seven days a week,” Gudbjartsson said. “I found out living in Winnipeg that people don’t realize the hard work that goes into commercial fishing.”

Gudbjartsson, 56, has connections here, first as a student at University of Manitoba in the late 1970s, and more recently as editor of Icelandic newspaper Logberg-Heimskringla in 2004-05. A local family has provided him accommodations, and the Icelandic writers union paid his airfare: $1,200 return.

His book is not just about the Kristjansons. He rattles off other famous local fishing family names like Sigurdson, Magnusson, Olafson, Olson and Sigurfeirsson–a partial list.

There were once 150 fishing stations around Lake Winnipeg, all run by people of Icelandic descent. The stations were camps where whole families and workers lived during fishing season.

Up to 50 people would live at one. People slept in shacks. Robert Kristjanson spent much of his early childhood in fishing stations until he was old enough to attend school. Some groups would be frozen in at stations from November to March.

There were also once 11 fish companies in Winnipeg, before mercury poisoning temporarily closed Lake Winnipeg to fishing in 1969 and before the emergence of the marketing board. Neptune Fisheries on Dufferin Avenue and Independent Fish on Sherbrook Street, with their retail outlets, are all that remain. Gimli Fish Market is a recent arrival.

The book promises to have a market in Manitoba and Iceland. “Fishing ties all people of Icelandic descent together,” said Gudbjartsson.

Their diets are closely tied, too. Gudbjartsson is enjoying pickerel here. Back home, cod and halibut dominate, but there is plenty of seafood including shark, lobster and herring as a side dish. Gudbjartsson ate fish five or six times a week growing up, and still has it three times a week. “Boiled, fried and baked,” he said.

“I have always looked at the people who left Iceland (for Manitoba, starting in 1875) as very brave, very strong people,” he said. “They managed and became superior in many fields in Canada and the United States.”

Ultimately, Gudbjartsson sees the story as a metaphor and inspiration for his countrymen. “The timing is right because in Iceland, people are talking about rebuilding a new Iceland,” he said, referring to the Gimli area that pioneers originally called New Iceland.

“I think Iceland has reached bottom and we will pick ourselves up and do it again,” he said.

Gudbjartsson departs for home today to begin writing his book.

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