Washed Ashore
The voyage was rather uneventful, for the most part. Resupply stops in Iceland and Greenland where you weren't allowed ashore. It was the conventional wisdom that the folks arranging you transport were afraid you might jump ship hoping to make a new life at a more established colony.
And then that final longest leg: Greenland to Vinland. Several weeks at sea in the chilly northern waters. Crew whispered about an unmarked area of the empty ocean that was haunted. A wives' tale? Apparently not. You spent several days fighting back fear as eyes stared at you from the walls, the mast, the oars themselves, everywhere. And ... other, less definable things happened as well. But then you were through it and it ended.
And then, a week after that, mere days form Vinland, one of those New World storms struck. Farther north than the expected, apparently, but no less fierce. Viking longships are just not built for hurricanes, and yours was no exception. The shi was tossed, the mast splintered, the hull caved in...basically the ship was destroyed little by little by the storm, but you weren't there for the end. You'd long since been tossed overboard by the storm's violence, clinging to what ever bit of ship's hull or deck had preceded you.
And that is the last thing you remember until you wake up on a beach, a lump on your head and wave sloshing around your waist. As you sit up and look around, you spot a few other survivors. All too few.