The Coast of Iceland

We’re about 20 miles off the north coast of Iceland now, 30 from the mouth of the fjord we’ll enter to head to Akureyri. From there, it’s another 30 or so to the dock, so we’re about 10 hours from tying up and being finished with this expedition.

My watch starts in half an hour and runs until 3am. Given the timing, this will likely be my last official watch of the trip as well. Boogies mixed up the lineups for the leg from Jan Mayen: I’ve been teamed up with two 50-something physicians from Oslo. Nice guys, both of them named Tore (pronounced: “TOR-uh” with that rolled R that Americans are largely incapable of pronouncing), they have some sailing in their backgrounds and are both very active. They’ve run the New York Marathon and, as you might expect, climb mountains. Both are personable and intelligent, too, so it’s been an enjoyable watch detail this trip.

And as always, it’s with mixed emotions that I near port. Offshore passages are, to be honest, pretty exhausting, even when there’s not a lot of work to be done — as on this trip. But the motion of the boat, the wind, the short sleep stints…it all adds up to being a fatigue-producing effort. Throw in current conditions — thick fog, an island off our starboard beam, several fishing boats at work — and the workload that was so small suddenly ratchets up a couple of notches.

But on the plus side, there is the joy of simply being at sea: sailing on the wind (conditions permitting), birds and dolphins coursing by, the deep blue water, the freedom. I always fear these things could disappear from my life forever upon tying up to a dock and going ashore. I know they won’t but there’s always that fear.

Switching gears: Boogie said that the tenor of my posts had been on a downward trajectory since the trip started back in May. I went back and examined this here blog and I don’t see it, but just in case some of you do, let me stress the fact that I’m having a great time out here. Any negative vibes that come through are due to two factors: one, the introspection that this trip and this whole stage in my life has engendered, and two, the shennanigans with the owners changing the boat’s (and my) plans for the year.

The first factor, the introspection, is the main reason I’m out here. Yes, there’s the learning-more-about-operating-a-boat aspect to the trip, but that’s clearly less important in the long run than figuring out what the hell to do with my life, boat or no. The navel-gazing I’ve been doing — and my apologies to all who’ve bothered to read such tripe — is my way of following Robert Frost’s “through” directive. I’ll come out the other end at some point, I promise.

The second factor, well, ’nuff said on that one. As you may have read, I’m pissed at the owners and what their timidity and stupidity have done to plans made by both friends of mine and me, and their callousness when confronted with the news that hey, you clowns are jerkin’ us around.

So any negativity that comes out from either of those factors is either me working through things or me venting, and I beg your indulgence. On top of that, my mother says she prefers when I get more of me and less travelogue into this gibberish, so I’m searching for a balance between the two. Again: your indulgence, please.

At any rate, we’re nearing the end of this leg, and I’m nearing the end of the first half of this summer of soul searching at sea. I’m looking forward to getting back to the States in a couple of days and sleeping in a stable, wide bed for a bit. The posts will continue; it is to be hoped that the change in venue will provide an equivalent change in perspective, a new way of looking at these same things, so to speak.

Another Lesson Learned

I’ve always loved sailing. From the time I used to push my Hobie Cat off the beach in front of my house and just go for it, seeing how fast I could make the thing move or seeing how far up onto one hull without tipping over I could push it, I’ve always dug the feeling of being in a vessel powered by the wind across the water.

And that always included upwind sailing, when the boat is heeled over, the little world aboard exists at a slant, and the boat pitches and hobbyhorses over and through the waves. I never could understand why those people who were sailing around the world — or even just in the neighborhood — would bemoan the lack of off-the-wind sailing.

Now I know. With all of the upwind sailing we’ve done thus far this summer, I’ve come to realize: it’s a lot of work. It makes everything you do on board a challenge. And it’s just plain wears you out.

When just getting out of your bunk is difficult because the floor of your cabin is sloping upwards at 45 degrees, it’s a challenge. When walking a few steps means hip-checking the wall on either side of the hallway with each and every step, it’s a challenge. When using the toilet means making sure you have a three-point stance with your head against the wall and your feet splayed out wide just to make sure you don’t miss, it’s a challenge (my stupid male pride won’t let me sit down to pee unless the boat is really bouncing all over the place).

So call me a wimpy downwind sailor now but yeah, I’m on board, so to speak. Give me those downhill runs, where the horizontal is just that: horizontal, and I’ll be happy. It’s nice when you can sail straight ahead and not go almost 90 degrees out of your way because the wind happens to be blowing straight from your destination. And cooking is a whole lot easier when you don’t have to wedge yourself into a galley before a stove that is swinging wildly with each passing swell.

I may be getting soft in my old age but screw it. Comfort isn’t such a bad thing…at any age.

Mountain Summits and the Deep Blue Sea

Just under 200 miles to go until we reach the shores of Iceland; another 30 or so beyond that to our docking spot in the city of Akureyri. And it has been a tumultuous couple of days since I last puked on this keyboard.

Our climbers summited on Sunday the 10th and were met at their base camp on the 11th by the station chief with whom Boogie and Marlies had dined; he was kind enough to drive out and grab their gear, then drive back and bring them back to the station on the south side of the island. We loaded them aboard Polar Bear and then we all went back to the station for hot showers; some in the group even enjoyed the hot pool the station has on-site. That evening, I took the climbing crew back to the station for drinks at the bar there. We spent a nice evening socializing and learning more about the people who work there, and it was a nice, final bit of off-the-boat time before our morning departure. And yeah, a couple of beers were nice too.

Then yesterday, the 12th, we got everything in order in the morning and pulled the hook at noon. Destination: Iceland, about 360 miles southwest.

As if getting to Jan Mayen wasn’t enough, and climbing a volcano there still not enough, the Norwegian Sea was going to make sure these folks paid their dues. Within minutes of being back on the boat, several were green with mal de mer again — and that was in the lee of the island, where the water was calm and the wind slight. Once we emerged from behind the south cape, the wind picked up, humping up the seas into a chop on top of a longer-period swell rolling in from some distant disturbance. Within hours, the wind had backed around to being right on our nose, making the journey even more trying.

And COLD! Again with the low temps: right at zero Celsius — that’s freezing, or 32 Farenheit, for you folks keeping score at home — with fog, drizzle and an incessant wind making for much colder conditions.

And if that wasn’t enough, about 12 hours into the journey, the engine decided to puke up its coolant. Again. This time, half an hour from the end of my 9pm-12am watch, so I stayed up for two hours of Boogie’s watch, cleaning that mess up and helping him remedy the situation. We got rolling again — after an hour-plus of moving at barely 2 knots — and I got a measly three hours of sleep before I was up for a four-hour, 6-10am watch in the coldest conditions so far: same zero-degree temp with thick fog coating everything in a sheen of mist and a strong, 25-knot wind cooling everything to well below freezing. Let’s just say that I wasn’t a happy camper at that point.

Once that watch was over, I slept the sleep of the dead until around 3pm, when I got up and got dinner going. Beef goulash. And boy, was it blah (I cooked it so I can say that). Something like that needs to simmer for hours, not just 30-45 minutes. While I’m not proud of my creation, it warmed the inside and everyone seemed to like it.

But the wind and seas have calmed now and the fog has lifted enough to let a touch of sunshine in. And the air has actually warmed up to 2 or 3 Celsius…balmy!

So I’m sitting in the snake pit — the little alcove beneath the boom, forward of the cockpit and aft of the mast where all the lines from the mast are led — typing this silliness out, just to get in the habit again. The water is, as I say, much calmer now though the lighter wind persists in being on the nose. But no matter: we’re motoring more or less toward our destination with an estimated midday-Friday arrival.

And now the water is an amazing shade of blue. It’s the same shade I enjoyed in the North Atlantic aboard Star Chaser last spring, when the gulf stream turned the inky black water into a deep azure; a blue so deep it’s like you’re looking into the eyes of a lover, one whose soul you feel a part of. Corny, I know, but it’s true: this is a blue that goes way past the easy-to-love turquoise of the tropics. Here, the key word isn’t “blue” or “azure,” it’s “deep” — and I’m not referring to how much water there is below our keel. No. Here the depth starts right at the surface and draws you in as though you’re looking into the heart of the Milky Way galaxy or the very universe itself. Perhaps it’s what it would be like to look into the atom, the building block of all things — it’s a connection that defies description and is beyond one’s understanding, but is not beyond one’s feeling a part of a greater whole. It’s welcoming and frightening, awe-inspiring and forbidding, all at the same time. It is irresistible and peaceful and comforting at the same time it is defiant and provocative and terrifying. It’s beautiful.