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.

The Future’s So Bright, I Gotta Wear Rose-colored Shades

Sitting alone in the saloon on Polar Bear. I dinghied Boogie and Marlies in to shore about a half-hour ago; they’re off to find the station chief and tackle the pleasantries. A radio report a few moments ago said that the chief was due back in an hour, so Boogie and Marlies were settling in for a cup (or two) of coffee with the station crew in the meantime.

In contrast to the tea party ashore, I find the tranquility out here on board delightful, which again will come as no shock to anyone who a) knows me, or b) has read any previous posts from this summer. It’s as close to being on my own boat as I’ll get this summer: no guests to tend to, no to-do lists to check off. Yes, if it were my boat (and I wasn’t in as forbidding an anchorage as Jan Mayen, which is why I was left behind: as insurance for the boat) I’d likely be ashore hiking or in the water surfing or swimming, or even — gasp! — out sailing. But regardless of where I was or what I’d been doing, there would also be down time during which I’d enjoy the gentle rocking of a boat at anchor, a cozy saloon in which to sit and chill, music on the stereo (Neil Young right now, FYI), the sound of the wind in the rigging overhead.

In this particular boat saloon, I can see a calendar hanging in the galley. Today’s date — Sunday, July 10 — has a red square highlighting it, and it also highlights that at this time in one week, I’ll be back at my childhood home on Plum Island. I’ll leave Polar Bear in Akureyri, Iceland, on Saturday and fly to Reykjavik. The next morning, I’ll catch a flight to Logan Airport in Boston, and then a C&J Trailways bus to Newburyport, Mass. Sometime after lunch on the 17th, my folks will pick me up and we’ll head out to the island. And the curtain will come down on the first act of this summer of my life.

The intermission will likely bring much introspection, a big retrospective on the show so far. And as I sit here, a week out from that break, I’m curious as to what the tenor of that analysis will be.

I’m concerned that being back in the States will be so comfortable and familiar that a return to the normal, to a life back in Corporate America, will be really appealing. I’m also concerned that being back in the States will be so comfortable and familiar that I’ll be clamoring to get back to the new-vista-around-every-corner aspect of life at sea. It’s likely a question of which rose-colored glasses I’ll find most comfortable (though it’s obvious that I’ll wear out both pairs pretty quickly).

And in reality, some of that analysis will take place in the next five days, particularly the three or so it will take to cover the water between here and Iceland. Because if I decided that a return to the mainstream was in order and opt not to return to Polar Bear in Greenland in early August, I’d need to pack everything up and take it with me on Saturday.

I’ve gotten some good and kind advice with regard to that analytical process from friends over the course of this summer so far. One reminded me of the Robert Frost line, that “the best way out is through.” I was encouraged to embrace the challenging lines of thought, the painful, to not take the easy way out (who, me?!). Another friend recalled times in her past when longing for the familiar had gotten in the way of true emotional and psychological growth, and encouraged me to push through those times when I wanted to pack up and go back to what I knew. She said that once she survived those easy-to-quit weeks, she made real progress and found that being out there was indeed just what the doctor ordered.

Putting that sage advice into practice is another reason why my current line of thinking is as I mentioned earlier: rejoin Polar Bear in August for the Greenland-Iceland-UK run — and then figure it all out. At the very least, I’ll get to see one of the world’s unique places and log another thousand or so open-ocean miles. And it might just be that getting back out there after a big dose of the warm, the comfortable and the familiar will enable me to clearly see which glasses fit me best.

Besides, I think I can survive without lobster rolls, In ‘n’ Out Burger and the Red Sox until September.

Constant Companion

I’ve lamented the lack of mega-fauna throughout this journey. And with good cause: the tally so far is one visit from dolphins; a smattering of whales, only one of which was up close; zero orcas; and sea eagles so skittish that they remained little more than dots. But one feathered friend has been with us through thick and thin from day one in Newcastle: the fulmar.

This chunky, gull-like pelagic bird gets little respect, probably because it’s a chunky, gull-like pelagic bird. The bump on his upper beak makes him look like a boxer who’s broken his nose more than a few times. The implacable black eyes and flat expression give him an air of haughty arrogance, as though he’s a little put out that you’re intruding on his space out on the open sea. He doesn’t work hard, certainly not as hard as you do out here. Instead, he’ll flap two or three times to rise up out of the water and then he’ll just glide, riding downwind like a jet or coursing upwind in a series of rises and falls. And then he’ll glide past, just out of reach at eye-level as you stand on the deck, wondering why you’re going so slowly. But he’s not above taking a lift, either, riding the rising wind spilling off the sails whenever it suits him.

A few hours ago as we rounded Sørkapp, the southern cape of Jan Mayen, we were surrounded by thousands of fulmars. They sat in great rafts upon the water. They tumbled and climbed and dived on the fierce winds wrapping around the high, colorful headlands. They drifted by Polar Bear within arm’s length. Thousands and thousands of fulmars all in this one place out in the middle of the ocean: it was Hitchcockian at the same time that it was comforting to have so many familiar faces around.

Fulmars may not have the cute factor of the puffin or the awesome wingspan of the eagle; instead they’re the workaday bird of the North and Norwegian seas, and I just wanted to call ’em out.