Comes A Time (again)

“This morning…I felt a longing for the sea. It has a great cleanliness. There are moments when everything on land seems to me torturous, dark, and squalid”

               — Dr. Stephen Maturin in Patrick O’Brian’s “Post Captain”

Just as there came a time to leave Lerwick, Shetland, and also Bodø, Norway, now comes the time to leave my home here at Plum Island, Massachusetts. It’s time to hit the road — er, water — again. Tomorrow morning I’ll head to Boston and board a midday flight back to Reykjavik, Iceland.

The original plan was to fly to Constable Pynt, Greenland, on Saturday and rejoin Polar Bear, the boat having journeyed there in my absence. But the boat was unable to push through the sea ice last week and was forced to return to Isafjördur on the north coast of Iceland. So I’ll fly there Saturday morning and we’ll shoot for Greenland next week.

Frankly, I’m psyched. I’ve heard that the flight to Constable Pynt is one of the loveliest in the world: winging low over the ice cap and mountains of Greenland. But I’d rather my first view of that strange land (not counting the times I’ve seen it from 36,000 feet) be from the deck of a boat. There’s just something unique and enticing and captivating about making landfall in a new place.

“It was not that he did not like the land — capital place; such games, such fun — but the difficulties there, the complications, were so vague and imprecise, reaching one behind another, no end to them: nothing a man could get a hold of. Here, although life was complex enough in all conscience, he could at least attempt to cope with anything that turned up.”

               — O’Brian writing about Capt. Jack Aubrey, also in “Post Captain”

I’m looking forward to getting back to the simplicity, the clarity, of life at sea. I’ve loved watching my beloved Red Sox have a great July, but this being connected 24/7 — via phone, Web, text message, email, radio, TV — is just too much. I detest the Pavlovian way we respond to the ringing of a bell or the “you’ve got mail” sound. And though it’s my own damned fault, I just get too distracted — I’ve missed writing day in and day out.

And perhaps that’s what the point of this interlude was (in addition to taking part in the beautiful wedding ceremony between Deana Moody and Tom McLaughlin on Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire): to realize that once I return to the “real” world for good, I need to knuckle down and apply myself.

“It’s easy to be a wise man in the mountains,” say the Zen monks. Maybe the corollary is: it’s easy to write regularly when you’re on the sea.

American Interlude

I arrived in the United States at midday a week-plus ago after a five-hour flight from Reykjavik…and what a transition it was.

I left behind the soft, cool blue of the northern summer sky at almost-66 degrees latitude and arrived in the hazy, 90-degrees-Farenheit heat of a New England summer. I left behind a small, chic city of a hundred thousand and landed near the gritty sand of Revere Beach. I went from the routine and isolation of being on a boat in the middle of the sea to the go-go-go lifestyle of 2011 America, complete with ubiquitous Web access and 24-hour news cycles that leave one numb (and not writing). I left the tranquility of blue ocean and white snow and green hills and wound up being bombarded by never-ending tales of an ineffective government acting like a bunch of spoiled, petulant kids.

Seriously: in just a few hours I went from 32 degrees with wind-chill factors in the teens, fog and drizzle to a scorching, 100-plus-degree-with-equally-high-humidity heat wave that rivaled any I’ve ever experienced anywhere. Throw in the BS going on in Washington, D.C., and I’ve been counting the days until I return to the much more benign soap-opera drama of Polar Bear and its owners.

But I’m here in the United States for the wedding of two dear friends. That will take place this weekend in the Lakes Region of New Hampshire, as lovely a place as any I’ve seen on this summer’s trip. And that’s been one of the great takeaways from this year: that every single place on this planet is nothing short of spectacular; it’s up to us to see the beauty — and that perspective is something we carry with us everywhere we go, it comes from within and not from a mountain or an ocean or a sunset or a whale sounding.

I’d always thought that what made Americans American was the land, that sense of frontier and wide-open spaces that evaporated from the Old World so long ago that it had been lost from the collective unconscious. It always seemed to me that this land ethic infused our culture to such an extent that it created our sense of who and what we are, and so a sense of location, of home, has always been so important to me in my life.

For instance: I was born in New York City. On the edge of Harlem, as a matter of fact. But I’ve always considered myself a New Englander whose home was a small island about 30 miles north of Boston. And over the course of the years, I’ve lived in some pretty amazing places, including some that I’ve come to regard as home. The lineup reads like a vacation wish-list: Utah, Montana, Idaho, San Diego, Austin, Alaska. I’ve even lived in Europe. Some places resonated with me more than others, but that sense of location, of where I was on the planet, informed, I believe, who I was.

It was upon leaving San Diego last spring that I realized that I’ve enjoyed and hated every single place I’ve lived. I love Anchorage, Alaska…but when I’m there I miss the beach and even the night sky in summer. I always bad-mouthed Southern California when I lived there…but the climate afforded me the active lifestyle I so cherish.

So I’ve come to realize — prior to this summer, to be sure, but this trip has cemented the notion — that while I may have what I consider to be a home (or two), I can be happy in any place on Earth. That every single location on the planet is special and unique and beautiful, and I should take joy out of every place and every moment I’m here.

And right now, that means reveling in being home in New England with friends and family. For another week I’ll be here, eating lobster rolls and sweating bullets, and then I’ll head back to Iceland and on to Greenland for the home stretch of this summer adventure.

And then it’ll be on to the autumn adventure…

On Iceland

Iceland. The name conjures up some wildly divergent images. You’ll hear that it’s actually green and gorgeous, and that Greenland is the ice-covered land. You’ll envision volcanoes spewing ash into the sky, disrupting air traffic the world over. And you’ll hear about it being a modern, vibrant financial center (prior to the recent worldwide implosion, that is) with a flair akin to Paris.

In reality, Iceland is all of that and more.

We made landfall in Akureyri on the northern part of the island. In that part of the country, Iceland features a greener-than-Ireland palette, with flat-topped mountains creating fjords that cut in from the sea. Farms dot the landscape up to a certain point on the hillsides, above which the terrain goes alpine pretty quickly.

And the landscape over on the southwest coast, over where the population is centered, recalls nothing more than southern Idaho with its vast lava fields dotted with power lines and cell towers, where nothing grows but small grasses and mosses (you Sun Valley friends will know what I’m talking about). Unlike Idaho, however, there’s a deep blue ocean abutting the black-lava desert and snow-covered volcanoes on the horizon.

In between the two coasts, Iceland is uniquely fascinating and a place I hope to explore more, perhaps come September. Flying over the island’s center revealed a terrain reminiscent of the moon, or maybe the American Southwest. Four-by-four roads crisscrosed the scenery and made it clear why there are so many jacked-up Jeeps and pickup trucks on the roadways. Scattered clear-flowing rivers could be seen flowing from the high country of snow-covered volcanoes and glaciers, and the thought of chasing salmon there is very enticing. And the doubtlessly bizarre notion of walking across Iceland occurred to me as I winged my way to the capital…any takers?

And Reykjavik itself is a wildly intriguing city. If I were in my 20s, I’d take up residence there — at least for the summer — in a heartbeat. It’s a hip, young, chic (three adjectives you’d NEVER apply to me) city and they live la vida loca, for sure. The bars and clubs hop nonstop and the beautiful people outnumber my clique by a wide margin. It’s a joyous, gleeful party scene until the wee hours.

In the morning, however, it’s a different story. The city center then is deserted apart from a couple of women in high heels doing the walk of shame, and a legion of street sweepers and cleaning trucks removing the detritus of the night before: broken glass and takeaway food wrappers everywhere. It’s a shame that such joyful, beautiful people can’t exert a bit more foresight toward what they’re wreaking.

The morning after kinda cast a pall over the image Reykjavik seems to try hard to cultivate: one of fashion, of chic style and urbane attitudes. For instance, there are several top-notch, good-looking outdoor-clothing companies in Iceland — this is a people that plays hard in harsh environments and still looks good doing it. It would be nice if the hangover wasn’t so ugly.

Of course, a lot of that hangover might be due to the myriad foreigner visitors in Iceland: in less than 24 hours I heard English, American, French, Spanish, Russian, Polish, Norwegian, Swedish and German in addition to Icelandic being spoken (and frankly, all the Brits and Yanks in Reykjavik was a rude awakening that I was, in fact, off the boat and back in the mainstream). All of the Icelanders I met were friendly and helpful — and like Norway, the female of the species tended toward the very lovely — with a refreshing combination of urban and outdoor lifestyle.

As I mentioned above, Iceland is definitely a place I’d like to explore further. And given the changes to Polar Bear’s schedule, that exploration might just take place in early September. Stay tuned.