August 3, 2019
Departed Fortune Bay at 1200 today. Aiming for Upernavik. Heavy fog right down to the water. Wind N at 5 knots. Temperature 50 degrees. Bergs are visible at less than half a mile, and from what I can tell, they are the size of city blocks. We pass four or more an hour, but they are ghosts in the mist.
By 1800 fog has lifted, but we are pushing into a stiff NNW wind, and Mo is plunge diving. When our average speed falls to two knots, I turn to the E for an anchorage, Kuanit, just a divit in the land on the N side of the Disko Fjord but out of the wind. Here I’ll wait until after midnight, when wind is forecast to go calm.
We clock a bergy bit at 7 knots on the way in, a glancing blow to port that shoved the bow well to starboard. I just didn’t see the ice block coming; it was hidden behind the mast. Of course, I immediately thought Mo was down by the head and acting sluggish. But there’s no water in the boat, and after inspection at anchor, I don’t think there’s the slightest of scratches, much less a hole.
Anchor down, Kuanit at 1930, 35ft. Anchor bit right away.
We are 500 feet S of a rushing stream.
Postion: 69 34N 54 18W. 
August 1, 2019
Fortune Bay, Disko Island
69 15N 53 45W
One cannot have too many books aboard. By way of a proof: this morning I would like to know why my anchorage on S Disko Island is named Fortune Bay. I can guess it is something to do with whaling, but not a single volume on the shelf answers the question, and the only hint comes from Andrew Wilkes in his sailing directions, ARCTIC AND NORTHERN WATERS:
“Fortune Bay is a ragged bight with many islands and rocks, lying 5 miles W of [the village of] Qeqertarsuaq. Many of the islets have sledge dogs stranded on them for the summer. Kangerluarssuk, the inlet at the E end of the bay, provides a landlocked anchorage.”
Mo lies in the Kangerluarssuk inlet, and it is indeed landlocked, a great comfort to the sailor.
Why is this so? An anchorage is considered landlocked when, from inside, you can see land in every direction; i.e. you cannot see the entrance or, more importantly, open water. Such harbors are rare and, if small enough, can be well protected from seas of any direction.
And so, maybe this is the source, the discoverer celebrating his good fortune in the naming of the place.
Yesterday’s explorations, both in the dinghy and on foot, found no stranded sledge dogs, but when the wind went S, a great fog rolled in, and then the entrance to the bay was beset by icebergs. With trepidation, I circumnavigated several in the inflatable, departing in a rush when one of them cracked with a sound like thunder.
July 31, 2019
Departed Sisimiut at 1900 hours and motored due north overnight for Disko Bay. Another uneventful passage of 140 miles, remarkable only for utter calm and a sea so smooth that boat motion was imperceptible.
Disko Island came into view in the late afternoon of the next day, as did the progeny of the glaciers that surround it. One big berg at first and then a train of them, slowly making their way toward dissolution in the open sea.
Anchor down at the E end of Killiit (Fortune Bay), S Disko Island, at 2000 hours. 35 feet. Rocky, I think; the anchor grumbled for a time before holding fast. 
July 30, 2019
The leak came from between the engine and the transmission and was black as coal. At its height, there were but five seconds between drips of this indispensable fluid, and upon arrival in Sisimiut, I found that we’d drained ten percent of the engine’s lube oil into the bilge in twenty hours.
“That’s a lot,” said my friend Gerd from his office in Florida. “It sounds like a rear seal failure; shouldn’t be too bad a job. First you remove the universal joint so you can push the propeller shaft back; then the bell housing and gearbox have to come off. Yours is about the size of a tea pot, so that should be easy. You may need to pull the starter motor and the alternator so you can get the fly wheel off …”
My head was spinning, “Fly wheel! But the leak is on the back of the engine and the flywheel is on the front! Why do I have to remove the flywheel?”
“Yes, I had forgotten,” replied Gerd, “Your Bukh engine is a real antique. Since about WWII, manufacturers have been putting the flywheel on the back of the engine. It prettier that way. The job wouldn’t take a mechanic more than three hours. But you must get it fixed. If that seal fails catastrophically in the Arctic, you’re in real trouble. Too bad your friend Jerry, the ‘marine insultant’ from St John’s, isn’t around,” he concluded.
By now I was rafted next to yellow-hulled Breskell inside the Sisimiut harbor breakwater. Her owner, Olivier, had discovered a diesel leak on his Perkins engine during his most recent passage, and we commiserated over the irony of it all! In St John’s, Jerry had repaired a rear seal leak on Olivier’s engine and a diesel leak on mine. Now we had each other’s problems, but no Jerry. How many flights a day come up from Newfoundland, we wondered?
“The job it is not hard,” said Olivier of his own oil leak repair. “I would do it, but Jerry wouldn’t let me. He just push me out of the way. ‘Go back to your woodwork,’ he said, ‘I will fix your damned engine.'”
I wrote to Victor, lamenting how far behind my original schedule I had fallen and asked for an ice update.
“There is no need to rush, Randall,” he responded. “Environment Canada isn’t reporting on the central parts of the Arctic yet. Solid ice. You have at least ten days. You must fix the problem. Your Bukh’s thermodynamics do not represent any kind of breakthrough and from what I can tell, the gearbox is held in place by one bolt. It should not be a complicated job.”
As to finding the part, each of the above men swore that engines use a limited line of seal sizes; the part would likely be in stock, even in Greenland.
All this encouragement, I was sure, would jinx the project.
Gearbox removal was a step out of my comfort zone, but I’d had the drivetrain apart a few times, and by noon the next day, the seal was in hand.
But this revealed a new problem: the seal looked to be in perfect condition. Could the diagnosis be wrong? I searched all over the underside of the engine for an alternate source of escaping oil.
Nothing.
“Me too!” said Olivier, slapping me on the back so hard I spilled the coffee he’d poured for me.
“But Jerry, he said you cannot tell by looking if a seal is good. The rubber becomes brittle with age and the little retaining spring, it gets weak. These things you cannot see with two eyes.”
The only possible source of a new seal in Sisimiut was a shop on the edge of town that repaired outboards and snowmobiles, not marine diesels. Here I arrived in the early afternoon. Without a word, I drew the seal from my pocket and held it before the woman at the counter, and without a word she took it and disappeared up a flight of stairs. For far too long I could hear her rummaging through boxes. My heart sank.
When she reappeared, she carried a large box full of seals, and we rummaged together.
Five minutes later, I had a new seal of the correct size in hand. We found but one in the whole box. By noon the next day, the engine was back together and running, leak free, under load.
During the whole exercise, I encountered not one seized bolt.
Post Script: Finding a seal was critical, so before commencing the search, I had emailed Vincent on aluminum yacht, Alioth, asking if he would be available to source a seal in Nuuk before he departed north. Without replying, Vincent jumped in a cab and found a seal at about the same time that I did. When Alioth arrived in Sisimiut the next day, I was gifted with a spare rear seal, thanks to Vincent.
July 27, 2019
Mo and I departed Nuuk in the late afternoon for the short climb to Sisimiut, Greenland’s second largest city, population 5,500.
The leg was uneventful, a mix of fast sailing and fast motoring on a fast north-setting current, except in two ways.
One, at 1800 hours on July 26, 2019, day 251 of the Figure 8 Voyage, Mo and Randall crossed 66 30N latitude and thusly sailed inside the Arctic Circle.
This circle carries several definitions, “the line above which trees do not grow and the ground does not thaw” being less common than “the parallel of latitude north of the equator that marks the northernmost point at which the sun is visible on the northern winter solstice and the southernmost point at which the midnight sun can be seen on the northern summer solstice.”
Thus the phrase, “land of the midnight sun.”
Sticklers in the audience will argue that owing to precession, this latter circle is a moving target who’s boundary is currently closer to 66 34N, but the line is often stated simply as “above north 66 and a half,” and in any case, we crossed both.
The Arctic Circle also serves as a start and, on the other side, a finish line for the Northwest Passage. Compare our highest latitude in the south, Cape Horn, at a very raw 56S; now we are ten degrees above that in north latitude with roughly ten more degrees to achieve before we can turn to the south and homeward.
And this tidbit by way of confirmation that we are entering a cold country: at 66 57N, “Sisimiut…is the first settlement on the west coast [of Greenland] where sledge dogs are kept.” (Andrew Wilkes, ARCTIC AND NORTHERN WATERS, Imray).
The second diversion on this uneventful passage was the discovery of an engine oil leak. I’ve been happy to exercise the motor so much on these hops up form St John’s because if a mechanical problem is to develop, I’d prefer it develop here rather than in the Canadian or Alaskan Arctic. Greenland’s “cities” may be small relative to what citizens of middle latitudes expect, but they are veritable metropolises when set beside what we will find further on.
The leak began ten hours into a twenty-hour motoring session, produces up to one drop of black oil every five seconds, and is coming from the aft of the engine. Further assessment awaits arrival in Sisimiut.
Editorial note: Hi readers. Most of the time the team behind the scenes doesn’t comment on Randall’s posts. However, our home port (and Randall’s when he returns) is very close to Gilroy, California, where a tragic shooting at an annual festival occurred this last weekend. We knew this post was due to go live today, and after a long discussion, we decided it was best to move ahead with Randall’s story even though the timing was unfortunate.
For everyone involved in this project, gun ownership and safety are taken very seriously. Our hearts go out to all those injured at the festival. If you’d like to support those impacted you can find how to donate here.
Thanks,
~Jo
—
July 26, 2019
For a cruiser, the question of firearms carry can be prickly. Laws differ country to country, and in some places the law and local reality are at odds. As the first, long loop of the Figure 8 could find me on many a foreign shore in an emergency, a shore whose rules I did not know, I had decided early on to push getting a gun until later.
Later was Greenland.
Why a gun at all in the Arctic? Protection. Polar Bears are the king beast of the North. They have no natural predator, and they find the summer hunting of seal increasingly difficult as the ice recedes. They are curious, fast and strong; hungry and unafraid. For defense, a large caliber, single-action hunting rifle or a shotgun with heavy “preditor” slugs are recommended.
Canada serves as a good example of the complexity attending the firearms issue. In lower Canada, purchase and possession require licensing, which requires one take and pass a gun safety course. However, upon arrival in the north, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police will be more concerned that you *have* a gun than how you came to own it. At what latitude this change in policy occurs is uncertain. In both Nova Scotia and Newfoundland, I found, licensing laws were in full force.
Greenland, by comparison, is dead simple. Here a person, be he local or foreigner, can buy a gun wherever milk or cigarettes are sold.
Or could he?
While in St. John’s, the boat fitting out next to me at the Royal Newfoundland Yacht Club, yellow-hulled Breskell, told a different tale. They had attempted to buy a rifle in Sisimiut the previous year, but the purchase was refused. The cashier said an official Greenland form was wanted, and Olivier, Breskell’s French skipper, did not have such a form.
“Yes, all the books they say in Greenland a gun you can buy it,” he reported, “but did they ever try it? We tried it and it was not good.” He waves his hand in disgust.
This threw a kink into my plans. By now it was too late to pursue Canadian licensing; Greenland was my only hope. So, I reached out to Victor Wejer, who has spent many years up here and volunteers his time routing would-be adventurers through the ice from his home-office in Mississauga (near Toronto).
“Gun acquisition in Greenland is not regulated,” he wrote. “The population is small, and it is a hunting culture. It is not uncommon to see a man at the grocery store shopping for tomatoes with a rifle slung over his shoulder.”
But to ease my concerns, Victor promised to introduce me to a Nuuk local named Jens. “He’s a Dane, has lived there for 30 years, and has just returned from a two-year circumnavigation. He is a boatbuilder, a hunter … and he’s the local magistrate. I think he can help.”
The day after my arrival, Jens came aboard. He was small, wiry, tough, and carried himself with the air of a man who’s used to calling the shots.
“Yes, my wife and I did just complete a circumnavigation,” he said, “but it was a two-year cruise only because in Mauritius I took a coconut to the head and was in hospital for five months. I was pulling the tree for one and two came down; the second I did not see. Did you know that more people die from a coconut to the head each year than die of drowning?”
I did not.
“But my wife is the real story.” he continued. “She is the first native Greenlander, male or female, to circumnavigate the globe. We were all over the local news when we sailed back into Nuuk. I’m glad that’s quieted down.”
“Oh nonsense,” he said an hour later when the conversation finally turned to guns, “They can be purchased without hassle. To us they are tools, as controversial as buying a crescent wrench.” And from Mo’s cockpit, Jens pointed to three buildings within view where a rifle could be acquired.
“But come,” he said, “let’s get this done.”
Jens’ stride was large and long, and I had to run to keep up. But two store visits later we had the kit in hand, a reasonably priced, pump-action, 12-gauge shotgun with slugs for ammunition.
—
Final Editorial Note: This is an adventure blog and not a platform for gun ownership discussion. We ask you to respect this.
July 25, 2019
It feels like a place perched at the edge of the earth. Here snow-capped mountains rise right from the water’s edge and granitic rock lines the port. Small fishing boats come and go as long as there is light–and at this time of year, there is always light–while the load of ship-sized trawlers is craned into the humming fish plant. From Mo’s cockpit, I am overwhelmed by the smells of fish and of the tar used to keep the antique fleet afloat, all of which are suggestive to me of a frontier town.
Once beyond the harbor, however, Nuuk’s most striking feature is very urban, a struggle with rapid population growth.
In 2014, the year of my first visit, the walk into town passed by open land, flats of rock-strewn with wildflowers and a cemetery whose view was the mountains. Now the green grass and white crosses remain, but all else is covered in multi-story apartments.
“We have one crisis in Nuuk, and it’s a housing crisis,” says John, whose office is across from that of the harbormaster and who is always at his desk when the harbormaster is not. “We simply can’t build fast enough.”
At a stated population of 17,000, Nuuk is Greenland’s largest city by far. The “city” of Sisimiut, 225 miles north by water, is second in line at a mere 5,000, compared to which the remaining towns and hamlets contain but a handful of souls.
But to the casual observer, Nuuk appears on the verge of a wholesale doubling. Rows of concrete barracks in the lowlands are being augmented by modern apartment complexes overlooking old town and the bay. Often this new construction retains those grim architectural elements suggestive of public housing and contrasts sharply with the bright, clapboard buildings erected by the founders.
“Our rapid growth is mostly in the housing sector,” says John. Yes, there is more contracting work now; there will be more domestic services required, and Nuuk is the seat of government for Greenland, but there is no boom in fishing or mining, and tourism is hampered by a small airport and a pier not large enough for today’s super-cruise ships.
But even without jobs, the standard of living here is higher. “We have a shopping mall; a theater; two large grocery stores. We have a university,” John continues, “the younger generation comes here for an education and does not wish to return home. They all have cell phones. They grew up with the internet. They see how the rest of the world lives, and Nuuk is as close to the rest of the world as they can get.”
July 23, 2019
Day 250
Noon Position: 64 10N 51 44W (Nuuk, final approach)
Course(t)/Speed(kts): N 6
Wind(t/tws): N 15
Sea(t/ft): —
Sky/10ths Cover: CLEAR!
Bar(mb): 1012, steady
On-deck Temp(f):–
Cabin Temp(f): —
Water Temp(f): —
Relative Humidity(%): —
Magnetic Variation: —
Sail: Motoring
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 101
Miles since departure: 32,845
Leg Newfoundland to Nuuk
Day: 7
Miles: 1026
My timing wasn’t perfect.
By 11pm, we were just a few miles off shore, and while there was light enough to see, and would be the night through, the fog continued thick. My intended route into Nuuk, the Narssaq Lob, had two passes that appeared tight. I was tired. At ten miles out, I switched off the engine and hit the bunk. Mo drifted in undifferentiated gray.
By 3:45am, we were underway again. Flat calm. Motoring. Heavy fog.
At 7am, land ho. The sentinel of this entrance, Saattut Island, came briefly into view to port–a black smudge on a gray background. Then a wave of fog, and it was gone.
The next five hours saw similar momentary sightings of land; islands and rocks, all barren and ice-scared and only briefly in view.
At sea, I make log entries every two hours. On this leg, each entry under the category “Sky” has had the notation “Fog” or “Overcast with Fog.” And it wasn’t until we were an hour from port that the ceiling lifted.
Then it was as though we had been transported from a northern place to the true and mythic North. 
July 21, 2019
Day 249
Noon Position: 63 43N 53 18W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NE 6
Wind(t/tws): S 2-3
Sea(t/ft): Various to 1
Sky/10ths Cover: Fog all around but clear here with sun
Bar(mb): 1013+, rising
On-deck Temp(f): 73
Cabin Temp(f): 66
Water Temp(f): 46
Relative Humidity(%): 49
Magnetic Variation: -25./7
Sail: Motoring
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 147
Miles since departure: 32,744
Leg Newfoundland to Nuuk
Day: 6
Miles: 925
Briefly today the sun came out and warmed my back as I stood in the cockpit admiring my domain, which was otherwise gray and flat as a pancake. Fulmars bombed around the boat in threes and fives; occasionally a skua passed by at mast top; once we cut through a school of dolphins spread out over a quarter mile. Otherwise it’s been nothing but slate gray sky and a gray mirror for water.
At noon I pointed Mo NE toward Nuuk. We’ve climbed as much as we need and can ride the coming northerly in toward the coast on a close reach, should it develop. Our goal is the Narssaq Lob or the southern pass E of Saatut Island. At current speeds we should arrive at the opening just before midnight, and though we now have light all night, I’ll likely heave to a ways offshore and nap until morning. The distance from Saatut to Nuuk is 30 miles. All thing being equal, we should arrive before noon.
—
Bob Shepton notes in his book, ADDICTED TO ADVENTURE, a dity that came to mind while readying his yacht, DODO’S DELIGHT, for another northern summer.
It goes like this…
“Sailing in Greenland
Without an engine
Is not nice
Because of ice.”
I would add only … “and no wind.”
Mo has been chugging along under engine for the last 30 hours, and though it’s a dull enterprise compared to sailing, it is also a good test, as between here and Nome, Alaska, the likelihood of sailing much is low.
In the Arctic, the waymaking requirements for a yacht are simple, “Plan to motor all the time,” says Andrew Wilkes in his Sailing Directions for small boats, ARCTIC AND NORTHERN WATERS. And later, “One should aim to carry enough fuel to reach the fuel stop after next and then refuel at the next one if possible.”
I’ve done Mo’s fuel math a number of times, but yesterday I organized the statistics around those two principles to see how she stacked up.
Mo carries 200 gallons of fuel in two large tanks either side of the engine and another 50 gallons in the ten Jerry cans I have aboard. At a modest cruising rate of 2400 rpms, she burns .8 gallons of fuel per hour and can make 5.5 to 6 knots in neutral conditions. Building a buffer into the calculation and witholding some fuel for the heater gives Mo a nominal range of over 1,400 miles between complete fuel resupplies. That’s some range for a 45 foot sailboat.
For distances between ports, I’ve used the most likely stops on the most likely route. This route starts in Lancaster Sound, proceeds through Prince Regent Inlet, through Bellot Strait, around the backside of King William Island, then through Queen Maud, Dolphin and Union, Amundsen, out over Cape Bathurst and on to Alaska. This is the longest of the possible routes and the one utilized by Roald Amundsen in 1903 during his “first transit of the Northwest Passage by water.” (Wilkes).
To be fair, there are other places along the route to put in for fuel, but they are either out of the way (e.g. Resolute) or present exposed anchorages and difficult landings, especially for a singlehander (e.g. Pond Inlet and Point Barrow).
I’ve tried to capture the unknowable, the actual distance we will travel between ports due to ice, weather, and the like, with the Extra Distance Factor (EDF), pegged here at 20%, a guess.
The result, tallied in the sheet below, suggests that with some luck and intelligent pilotage, Mo should be in good shape on the fuel front. Possible exceptions in the “Every Other Port” summary include the first leg form Upernavik, Greenland to Gjoa Haven (1,068 miles), and the last, Cambridge Bay to Nome (2,070 miles), which is a non-starter. For that leap, either a stop in Tuk or Point Barrow is a must, with Tuk being much preferred. And hopefully by then we can get some sailing in.
July 20, 2019
Day 248
Noon Position: 60 20N 52 03W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NxW 6+
Wind(t/tws): SE <4
Sea(t/ft): Various to 3
Sky/10ths Cover: Overcast 10 (no fog!)
Bar(mb): 1012+, steady
On-deck Temp(f): 59 (46 at 6am)
Cabin Temp(f): 64 (heater on)
Water Temp(f): 44
Relative Humidity(%): 57
Magnetic Variation: -23.8
Sail: Motoring with double reefed main.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 141
Miles since departure: 32,597
Leg Newfoundland to Nuuk
Day: 5
Miles: 778
Our sweet wind finally departed this life mid morning. It had held on bravely overnight, if with signs of weakness, but by the second cup of coffee, Mo was cycling between two and four knots.
By the time I started the engine, the water was glassy. Our wind had died.
The sea has been glassy all day.
I’ve changed course and am heading NNW whereas Nuuk is due N. This is because what wind there is along the coast is from the N and will be building to a fresh blast over the next couple days. Out here we should remain in the high’s calm area where we can motor easily. When we’ve achieved about 63N, I’ll tack into Nuuk, taking the breeze close reaching on port.
—
Today I got out Mo’s immersion suits for inspection and to practice putting them on (again). Yes, by accident, Mo sports two suits for a single sailor. One she had when I bought her and one I brought aboard when I took possession in Homer, Alaska, having missed the first in inventory.
An immersion suit is high latitude emergency kit. It is intended to be worn in the water if one has to abandon ship, and its purpose is to keep you floating and warm long enough to survive until rescue arrives.
My immersion suit (red), known colloquially as a Gumby suit, for reasons that should be clear from the photo, is Alaskan standard issue. It’s a required item for each crew member on all commercial fishing boats in that state. It’s made of thick neoprene (wet-suit material) with hood, mits and booties (cut big enough that one could keep his shoes on) all attached. It’s awkward as hell to don and wear, and about the only thing one could do after getting into the suit is throw himself overboard.
The suit already in Mo’s inventory (yellow), is standard Canadian issue. It is a required item on commercial craft up here, and though its purpose is generally the same, it employs a different strategy.
The suit is made of a heavily waterproofed, one-piece shell and a removable floatation/insulation lining. The attached booties are actually boots with tred, and they are meant for sock-covered feet only. The arms are open at the wrist and here there are wide, very tight fitting neoprene gaskets to keep the water out. Neoprene mitts there are, but they are tucked into the sleeves as a do-it-later item. (They are attached to the garment by a wide strip of shell so they can’t go missing.) Though it’s a one-size-for-all suit, it fits amazingly well and allows a person to move around easily.
Both suits have heavy neoprene hoods and manually inflatable floatation and both have a heavy waterproof zip up the front.
What I find interesting about the Canadian immersion suit is that it’s meant to be worn while active. Imagine trying to deploy a liferaft from inside a Gumby suit. Imagine you’re in the raft and trying to open the dramamine bottle (your first job once in the raft is to take sea sickness pills). The former would be difficult; the latter would require getting an arm out of the Gumby suit. All this would be relatively easy if one was wearing the Canadian suit.
Which is to say that the suits make different assumptions about the abandon ship event. The Gumby suit assumes there is no raft or that abandoning ship needs to happen fast, so fast you don’t even have time to take off your shoes.
The Canadian suit assumes that dire circumstances have come on more slowly; one has time to don the suit and get to muster stations, to have a sugary snack and then help with raft launch procedures. In fact, because one could work in the suit, it might well have been put on before all hell broke loose.
It could be argued that, by definition, an immersion suit is only meant to be worn if going directly from vessel to water, but a life raft up here will be a very wet, very cold place in which to survive, and immersion suit-type protection will be wanted if one is to avoid exposure.
My sense is that the Gumby suit would be warmer than the Canadian suit. The neoprene is quite thick and the only opening is around one’s tightly sealed head and neck. But once inside, one would be helpless, unable to do anything to advance his survival except breath and pray.
July 19, 2019
Day 247
Noon Position: 58 00N 51 41W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NxW 7
Wind(t/tws): E 12 – 15
Sea(t/ft): SE 3
Sky/10ths Cover: Overcast/10
Bar(mb): 1009+, rising
On-deck Temp(f): 56
Cabin Temp(f): 55
Water Temp(f): 43
Relative Humidity(%): 63
Magnetic Variation: -22.6
Sail: Working jib and main, close reaching on starboard
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 165
Miles since departure: 32,456
Leg Newfoundland to Nuuk
Day: 4
Miles: 637
Miles to Nuuk: 365
The day has been kind. Though not a soul would call this trade wind sailing, the fog has lifted such that one’s gaze must travel an expanse of water before reaching a horizon. What relief. Granted, both water and sky continue in their admiration of the color gray, but at least there is now something to look at.
And the wind, though forward of the beam, is of a velocity Mo can use for speed while maintaining comfort for her crew.
Sadly, the forecast calls for this blessed wind to peter out by tomorrow, to go calm and then northerly. But we’ve had a good run of miles and so can’t complain.
—
Randall: Monte, my friend, so good to see you in action. Welcome back!
Monte took the helm when we switched off the engine a few days ago, his first extended watch since his unfortunate argument with the drogue just south of Halifax.
Monte: Going forward, Senior, I am to wish that you pronounce my name as MonTAY.
Monte extends the final syllable to rhyme with “hay.”
Randall: Um, OK. But why this sudden concern with your name?
Monte: As I understand it, Senior, we are soon to enter, as you have said, uncharted territory. As such, you will no doubt become the discoverer of many new places, and it will thus be your right, not to mention you sacred duty, to name these places … after your particular friends. In all modesty, Senior, I am anticipating a number of geographical locations will be designated in my honor, for which I thank you in advance, and, well, consider the sound of it.
Randall: The sound of what?
Monte: Monte Bay, for example. It is not good. It is what you call a race track where the dogs run and you bet on the winner. Monte Bay, it is the mall where loud children do their Christmas shopping. But, BUT… Bahia MonTAY; Senior, that has a certain gravidness, do you not think?
Randall: I believe you mean “gravitas.”
Monte: Punta MonTAY. Islote MonTAY. Yes, these are very satisfying. If you should choose to use them, of course. I am only suggesting. To help in my small way.
Randall: Unfortunately, my friend, we will not be the first men to see the north. I believe the English got there first by dint of the names that were left behind.
Monte: Well, let us keep a sharp lookout. It could be we will find something as yet undiscovered.
July 18, 2019
Day 246
Noon Position: 55 16N 51 05W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): N 7 – 8
Wind(t/tws): SE 25
Sea(t/ft): SE 7
Sky/10ths Cover: Fog, varies from 100ft viz to 1 mile.
Bar(mb): 1002, falling slowly
On-deck Temp(f): 55 (51 at 6am)
Cabin Temp(f): 61
Water Temp(f): 46
Relative Humidity(%): 63
Magnetic Variation: -20.6
Sail: Working jib, three reefs, main two reefs, broad reach on starboard
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 162
Miles since departure: 32,219
Leg Newfoundland to Nuuk
Day: 3
Miles: 472
Fast all night with wind deep on the quarter and the jib poled out to starboard; it carried one reef, as did the main. By morning wind veered slightly eastward and hardened into the high twenties without ever hitting thirty. I moved the jib to leeward, put three rolls into it and another reef in the main. And on that configuration, we’ve churned right along all day.
First came fog, then fog with rain, now fog with wind, but ever since losing sight of Newfoundland, fog has surrounded us. Three days; 472 miles, and always fog.
Fog with wind and the boat approaching hull speed is unnerving. This afternoon I was reading from the Canadian Arctic Sailing Directions general introduction, a book in which words like “danger,” “caution,” “hazard,” seem to be featured in every paragraph.
I was paying particular attention to the section on ice collision dangers when the radar alarm sounded. The targets were dead ahead and less than a quarter mile distant, but stare as I might, I couldn’t see them. The fog had dropped so fully that I couldn’t discern where it ended and the water began.
Most likely they were breakers, I say; the sea is, after all, starting to stand up. The targets repeated, but only twice. I waited. Nothing.
According to the forecasts, the sea should be clear here. Several alarms later and nothing sighted, I bumped up the gain on the radar. Now no more alarms, but what am I missing?
Lacking experience, much is taken on faith. That the forecasts are right. That the radar will still find dangers, even with the gain up. “Trust your gear,” the mountain climber would say.
At 6pm, we cross over the 56N line. Now we are further north than Cape Horn took us south.
On we climb.
Half way to Nuuk.
July 17, 2019
Day 245
Noon Position: 52 36N 51 36W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NxE 6.5
Wind(t/tws): SE 10
Sea(t/ft): Various to 2
Sky/10ths Cover: Fog/10. Visibility 300 feet.
Bar(mb): 1013, steady
On-deck Temp(f): 69 (49 at 6am)
Cabin Temp(f): 63
Water Temp(f): 45
Relative Humidity(%): 55
Magnetic Variation: -19.6
Sail: Motoring. Working jib and main at full.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 129
Miles since departure: 32,129
Leg Newfoundland to Nuuk
Day: 2
Miles: 310
Fog sometimes clears to a mile, but usually it stays low and heavy, a few boat lengths to a few hundred feet being typical.
For the first hours of this, I stand watch almost constantly, and, having discovered the blank screen of a fog horizon, the mind has a field day. I can just make out great spires of ice emerging from the haze to starboard. When these don’t pan out, the mind invents tabular bergs the size of Manhattan lurking barely beyond the pale. Can I see or do I intuit the massive cliffs; the top flat as a runway?
Later I sit my watch out. Then I cook dinner, have a beer. The sky that had all the color of a florescent bulb fades to black. Now I’m relying entirely on radar. I check it often; but at each check, it sees nothing of interest. And at each check I become a little more comfortable. We’re flying on instruments tonight. By morning I’m not watching at all.
The wind dies at midnight. I flick on the engine and have been motoring ever since. As I type, the wind is back to 12 knots on the quarter. Engine off. We’re catching the tail of a low that should last a day. Then more motoring. My bet is it will be like this until we re-enter the Pacific some 7,000 miles further on.
At 10am we hit a log. I heard a soft thump at the bow and then saw a golden and much rounded piece of timber a foot in diameter and five feet long trail in Mo’s wake. What will ice sound like, I wonder.
Birds in number today. Suddenly the Northern Fulmar and Shearwater in gangs around the boat. This lasts two hours and then they are gone.
310 miles down. Nuuk is still 670 miles further on. 
July 16, 2019
Day 244
Noon Position: 50 28N 52 06W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NNE 5
Wind(t/tws): ExN 9
Sea(t/ft): NE 3
Sky/10ths Cover: High fog, low fog, drizzle, rain/10
Bar(mb): 1011, steady
On-deck Temp(f): 54
Cabin Temp(f): 59
Water Temp(f): 45
Relative Humidity(%): 62
Magnetic Variation: -18.7
Sail: Working jib and main, full, close hauled
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 157
Miles since departure: 32,000
Leg Newfoundland to Nuuk
Days: 2
Miles: 181
Average Miles per Day: 152
Gray on gray. The fog came in hard at the Baccalieu Tickle yesterday. Within the hour it was raining. Since then it’s been variations on same with a kind of wet chill that is reminiscent of the Southern Ocean.
When I woke, the on deck thermometer read 50 degrees; water temperature, 47. The first layer of thin thermals went on after coffee, the thin layer because, well, this is just the beginning.
We make good time on a wind that swings between SE and E. Most of the night the breeze was dead abeam at between 15 and 20 knots, and Mo frothed along in celebration of a clean bottom and achieving the freedom of the open ocean once again.
My strategy is to keep a bit of east in our northing so as to edge around the outside of the iceberg belt. This may be overdoing it, as the forecast calls for one to two bergs per square degree in areas I’m trying to avoid. Imagine driving upon an open plane and being worried about colliding with a house that is somewhere within 2,000 square miles of you.* Still, easting is easy, so we’ll do it.
I’m fretting about this leg and want to push through as quickly as we can. Weather between Newfoundland and Nuuk is dynamic, with lows continually spinning down off the east coast of Canada. Once at the latitude of Nuuk, we begin to ease into a vast polar high pressure system. Winds will likely drop right off. But the chances of getting whacked before we get there are good.
Note some changes to the statistics. I’ve added an on-deck thermometer, and I’m starting to track magnetic variation, which may give interesting readings as we approach the northern magnetic pole.
*60 degrees of latitude = 60 nautical miles; 60 degrees of longitude at 50N = 39 nautical miles. 60 x 39 = 2,340 square miles in a square degree at 50N. Lots of space for one berg, but I’ve heard they’re mean when injured and hard to outrun.
Correction, July 22: The above should have used “minutes” for “degrees,” but would have been more clearly stated as restated here:
“A degree of latitude = 60 nautical miles; a degree of longitude at 50N = 39 nautical miles.” The calculation still stands and is a staggering number of miles in a degree of lat/long.
A goof. Not trying to re-size the cosmos. Thanks for catching the mistake, Sid.
July 15, 2019
Day 243
Noon Position: 47 54N 52 51W (approaching the Baccalieu Tickle)
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NNE 6.5
Wind(t/tws): WxS 6
Sea(t/ft): NNE 3 and various
Sky/10ths Cover: High fog then low fog/10
Bar(mb): 1013, rising slowly
Cabin Temp(f): 66
Water Temp(f): 60
Relative Humidity(%): 60
Sail: #2 and main, full; motor sailing until 1400; then sailing.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 7:30am departure to noon = 24nm
Miles since departure: 31,843
Leg Newfoundland to Nuuk
Days: 0
Miles: 24
Mo and I departed the Long Pond breakwater at 0730 under power and on a flat calm. Out in the bay, we swung by a grassy point to the NE where new friends Greg and Rick were waving. They were also set to launch a drone that would catch the brave explorer raising sails and pointing his vessel north towards unknown adventure.
As is usual on such occasions, I made a fiddle of it. The main halyard came off the coil knotted and then it wrapped my left boot. This problem solved, I gave the halyard a manly heave only to have the jiffy reef snagged a lower baton.
The drone came in for a close up. I could here Greg’s voice through the speaker, “Need some help there buddy?”
I finally got the sail flying, but it still had a reef tucked in from the ride north. Now it was the reef line’s turn to exit the bag in a knot. That cleaned up, I then tripped over a line on the way back to the cockpit and fell hard on the deck.
The drone approached again. “Let us know when you’ve worked out the kinks and we’ll start rolling film.”
Finally Mo was set. I turned to wave goodbye, goodbye to friends, goodbye to Newfoundland.
—
But not all of them. In the offing was another friend, Alasdair Black on blue-hulled Serenite, who was headed to an anchorage around from the Baccalieu Tickle, and since that was on my way, I decided to follow.
I’ve learned a few new words since arrival. “Yaffle” is one (rhymes with raffle). Jerry, the Marine Insultant from last week, explained this as “an old fisherman’s term referring to the number of cod a man could carry on one arm.” It has since been generalized to mean “a bunch.” “Hand me a yaffle of paper towels,” said Jerry, sneezing. It has been generalized further to become a filler word. “Oh, shut your yaffle!” said Jerry to his good friend Bill when Bill tried to explain that the glasses Jerry asked to be brought from the truck were actually perched atop his head.
“Tickle” is another. It’s defined by locals (and no one else) as a narrow water passage between two pieces of land, as in the tight squeeze between Baccalieu Island and the point of the long promontory dividing Conception and Trinity Bays.
The sun we had gave way to high fog and then low fog with drizzle. A cold wind came up out of the east.
At the tickle, shearwaters, puffins, murres, petrels, and gannets; minke and humpback whales, and one Canadian coastguard vessel, The Earl Gray.
Here Alasdair and I parted. He steered Serenite for her anchorage and I pointed Mo out to sea.
Yesterday, north wind with rain. Then north wind with fog. Then just north wind. As our goal is north, Mo and I sat out the day here at the Royal Newfoundland Yacht Club twiddling our thumbs. Mo is ready, dressed for departure, impatient, as am I.
Today, a clear sky at dawn, directly overhead at least. I switch on the engine after this post. We’ll be underway before the seagulls finish breakfast.
Nuuk is a thousand miles poleward and across Davis Strait. Figure ten days. We’re behind schedule now and will look to make quick work of the Greenland coast.
One last repost as Mo and I ready to depart Newfoundland tomorrow, this a summary of the clothing strategy I employed for the Arctic in 2014.
Having completed that passage and a few other cold ones besides, I’d say that the clothing inventory was suitable for the environment of interest, with some amplifications.
- Layers, yes. Often I wore two or three base layers and two vests below, then fleece and then down, all below
foulies . One is not moving much, so retaining the heat of a body at rest is one’s primary focus. - Insulated boots are warmer with fewer sock layers. There is so little blood circulating in feet that any pressure from socks (or boots that are even marginally too small) will reduce the flow to a trickle. I found in the (admittedly warmer) southern ocean that one medium sock layer inside the size 12 (I typically wear size 10) Extra Tuffs pictured below was the warmest solution when on deck. When in the cabin, bare feet into Uggs was the way to go. The same principle applies to hands in gloves.
- Down, yes. Much of the Arctic is a desert climate where down suffers little from damp. Down is a great comfort due to its being much warmer for the same weight than fleece.
- Zippers are my downfall. Most of the clothing pictured in this article is still on the boat. Those items that have been retired have all been jackets (down and fleece) whose metal zipper has corroded after months at sea. This problem could have been avoided by occasional lubrication (e.g. with silicon spray) to the zipper mechanism. Expensive lesson learned.
Posted on July 15, 2014 by Randall
There are many reasons to take a practice run at the Arctic before attempting it solo. First, there’s the difficulty of pilotage. Much of the passage is shallow and/or poorly charted. Because the magnetic field trajectory becomes vertical as it approaches the poles, magnetic compasses are sluggish and inaccurate in the far north. And, as if the first two weren’t enough, the presence of ice, ranging in size from shoe boxes to container ships, adds floating rocks to the problem.
Then there’s the weather. On any normal
I was already on passage when the invitation to join Arctic Tern came in. Thus I had just under a week to research and acquire my gear. I’m thankful for the timely advice of several experienced arctic sailors, including David Thoreson, Mike Johnson, and Eric Forsythe.
The basic strategy is simple—
1. Plan on layering.
2. Take at least two of everything.
3. Use mostly synthetics.
Because the temperature can vary so widely, it is important to be able to quickly add on layers if the temperature drops or peel them off if it rises. Sailing a boat requires mostly hanging on with short, intense bursts to reef sail and the like; so, keeping core body temperature up is the big challenge, with overheating precautions coming in a distant, though noteworthy, second.
Additionally, I have brought at least two of every layer, the exception being the extremities (hands, feet, head), which have warranted a third or fourth. The reasons for this may be obvious: 1) if the first set gets wet I always have another; 2) if the going gets really bad, I have lots of reserve warmth.
Most of my layers are synthetics, a mix of heavy, Grunden fleeces, the type found at commercial fishermen’s stores, and both heavy Polartec and lighter-weight fleeces and base layers from outdoor stores like The North Face and REI. Also included in this mix are two vests, one of Thermoball and the other of Primaloft fill.
It is a nautical truism that down has no place on a boat, this due to its tendency to absorb and hold onto moisture. That said, I used a down sleeping bag on my boat, Murre, throughout her 2010 – 2012 Pacific run with satisfaction. So, some of my middle layering is down, and I have brought two, North Face down bags for this passage, one rated to 15 degrees, the other to 25 (both older).
Additionally, I’ve brought a GoLite 850 Downtek jacket with hood, whose down is treated with a water resistant coating. I have used this jacket in wet weather on a couple occasions now. Once, while sailing off Vancouver Island, I wore the jacket for several hours in light rain; then I put on a foul weather jacket over the top and wore it for several more hours, during which it seemed to me to retain the vast majority of its loft.
Finally, my outer-body layer is the Gill OS1 foul weather jacket and bib.
I’ve brought numerous hats, but am relying primarily on two fleece balaclavas, both by Seirus. One is tight-fitting and has “windblock”; the other is loose-fitting, thicker and has an adjustable mouth/chin strap. They can be worn together if need be.
My hand protection regime includes a set of NRS Titanium neoprene gloves for “fine” deck work, extra-large fisherman’s rubber gloves with three sets of doubled inserts for standard deckwork, and heavily-lined Goretex mittens by Outdoor Research for when it’s very cold and I’m just standing around.
As to boots, I have three pair: Insulated Extratuffs for deck work whose size is large enough for felt inserts and doubled-up, thick socks. For inside the cabin, I have a set of high-sided Uggs, and for off the boat, insulated Omni Heat hiking boots by Columbia.
The full list looks like this:
Base Layer, Top: short sleeve shirt, synthetic, 3
Base Layer, Top: long sleeve shirt, Smartwool, 3
Mid Layer, Top: pull over, 100 weight fleece, 2
Mid Layer, Top: Polartec jacket, 300 weight, 2
Mid Layer, Top: Vest, Primaloft/Thermoball, 2
Mid Layer, Top: GoLite Downtek jacket with hood, 1
Outer Layer, Top: Gill OS1 Foul Weather Jacket, 1 (plus one light waterproof jacket as backup)
Base Layer, Bottom: thin skins long john, tight-fitting, synthetic, 2
Base Layer, Bottom: light weight long john, medium tight fit, Smartwool, 2
Mid Layer, Bottom: 200 weight long john, loose, synthetic, 2
Mid Layer, Bottom: 300+ weight long john, loose, synthetic, 2
Outer Layer, Bottom: Gill OS1 Foul Weather Bib (plus one light waterproof pant as backup)
Head Protection, one each: wool sock cap; tight-fitting fleece cap; “windblock” fleece cap with ear flaps; tight-fitting fleece balaclava with “windblock”; loose-fitting fleece balaclava.
Hand Protection
NRS Titanium neoprene gloves, 1
Extra Large Fishermen’s gloves, 1
Inserts for Fishermen’s gloves, 6 (3 doubled sets)
Heavy Gortex mittens with heavy inserts by Outdoor Research, 1 (wanted extra inserts, but not available)
Foot Protection
Insulated Xtratuffs with three sets of flannel sole inserts
Uggs sheep-skin insulated boots
Columbia insulated, cold-weather hiking boots.
Smartwool Hiking sock, 3
Smartwool Mountaineering sock (fit higher up the calf), 2
Liner Sock, 3
I’m making this a matter of record now so we can come back to this later and judge the success of both strategy and items.
Halifax was unable to solve all my problems. I found there neither a spare alternator nor a spare starter motor, and the engine fuel line hose I wanted could not be got locally nor, in a timely manner, from the manufacturer.
The first two issues have since been sorted, but what to do about Mo’s old, rubber fuel lines and their specialty fittings plagued me until yesterday, when I met Jerry.
At the time I was canvassing the yard for a local shop that could fill my order. Jerry was my third interviewee. He s
“What kind of engine have we?” he asked. Jerry wore a tweed flat cap. His accent was Irish.
“A Bukh,” I said. “Made in Denmark.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, knowingly. “Good little engine. Designed for lifeboats. Runs under all conditions, even inverted.”
“That, at least, I’ve not tried.”
“Nor recommended,” said Jerry. “But she’ll do it.”
Having found a knowledgeable source, I pressed on to my desire for new fuel lines and the issue of how to replicate the custom crimped ends on the engine’s difficult-to-jury-rig banjo fittings.
“Not hard at all,” said Jerry, “You just cut the f—kers off. Do it all the time. I presume you have a hack saw aboard that fine yacht of yours.”
I nodded.
“
At the appointed hour Jerry arrived. He handed me a business card, which I examined while he donned orange coveralls. His title, “Marine
And then we dived right in.
I explained that I like to do my own work, but Jerry would have none of it. For one thing, I was too slow. “And you hold the hacksaw like a girl,” said Jerry.
Mo’s engine access is quite good, but that doesn’t mean everything is easily got at, and Jerry spent the better part of two hours achieving yoga poses difficult even for the limberest of Newfoundlanders.
Jerry had another job calling him, so he wrapped up Mo’ project quickly. But when we stuck our heads out the companionway hatch, we found a cold rain had set in; so, we retired to the club for a quick lunch and hot coffee.
Things continue busy for Mo and Randall at the Royal Cruising Club of Newfoundland near St. John’s, and the only way to keep up is to hand you, dear reader, another repost. This one, also from the 2014 Northwest Passage attempt, chronicles my first days in hard-won Nuuk, Greenland.
Nuuk is Mo’s target once we’ve departed St. John’s, and so this article may be an interesting prelude to our arrival in one of the most photogenic places I’ve ever visited. Also, it illustrates nicely that Mo is not the only vessel for whom voyage preparations are never quite complete.
(The diligent may note that a
—
Posted by Randall, July 17, 2014
July 15 – 17, Nuuk
Les, Ali and I met for coffee at the Seaman’s Mission early on a foggy morning. Then we hauled my 45 pounds of equipment, almost all clothing, down to the wharf where Arctic Tern lay, and I was given a quick tour (here’s how to make coffee; here’s how to operate the head) and shown my quarters.
She is a big boat, Arctic Tern, steel, nearly 45 feet overall, and orange of
All the way aft is the master stateroom and all the way forward, the V-berth. The V-berth is two bunks, one on the inside of either
Our first happy task was to have coffee with our nearest neighbors on Young Larry, whom I was pleased to meet. Young Larry’s owners, Andrew Wilkes and wife, Marie, made an early (2010) transit of the Northwest Passage followed by a long, descriptive article, published by the Royal Cruising Club’s Pilotage Foundation. This was one of the first, detailed accounts I discovered while doing Northwest Passage research. Les and Ali have also spent many years in Arctic waters, and the conversation between these four easily followed through to the end of the cake and second pot of coffee.
In the afternoon we walked our passports to the police station looking to get stamped out of the country for a planned departure next evening. Ten minutes later, and after much rummaging, we were told by the officer on duty that the stamp could not be found. There was only one; likely it was at the airport. The officer would send someone to retrieve it and meet us at the boat (note: two days later no officer has come calling—an indication of the importance of procedure in Greenland.)
There is a common joke among sailors born from common experience; that being, the cruising life provides one with the privilege of working on his boat in exotic places. True to form our departure prep began early the next morning. I busied myself capping the Dorade vents on Arctic Tern’s lower decks against the mighty seas we are sure to face west of Alaska, while Ali zipped Les to the top of the mast to renew the VHF antenna and wiring. All went well until, during his descent, Les found that the starboard-side diagonal shroud had a cracked wire just below the fitting.
We chewed the problem over lunch-time sandwiches of peanut butter, yellow cheese and Branston Pickle. It was agreed that one of the problems with stainless wire is that routine checks, as are performed on Arctic Tern, don’t guarantee against nasty surprises. We also agreed how fortunate it was to find the problem here. Les reasoned that though we had spare wire aboard, using it now would mean not having an emergency replacement further on. Nuuk is the last outpost where ordering from Europe is “easy.” So, after coffee Les made his way to the boat center, and now a double-long stand of 10mil wire should be delivered from Denmark by late Friday.
Jimmy Cornell and a crew of eight, including guests and a reporter, we are told, departed aboard his Aventura in the early morning. Catryn, a
After dinner, Lillian B. invited us aboard for whiskies to celebrate the completion of their first leg, and during which their younger member peppered Les and Ali with questions of the passage further on. During this exchange they made one of those quintessential remote-travel discoveries: their propane tanks, which needed filling, had none of the right fittings for Greenland gas.
Next morning while I renewed the running backs, Ali replaced sheet blocks and Les ascended the mast again to remove the offending stay, this while the crew of Lillian B. disgorged their empty propane tanks from their lockers and tore the boat up looking for spares with which to jury rig new fittings.
We had mid-morning coffee in the cockpit. Brilliant sun, windless. Short sleeves shirts and bare feet. Next hour a light breeze from the north, and though the brilliant sun remained, we quickly moved for our boots and sweaters.
In the afternoon I was given a few hours shore leave to explore the town. From the café in which I write, I can see Young Larry departing under sail up Nuuk’s main fjord, this as an iceberg makes its way to the sea.
As Mo and I make our slow approach to the Arctic, I am reminded of my first experience of the Northwest Passage. This was in the summer of 2014, and even then planning for the Figure 8 Voyage was well underway.
Though such an
So, I arranged to join a boat in Nuuk, Greenland that was making an east to west attempt. The problem was getting there on time.
The below article describes an unintended layover in the town of Iqaluit, the capital of the Canadian Arctic territory of Nunavut.
—
It’s a Long Time to Stay in Iqaluit
Posted on July 13, 2014 by Randall
“Cancelled?” I ask, as if hearing the word for the first time.
The plane came down hard on the tarmac in Iqaluit, bouncing once. From the window I had seen ice in the bay and ice in flat, white chunks beached at the high tide line like driftwood. But when the doors open, the day comes in warm with a rush. I walk comfortably to the yellow igloo, the Iqaluit terminal, without a jacket.
“Cancelled.” she says flatly.
Inside, the terminal is abuzz. White workmen in bibs and hard hats talking on cell phones. Inuit mothers pushing strollers with other children in tow. Inuit men along the wall, silent, waiting. Queues of tourists in fancy boots.
She stands in front of the ticket counter as if guarding it. “Mechanical issues. Next plane Monday.” (It’s Friday.) “Were you making a connection in Nuuk?”
This baffles me, the idea of flying from tiny Iqaluit to tiny Nuuk in order to connect by plane to somewhere else.
“No,” I say. Then, “Yes. A boat. I’m catching a boat in Nuuk. I’m sailing to Nome. Is there another way?”
Now she is confused. Her eyes turn for the first time,
“Another way across the ocean?” she says as if thinking to herself. “No. There is still only one plane. It’s in Nuuk. We’re putting people up at the Frobisher Inn. We pay for everything except alcohol. It’s a long time to stay in Iqaluit, I know. Come back Monday.”
~-~-~-
My plane had departed Ottawa at
~-~-~-
“How many people live here?” I ask the taxi driver.
“Seven thousand,” he says. “And it’s the same winter too. Good work here. When it’s sixty below zero, nobody wants to walk. They call the taxis. I make plenty money. I make good cash in taxi; I work in bar for cash. I have good house for free. It’s all cash work—so much money here. I call my brother. He lives in the South.”
“The South?” I ask.
“Yes. In Seattle. He cries to me. HE CRIES. He cannot find work. You have no jobs in America. I say, come north. But he will not.”
“Where are you from?” I ask. The man is African.
“Calgary,” he says. “You are visiting?” I explain my situation. “Oh, that is a long time to stay in Iqaluit.”
~-~-~-
Iqaluit comes out of the hillside as if it were a village on Mars. Narrow paved roads are blown over with sand and lined with modular public buildings that look orbit-worthy. Homes, also modular, are raised off the ground and brightly painted; they have tin roofs, small windows. A large diesel tank decorates every front yard. There are no garages, no lawns, no fences. I am walking. Dogs bark as I pass. Each is tied to a stake near its own house of crudely cut plywood. Snowmobiles are scattered about, left where they sat when the snow melted.
Trash gathers in the corners of the land and in the streams that run through town. Cigarette butts, soda cans, candy wrappers, a plastic water gun, an old shirt. A broken bicycle clogs the conduit beneath a dirt bridge.
Cars and trucks and taxis (one in three vehicles is a taxi) and ATVs fill the streets with dust. There’s the noise of traffic. Frequently the roar of a jet from the airstrip just below. A helicopter lifts off with a large satchel hung low and flies north. Everywhere the sense of bustle overmatches the size of this place.
At the beach, ice blocks, askew at the tide line, drip frantically in the heat of the day. A man and woman are laying out a gill net at low water. “Arctic char,” he says when I inquire of their catch. “Pretty much all we have up here besides cod.”
The woman asks where I’m headed. “Not here?” I ask. “Not likely,” she says. I explain my situation. “Oh, that’s a long time to stay in Iqaluit.”
Above the beach, sand and rock give way to tundra and a riot of wildflowers only a few inches high. I am stooping to inspect a carpet of purple when a voice asks, “Do you know what those are?” Across the stream, a young woman holds an armful of flowers. “That is Purple Saxifrage, but we call it Fireweed. You can eat it.” She stoops, picks a flower and eats. So do I. She explains the Yellow Arctic Poppy, the Arctic Cotton; that the bunches in her arms are Labrador Tea. The wind dies. We are mobbed by mosquitos as large as houseflies, and I move on.
Click images to enlarge
~-~-~-
Iqaluit began as Frobisher Bay, named for the European, Sir Martin Frobisher, who first explored this region in the late 1500s while searching for the Northwest Passage. He discovered gold here, which turned out to be pyrite, and what he thought to be his “strait to Asia” turned out to be but a moderately deep bay. There were whaling operations here until the 1900s and a US Airforce base in the 1940s. Iqaluit’s current claim to fame is as the capital city of the newly independent Nunavut Territory, which separated from Canada’s larger Northwest Territories in 1999.
If it is not clear how a town of 7,000 residents could be called a city, note this from the hotel’s pamphlet:
“Iqaluit is the largest city in the territory of Nunavut, whose total population is 31,000. Our largest neighboring city is the capital of Greenland, Nuuk (population 15,000).”
~-~-~-
The bar attached to the hotel is a local’s hangout. It is Friday night. At 9PM the sun rides well above the horizon and traffic at the bar is light. I order a beer in a can because the bar’s entire selection is cans with the most expensive being $9 and the least, $7. The bartenders are two white males; the bouncers, of which there are several already, are African. Between the bar’s two entrance doors is a coat check, manned by my taxi driver from earlier in the day.
By 10PM the bar is beginning to fill; now there is music, the crack of billiards on the mezzanine. My taxi driver busily takes coats from the flood of young Inuits, mostly women, who make up the majority of new-comers.
“Plenty money, these Inuits,” he says to me privately. “Many they get $28,000. Spend it quick. In three years I go back to Calgary and buy a house.”
The
An hour later the music is louder still; dancing begins. Two older Inuits are drunk. The old woman has snuck into line and has a beer in both hands before being spied by the bouncers. Two of them escort her, weaving, to a table where she is allowed to enjoy her prize. The old man is not so lucky. A bouncer stands between him and his goal. The old man raises a hand in objection, leans way forward as if battling a stiff wind. The bouncer does not move; does not speak. The old man is gently handed his coat and he departs.
Now the two white bartenders are joined by a third. The new bartender is a young Inuit woman, though paler than most. She is six feet tall and has a bust the size of Texas. Talking at the bar
I choose this moment to order the Muskox Burger, the length of day here having fooled me into forgetting my dinner.
“It’s made of Bison, you know.” says the woman.
“Why would be called Muskox, then?” I ask.
“It’s a new menu,” she says. “Not from here are you?” I explain. “Oh, that’s a long time to be in Iqaluit.”
Outside the sun has finally dropped below the horizon, and the night appears to be early evening. The clouds above Iqaluit are lit crimson from below, and they stay crimson until dawn.
The anchor comes up clean at
Cape Broyle Harbor is clear, but in the offing, fog covers the sea surface in farm-sized patches and only lifts for good around mid-morning. Now on the horizon, I can see the Canadian Icebreaker, Louis S. St-Laurent, returning slowly to her home port, St. John’s.
Equally distant, but in the opposite direction, the radar picks up another target distinct from the shoreline.
As we approach, the target becomes our first ice sighting at three miles to the west.
The berg and the icebreaker are disjuncts against the day, which is as balmy as the coast of Vancouver Island in July.
Off St. John’s, the wind intensifies. From five miles offshore, the coastal vista is oddly reminiscent of home; the red cliffs sloping down to the
The summery feeling continues as we round Cape St. Francis and begin to head southwest towards the Royal Newfoundland Yacht Club in Conception Bay.
Here, villages line the lower coast, neat and tidy and always with a church to mark the town
Now the wind dies. The water of Conception Bay is like a lake surrounded by hills as rugged and severe as those of the Sierra Mountains.
In the afternoon, Mo and I enter the Long Pond channel…
And are warped to the pier before sundown. Fourteen hours to come seventy-five miles.
This is our last stop before entry into the north. Here we complete final preparations and await the delivery of some spares for the engine.
July 6, 2019
Day 241
Noon Position: 46 39N 53 01W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NE 6
Wind(t/tws): E 4
Sea(t/ft): —
Sky/10ths Cover: Fog/10 (viz = 200ft)
Bar(mb): 1013+, falling
Cabin Temp(f): 68 (engine heater on)
Water Temp(f): 46
Relative Humidity(%): 52
Magnetic Variation: -17.6
Sail: Motoring
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 112
Miles since departure: 31,717
Leg to St. John’s
Days: 4
Miles: 465
As we closed Cape Race, a heavy fog came down that ate up the wind. I reeled in a drippy spinnaker and started the engine at 0430. Already daylight was coming on. Over coffee, I set myself for a long shift in the pilot house.
We were entering an area where icebergs could be found. And though the latest ice report was a far cry from the one we saw before our Halifax arrival–now there were fewer bergs per square degree than fingers on one hand–I still wanted to be cautious.
By full light, visibility was below 200 feet, and it stayed that way all day.
While I would have liked more wind, this part of the run provided a good test of systems rarely used on the first 237 days of
Would we see our first ice today? Lack of visibility seemed to answer this in the negative. But would radar pick it up?
Newfoundland. A curious name. Not New Holland or New France or Nova Scotia or even Nova Albion. Not any of the names that in their statement lay claim to this or that piece of the new world. Newfoundland, rather, seems uttered in shock (What, here?) and suggests
