September 14, 2019
Mo makes her slow way against this implacable current and night drags on. A full moon, lights ashore glimmer across the glassy water. Two tankers appear as dark hulks on the horizon; they are anchored miles out and still only in 60 foot water. Even now tugs are ferrying their cargo of fuel to the town of Nome, which draws ever so reluctantly closer.
Midnight. Into the fairway. Alioth has already radioed an invitation to raft alongside. “We have a group here; people want to see you,” says Vincent.
I turn the corner and there, sandwiched between two dredgers, is silver Alioth and a crowd in the cockpit. There is clapping, a cheer for Mo. I nose in slowly. Hands reach out to catch the bow; other hands grab rails and lines and Mo is eased into place.
The crew of Morgane, Mirabelle, Opal, and Alioth, all now Northwest Passage veterans, have seen Mo safely in, after which we repair to Alioth’s cabin for a toast and the the sharing of stories until 2am.