A quick turn around in Tuktoyaktuk was both surprising and necessary. The Arctic weather bombs didn’t muck around, each giving us a few days to move, a day or so to hide, then rinse and repeat. We were happy to get on with it. A successful stop in the village and a restful night at anchor rejuvenated our spirits and we were ready to roll. 

We motored out of the bay and continued west for a 24 hour run to Herschel Island. By now we’d gotten used to the 15 feet of water under us miles from land. The wind and murky seas build and we spend the night once again surfing down waves with a triple reefed main and the staysail. Temperatures kindly lifted to a 4C/40F but water still found its way into the cockpit as our speeds reached upwards of 10 knots. There was a feeling of particular irony on this passage. That of distinct and remarkable pleasure among crew, juxtaposed against the backdrop of eight foot brown muddled seas chasing us from behind. All three of us had an undeniable beam that didn’t quite sit right with the scene. We all felt it but couldn’t quite explain it. To Josiah though, it was always easy; we were on an adventure and nothing could be better. That feeling resonated through us and we gave in to its pleasure.

Note: this is part two of four recent blogs about our trip in the Arctic last autumn.

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The early hours gave way to moon dogs and our first expanse of the northern lights. The wind died as quickly as it came and we tucked into Herschel Island for the following evening’s blow. By mid morning we eased around the precarious spit of Pauline Cove and remained for the night. The island, situated just off the coast of mainland Canada, once exhibited an important trading post and whaling station and hosted 1,500 people who overwintered while making the most of the short summer season hunting the last of the bowhead whales. Now it serves as a remote cultural heritage site and is an important host to summer researchers studying the melting permafrost which visibly makes its mark locally each year. It’s also a place where both polar and grizzly bears live; their offspring, a rare phenomenon.

We rested in the bay knowing we would soon be on a lee shore. The mud felt strong and we remained due to lack of options. The two rangers that take care of the historic buildings and protect the park hailed us on the radio and we went ashore in our foul weather gear to visit with them. The conditions turned unfavourable and a jaunt around the site was a little amiss so the rangers kindly invited us into their toasty cabin and we rejoiced. They told us stories of the work that scientists do nearby, about living there for the season and travelling by ice in the winter. They also told us that the sauna, which we had vaguely heard about – and on arrival set our eyes on – was hot, steamy and ready to enjoy if we fancied. We very much fancied. 

Two seemingly endless barrels of freshwater laid next to the scorching wood stove, benches for seating and a gravity bucket shower were at our disposal. We undressed in the roomy arctic entry and couldn’t believe our luck. The fogging window dripped of condensation as Ben sat in its sill peering out in concern for Caprivi bobbing in the waves, yet yearning to be completely present in this dreamy occurrence.

The driftwood which dotted the foreshore ceaselessly brought in the source of heating thanks to the McKenzie River. There were so many elements to this moment. Caprivi was waiting out a storm in front of our eyes and we were onshore, our bodies stripped bare in a trance of hot steam while our pores were being cleansed in a well overdue manner. It couldn’t have been better. We didn’t want it to end. However, with boating it’s always a fine balance and Ben always seems to take the brunt of it. He couldn’t help but dwell on our home, our child, and all our belongings simply hanging on to a piece of metal at the bottom of the bay while the storm grew stronger.

Josiah and I test our uncalloused feet over the gritty sand and take one last dive into the Arctic Ocean, rebounding immediately back to the hot sauna; stokedness never leaving our faces. At 0400 hrs we depart hoping to take the weather as far as she’ll let us go. By this point, we were holding our breath as to when we would likely get to Nome. Behind this was a matter of employment. Josiah had roughly told his boss that he would be back to work early September. It was the 5th and we still had 1,000 nm (2000km) to go! Our guestimate of the 15th remained but it would be a stretch. Visuals soon surfaced of us having to launch Josiah and all of his belongings into the dinghy at the non-existent anchorage of Utqiagvik (Barrow) while his colleague had the helicopter waiting for collection. Exaggerations of course, but a nervous thought. In theory a push to Nome was our best course of action as there were hardly any sheltered or non-shoal driven anchorages for hundreds of miles that we would feel comfortable waiting out weather, and not mention, entering in the first place.

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Heading out we tried to skirt the opposing current. In the distance mountains blessed the south against a golden sunrise; Alaska was 30 nm away. The asymmetrical spinnaker made an appearance for some fine sailing but the yang forecast soon set in and we were motoring in flat seas. For the first time since the Atlantic Ocean, slippers were exchanged from the winter boots. Far in the distance our automated tracking systems could see that Thindra and Sentijn were 50 nm NNW of us. They had taken a northern route directly west from Cape Bathurst and had been at sea the last few days, choosing to wait out weather near the ice pack before they diverted south again. 

We switched our clocks for the last time and crossed back over into U.S. waters after ten months since we left it on the east coast. We were now in Alaska – in Ben’s home State – and a prominent reason for embarking on this journey all together. In all irony, the three of us had never been sailing in Alaska waters and one doesn’t quite imagine this particular scene being at 70 degrees latitude but here we were. Miraculously, we removed another layer of clothing as the welcoming dry temperatures remained a few degrees above freezing. 

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Day two the wind filled in nicely and we were dancing atop the small seas on a beam reach. Prudhoe bay was to our south and the northern lights entertained us against the light night skies while we gorged on daal and rice. All was well on board before an abrupt noise came from the galley. Ben yelled down and I made my way out of my berth in a delirium, before my eyes widened considerably and I’d hoped that he didn’t get eyes on the culprit – it was the cast iron dutch oven. How could this be? Its simple presence marks a futile impasse in our boating etiquette, and more drastically, our relationship. One often comments on its hefty weight that makes Caprivi sluggish; the other, remarks on its brilliant capabilities to steam bread and make brownies on open fire. And here it was, the oven door wide open and the 15 lb of iron flung across the galley, denting every surface it could along the way. The evidence must be hidden. As it turned out, the stove had been etching its way through its gimballed mounts and on this particular heel and wave, caught the bottom of the stove base and propped open the oven door. I’m not sure I’ll live this one down.

Arctic terns, seals and kittiwakes were always nearby and a fluke or two of a whale were their revealing factor. The forecast was suggesting a WNW wind for Cape Barrow so we pointed a little more north to attain an angle around the headland. It didn’t work out that way and for the last hour we motored uncomfortably into the wind and seas to make it around this milestone of a point. It promptly marked the end of the “lovely” temperatures and soon flurries of snow set in. 

We cleared Point Barrow and ignored our previous visualizations of dropping Josiah off in a raging sea by dingy. We kept quiet as we passed by in the night and hoped he’d forgotten about his land duties. No words were spoken. He hadn’t noticed and we carried on. On the 7th of September we entered the Chukchi Sea and for once and for all could finally put the pointy end south. 

The lights of Utqiagvik shimmered to our port. We sailed tight on the wind in the fluky seas. The temperatures were drastically colder, reaching our lowest yet of -3C/26F. I found it hard to get up for my shift as we toggled our diesel stove off and on depending on our heel. Tucked cosy into place on the settee, our sleeping bags were the only place of solace. It took a moment for the conditions to settle but soon we were motoring again in flat seas in anticipation for the next shift. Passing by Franklin Point, a trio of walrus scurried from the surface as we passed by in a whirl. The motoring came as a reprieve as we warmed up, dried the air off and had a casual day upright at sea. 

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After four days since leaving Herschel Island and a new forecast in our hand, the unlikely looked likely – we could set our eyes on Nome. The fact that safe anchorages were meagre or a hundred or so miles apart undoubtedly made this our preference. The feeling was positive.

That night the wind picked up perfectly aft of the beam. Skies were dark and clear, and we began skipping along the top of the waves at eight knots. Conditions were sporty but in a fine and controlled manner, and by midnight it was apparent that we were in for a show of a lifetime. I woke the crew up as the flickering aurora borealis began to stretch from one horizon to the other. The moon kept low to our stern and the lights continued to ignite the skies like nothing I’d seen before. North, south, east and west; every direction her glow touched. Between the gusts of wind, Josiah and I hastily added another reef to the mainsail and we plonked back down into the cockpit, lines scattered all over the place, and watched as the lights danced in all their glory. As always, we were tethered to the boat but our attention couldn’t be shaken from the sights above us. We could only marvel as it’s deep green hues illuminated, dashed and pranced above as we were simultaneously swept along by a magic carpet.

Experiencing two unique worlds colliding into one was like no other. Caprivi was in her groove and an entrancement of optical awe engaged us from above, and there sat three humans simply along for the ride in the Chukchi Sea. The masterpiece ended at dawn.

Our evening of sensory overload:

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By morning of day five we caught up with Sentijn. It was sunny and pleasant and we rigged a wing-on-wing configuration, receiving variable winds as we constantly adjusted. We see the best of it as we round the cliff faces of Point Hope eight nautical miles offshore and nearing ten foot following seas. Daylight was getting drastically weaker but as for our appetite, that was not the case. We devoured shrimp tacos and Alaskan salmon mac n cheese heading into the pleasant night’s run in 12 knots. The following day I took my night watch from inside the boat due to the calm natured conditions while Caprivi made five knots of speed in five knots of wind.

On September 10 we crossed south and back over the Arctic Circle (66’30”) marking the official completion of the northwest passage. 56 days and 3460 nm (~6400 km) since we first crossed it back in Baffin Bay, Greenland. The wind abated altogether and reality set in. We toast with a bottle of french wine over muskox chowder.

The celebratory leg of lamb came out to thaw and we debated the timing of arrival into Nome and whether we should detour through the Diomede Islands. Unfortunately the weather for the next two days was more partial for a power boat. Calm weather for crossing the Bering Strait was not what we had imagined but after six days at sea and Nome so close, we weren’t complaining. 

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The evening proved dark with brilliant bioluminescence as we continued upwind in calm seas, our eyes now set on the enigmatic and rugged Diomede Islands. Two lands separated by two miles and 23 hours of time; one owned by Russia, the other by the United States – we were headed straight down the middle. Upon arrival at dawn, I hadn’t realised the proximity of mainland Russia with mainland Alaska, each right there, big and bold, both holding their ground.

As we approached the islands on the pastel morning, humpback whales welcomed us and puffins dotted the surface. Our bias kept us hugging a little closer to the U.S. One whale pec-slapped the surface for the hour that we passed and excitement filled the air during this symbolic moment. We’d looked at these two strange specs of islands on a map in the middle of the Bering Strait many times before and now we were here. My tendencies to celebrate with food, magically produced fresh scones in the cockpit and coffee to enjoy while we watched the odd behaviour of the whale slapping away over on the Russian side. We couldn’t help but ponder the local political stances, island logistics and life in these remote regions.

The native village of Little Diomede, Iŋaliq, is home to less than one hundred people and whom receive their weekly mail by helicopter. At first glance the village appeared like an Edward Scissorhands design with the industrial, dreary homes perched up on stilts on the sloping hillside with rusty artefacts laid out on the foreshore and barely a sole to wave to as we passed by. Big Diomede, Imaqłiq, Russia, was much more prominent in size, housing a military and weather station to the north.

As soon as we rounded Little Diomede – or Yesterday Island as they call it – we pointed for Nome, Alaska with the asymmetrical and sea shanties cranked as loud as possible. Thanks to Stan Rogers we felt the pride boil up from inside and sang our way down the Bering Sea.

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We quickly realised that this was it. Our moments together as we’d known it were coming to an end. Land life would soon take over our senses and celebrations would likely be rushed, so we elected to commemorate and cook the leg of lamb at sea. The two New Zealand limbs were first purchased in French tongue on the luscious Caribbean island of Guadeloupe. The first celebrated on that initial meeting in June in St Johns, Newfoundland when Josiah joined the crew, and now here again for the last. Both days, as important as each other, and now at an end. Ben took the propane torch and seared the skin in the cockpit for that fine dining crust, the oven did the rest and we shared our last sunset and meal together at sea in grand form. Each of us declaring our thoughts on this three month odyssey. 

After a week at sea the lights of Nome were off in the distance, we motored into the night and eventually into the harbour on the 12th of September. 

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And just like that Josiah was gone the following day. Holy shit, we pulled it off. The audacity to imply that this trip could happen in the first place, then to successfully plan and execute it, is another. For both of these instances to have happened, Josiah was our key. Headhunted unconsciously by our minds the year prior and seeded the Christmas before. The trip was contingent on him, contingent to happen in the first place and to leave those warm waters of the tropics. The fact was Ben has always had the northwest passage on his mind since I met him sailing the Pacific Ocean a decade prior. Ever since we took on 30,000 miles of Africa and Europe by motorcycle and appreciated what it is to adventure, what it is to be fully present and at the mercy of your decisions and the environment you’re in. I knew that his pull to the higher latitudes would be hard to abate but it needed to be done safely and joyfully. Josiah was that missing link. 

It all started with an old story that’s not really mine to tell but entailed a wooden boat, the world’s longest canoe race, 1,000 miles down the Yukon River and a second place. The winners were all carbon fibre. It ended with some unexpected prize money, an ambitious hitchhike back south with a canoe and a month climbing down in Squamish with the newly acquired few hundred dollars. To say the bill fit was as clear as day.

We couldn’t have asked for a better, more resourceful, hilarious and genuine human to have shared this experience with; to endure the discomfort, the grandiose, the mundane and the unknown. We are eternally grateful.

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Some northwest passage statistics:
Departed: Upernavik, Greenland; August 6th, 2023
Arrived: Nome, Alaska; September 12th, 2023
Duration: 38 days
Distance: 3058 nautical miles / 3520 miles / 5663 kilometres
Engine hours: 213 hours
Fuel: 200 gallons / 760 litres
Sailed 63% | Motored 37%
Moving 59% of the time | Stationary 41%
Shelter: two villages and four anchorages
Roughly the 200th transit in history for a yacht.

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