We didn’t mean to only spend two days in Nome but it happened quickly and precisely. Celebrations were minimal with a round of drinks on Thindra and a platter of crepes devoured on Skokica. The real excitement, however, lay with laundry. Curiously though, the local laundromat was only available for folks over the tender age of 60. But the universe still provided with Josiah tracking down a pilot friend in town and who kindly let us use his facilities. He likely was not expecting the onslaught of smelly sailor laundry from three different boats, either way the job was done, we were thankful and spirits remained high. 

A rental van was soon in the picture which aided the procession of laundry. We tiki-toured east to Safety Roadhouse, an important milestone on the Iditarod trail but first, not without getting the van impulsively stuck on the beach – a sign that we belong at sea. On the way back we pondered the makeshift buildings and rickety cabins along the coast, found some muskox to gaze over a beer and recalled what it’s like to travel more than ten miles per hour. 

Nome is an interesting town and I wish we had more time to breathe in its peculiarities. It wasn’t particularly pretty with an industrious, run down vibe that’s derived from its remoteness and expense; a dashing of snow would have gone a long way. An historic gold mining region which is still worked to this day and littered with small and large make-do barges and contraptions that dredge the seabed for gold. In town I watched on as walrus tusks poked out of truck beds with local folk arguing over missing ivory. I, too, scanned the local job advertisement column out of curiosity – it was beginning to be that time. Josiah spontaneously took the crews on a sporty ride inland to some hot springs before packing in a flurry and flying out that evening. Soon we were informed of the daily dockage rate and knew we wouldn’t be sticking around long either. We examined the weather, hustled for groceries, found the world’s most expensive propane and organised the following day’s fuel truck. 

Note: this is part three of four recent blogs entailing our autumn in the Arctic last year.


Sentijn and Caprivi; September 13th. Northwest Passage complete. 2/3 beards disappeared that evening.
Life on the edge in Nome.
Salty, unlaundered crew.
Safety Roadhouse, Nome.
Muskox in Nome.
Resourceful builds, Nome.
Idolised laundry house.
Expired dredging contraption.

On departure at high tide we were pretty sure we would have enough water beneath us to berth near the fuel truck. We released Sentijn from our grip allowing them to find the dock as we etched in to join before fueling up and leaving together for the Bering Sea. The rain calmly pattered its way down and we were now just a crew of two. As we approached, Ben suddenly realised that we had lost all transmission and couldn’t control the boat. Luckily we were close enough and used lines to get Caprivi secured. This was not a good situation. On inspection, we were getting nothing and Ben was swiftly forced into swapping out our rebuilt transmission for the ornery spare that we were carrying.

Long story short is that we’ve had some transmission saga. It’s not been an issue since Newfoundland when we purchased a professionally rebuilt one to supplement our original – and rather new – transmission, as it was having trouble shifting in colder waters. We purchased this one as a precaution. It turns out, that precaution got us out of the Bering Sea but also informed us that there were indeed design flaws in our unit model which were recently confirmed by the company itself. Technically she did get us through the northwest passage, which was our utmost concern but we weren’t out of the woods yet. We still had a month before any normal levels of civilization were within distance, and ideally where we desired to spend the winter.

To the horror of John onboard Sentijn – whom we had pinned against the dock – he observantly watched on as Ben headed for the closet where my sundresses dutifully waited and dragged out the spare from its depths. He swapped it out within the hour and that beautiful, gentle click (or rather realistically, ka-donk) that we were missing was like music to our ears. We continued to scramble about and finish prepping for our offshore passage. It wasn’t without fault though. In my much loved cast iron defence, I must bring to surface the accident that led to another gaping hole in our walnut floors. The faulty transmission somehow found its way from Ben’s arms to the cabin sole but not before taking a chunk out of our custom shelving along the way. Young Dean finds great joy at pointing to each peculiar new dent that occurs onboard Caprivi, naming it’s culprit and along with who’s accountable and that boisterous smile never leaving his face. I do wonder though – which piece of metal do we use the most? It might be closer than one thinks.


We were taking advantage of the light winds. It didn’t matter like it usually does, that we motored for a day and a half straight. The fact that there weren’t any storms brewing was paramount. However, we couldn’t then say the same for the Alaska peninsula and our destination five days away. We watched from above as low pressure systems continued to barrel east along the Japanese current and the south coast of the Aleutian chain and Alaska Peninsula. We were too far out to gauge the conditions we would be met with and would need to regather before we entered that region. 


It was strange without Josiah onboard and we kept peeping back into his cabin to see if he wanted any hot tea but there was never any answer. By this time we barely went outside, instead motoring casually along in flat, ice free seas while remaining nice and toasty inside the cabin. It was a restful time at sea and we got back into the groove of just the two of us onboard again. By the end of day two the northern winds had arrived and we simply sheeted out the main, secured the preventer and skimmed along the 40 foot depths at six knots. By afternoon, we reefed further and proceeded wing-on-wing. 

Commitments were large and our destination kept changing. With the current forecast we elected to go east of Nunivak Island and effectively crossed off Dutch Harbour, in favour of the Yupik coast. There was no time to dilly-daddle around in this notorious and shallow sea. The wind soon clocked our beam and we were propelled through the Etolin Strait with an energetic fair current. To enter the North Pacific Ocean, our best bet was through Unimak Pass located to the west of Unimak Island. Our only other option, which for good reasons we were yet to consider, was False Pass.

Due to its namesake and the stories we’d heard, we weren’t entirely convinced. One must cross the shallow and ever changing bar with ideal conditions, on a certain tide and preferably during the daylight hours. It would have been a hard task to align four days beforehand so we didn’t consider it. However, as we got closer south it became an increasingly attractive and viable option that would get us out of this area and potentially shave off a week. In these regions, safe anchorages were few and far between.

We nervously discussed it with Sentijn on the radio who were ultimately trusting us as we had access to the latest forecast and could constantly monitor the different models via our starlink satellite. Conditions would ease but another system would soon be directly in our face, precisely at the moment we would get to the pass and only if we sustained a certain speed. It was going to be tight but it would save us days. We decided to go for it and began to push the boats for the next 24 hours, ensuring we sustained at least 6.5 knots. The squalls nearby kept altering the winds and whilst we motored at the second we dropped below satisfactory speeds, conditions turned in our favour and we had some superb sailing with light winds on the beam. 

South and hoping to shelter near Unimak Island.

In the distance Mount Shishaldin pierced 9,000 ft from sea level, the clouds intermittently revealing her steaming volcanic top as she jutted into the sky above. She was beautiful and a sight to behold. Little did we know that she was active and had been emitting large plumes of ash into the environment, and that we, too, would soon be covered by her black substance. By the afternoon we had 30 knots in our face – the wind had arrived, and we reduced to the staysail. Miraculously and somewhat comforting, Thindra was nearby and heading for False Pass as well and we would be able to cross together. We hadn’t seen them since the morning they left Nome and thought we’d likely never see them again. We hailed on the radio to make a plan and to inform them that our depth sounder was on the fritz and if they could please relay any concerning depths our way. 

We etched in at 6pm with two knots of foul current and 20 knots of wind against us. Sentijn had fallen behind and we made slow progress following the modest navigation markers whilst ignoring the charts which were advised by local fishermen. It was quite disconcerting but we pushed on making agonisingly slow speeds. It took an intense four hours to get only twelve nautical miles into the harbour. A few walrus saluted us in the pass as to signify that we were in.

We were on the inside in safe yet shallow waters. The winds scrupulously made their way down the mountain faces and hurdled through the strait directly from the Pacific Ocean. Sentijn had caught up; having an hour or two difference in tide allowed them more favourable conditions at the pass. At the last minute we decided to head for Hot Springs bay, for reasons that were more obvious at the time. Water remained shallow and we veered to port and greeted by 35 knots at the peak of the headland with darkness now upon us. We crept in blind with only the charts and Thindra’s navigation lights ahead, our sounder still blinking every now and then. We finally dropped anchor in mud and calm waters and couldn’t believe we had made it. This felt triumphant. After four days the Bering Sea was behind us – we had been expecting much longer. 

Mount Shishaldin; the volcano that would splatter us with her innards.
At the tip of the Alaska Peninsula.
A jaunt to shore proved a wet one; Kara still happy.
Our route into False Pass; shallow moveable depths everywhere.
Walrus in False Pass.

The wild green tundra that surrounded us was sublime. A principle shade of nature that we had been without for much too long. We hitched a ride with the crew on Sentijn whom are always ever-so quick to deploy their dinghy and run ragged ashore. Our hopes were to find the undisclosed hot springs but came into nothing except a family of large brown bears guarding what we imagined to be a stunning oasis of flowing hot water that they explicitly patrolled for their own luxuries. Instead it felt remarkably close to a bear hunt; in the children’s book kind of way. We stretch our legs in the rain, keeping our eyes peeled and watched as one bear fished in the shallow waters for the last of the salmon. We dinghied away carefully. 

A day or two later we made a short but sporty sail over to the dock of False Pass on Unimak Island, the easternmost Aleutian Island. We stayed a few days and roamed the village. One local let us shelter in her office while we were given free range to the sugar-ladened, singularly wrapped leftover kids camp supplies; the Norwegians embraced. We didn’t do too much else while we waited for the weather. It felt like vacation. We had one final meal together with Thindra before they departed onwards for Hawaii – they had a long way to go. As for us, a new paradigm had shifted and we felt we could meander along this civilised region of the Alaska Peninsula likened to how one would in the Caribbean while sipping a bevy, hatches wide open and quite possibly roaming about on deck barefoot. It was fantastical. 

Mammoth fishing gear parked for the season.
Ben making his famous Thai carrot pizza.
Berry picking in False Pass, Unimak Island.
Celebrations and goodbyes on Thindra.
Sentijn, Thindra and Caprivi.

Early in the morning we untied the lines and headed through the whirlpool of Isanotski Strait, the bioluminesce striking as we bypass the seven knots of current that would be apparent in a few hours. And Caprivi, for the first time in her 35 years, cut through the swell bound ocean of the Pacific. She had finally made it to her new home waters; our own original waters. Once released into her open expanse, the swell took us into her mercy. It was unmistakable and comforting at once. We eased the lines and had a magnificent run downwind. The peninsula was like nothing I had seen before, carved directly from sea to sky while we were just a mere dot among giants trying to make our way east. It was serene, and so by following tradition – and never one to bypass a deal – I baked three loaves of banana bread derived from the discounted aisle in False Pass. Bananas in paradise, how sardonic but it felt that way.

In Deer Passage we peeked through to the village of King Cove. Fishing vessels made their way in and out, giving way to that iconic Alaskan image with 5,000 foot peaks protruding skyward in the background while their distinct and familiar diesels hummed along. As we round up to find our safe haven we dodge the williwaws that fondly hide behind each point, only the water’s texture telling. Humpback whales weren’t shy either and we soon realised small vessel anchorages were again, few and far between. One must commit a few hours inland to find a bay small enough to cradle the swell in these vast seas and lands. After nine hours we find ourselves tucked behind a bar that awarded almost 360 protection. We edged in and scanned the foreshore for bears. 

Sentijn arrived shortly after and we spent the next day exploring the lands, keeping both an ear and eye open while conveniently trodding along the game trails that provided a flattened grass to traverse. I took a moment, and believed I was the only one out of my element yet felt assured with six year-old Dean nearby. His impressive tone and loquacious manner would surely deter any brown bear that we had eyed from the boat. John, too, carried the shotgun in case and Ben just did Ben by being Alaskan. 

We toured the shoreline in search of anything; it was already magical and we didn’t need much to be happy. The light beamed down between the clouds, a glacier poked its way through from the volcanic mountain in the distance, birds fluttered and the bar kept us cosy. We tread the shallow waters by dinghy hoping the tide wouldn’t beach us while flounder dashed beneath us. It was the first time I’d witnessed the dying salmon runs in all their mass and glory. It’s gory, also. Spent salmon lay at the seabed, as well as on the foreshore and some afloat at the surface. We watched as the last runs swam lifelessly in the hundreds up river but only to hold their course and eventually die of depleted stores. It’s both startling and beautiful. And shortly, by nature of our elected paths, a biology and sex education class was inevitably conducted; the adults chuckle while young Dean questions fervently.

Nearby large patches between the tall grass lay flat at the stream’s edge. It’s a feasting ground for bears – I stick to Dean. The tide had run low and we needed to get the dinghy out before we would be stuck hundreds of feet inland with a heavy boat and motor. We foraged once more at the shore edge keeping our eyes peeled for any goodies. Japanese glass floats were at the forefront of our minds. These floats, often handmade by glassblowers, were used for fishing back in the day and the Kuroshio, or Japanese, current makes its way towards Alaska and it’s not uncommon for these prized buoys to be found along the shore. All we come up with was a large metal buoy and a promising new bucket. Dinner was served on Caprivi; a damn good day. 


Eastbound on our home stretch; Alaska Peninsula.
Sentijn finding a spot.
Our anchorage near Mount Dutton.
Alaska Peninsula.
Sheltering along the Alaska Peninsula.

The wind wasn’t for us so we spent the next day motoring to Sand Point in the Shumagin Islands. We backtracked via our incoming route and began the day in low light and a persistent drizzle. It took a moment for daylight to transpire and to notice as the white cockpit and decks began to discolour. We took a swipe with our finger and sure enough it was raining black, volcanic ash. An hour or two later, Caprivi had a new paint job. Shishaldin, the volcano we passed a week prior, had erupted and we were in her path and soon covered in highly destructive, fine ash. We couldn’t believe our luck. 

Carefully, we made sure not to spread the corrosive grain into the interior and spent the next few hours hosing her down with salt water while making our way east. It eventually dissipated and we were welcomed to the Shumagin Islands by humpbacks and a brief orca or two. Kara hailed over the radio and after sharing in our despair we talked sourdough. The starter that I thought I’d lost back in Newfoundland – three months prior – had been found at the bottom of the fridge and had, too, survived the northwest passage; her hardiness unsurpassed and she could be revived and shared around once more.

We find an empty slip – which has proven rather easy in October – and Ben immediately begins atop the mast with a hose of fresh water while working his way down. Every crevasse, block and screw billowed black ash from its cavities. This was going to be a minute. As usual, we walked the streets, checked out the grocer and chatted to a few locals. They knew we weren’t from around these parts. One captain from a local based surf charter curiously told us that he’d been colder surfing the waves of Hawaii than at times in these waters. I thought I’d keep that in mind; quite possibly even use its analogy for our southern counterparts.

Eagerness and anticipation was now beginning to surface as we closed in on our final port of call and ultimately, our new home for the foreseeable future.


Mount Shishaldin’s ash spat all over us.
Caprivi’s cockpit; volcanic ash.
Ben hiding; nothing we could do until it stopped.
Ben rinsing the boat with salt water while motoring.
Sand Point, Shumigan Islands.
Sand Point docks.