Little did we know that we would be in Arctic Bay waiting out a gale for six days, the weather event not so unusual to these parts of the world nor the week-long duration. One might think of the Arctic as a calm and windless environment, barely a sound to break it’s deafening silence. On this occasion, it was quite the opposite. We dug our anchor down in Arctic Bay, Canada after almost five days at sea and simply plonked into our cabins and rested, our interest of land offerings giving way to stillness. The next morning Sentijn arrived and in no time at all had their dingy in the water and were ready for shore excursions before we could finish our first cup of coffee! A benefit to having an energetic six year old on board, or perhaps that is, to the resting crew on Caprivi.

Our first matter of business was paperwork. John and Ben putter ashore to check into Canada at the local police station. Their recount told of being received by a jovial Royal Canadian Mounted Police officer who had yet to clear anyone into the country in his years in Arctic Bay. Excitement unfolded as he began to unravel the plastic from his official stamp to finally impress into someones passport. Being in such a remote place, he had to ring his peers to ensure he had correctly cleared us in with customs. The office also didn’t have a way to collect money so the $25 CAD for our rifle permit was waived. All in all, a successful and jolly clear-in experience. It’s always a gamble in which way the cookie might crumble.

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On shore we paraded around town, stretching our legs and amassing young children in our wake. Soon Dean found the local trampoline and the adults checked out the arts and information building. Inside were displays of traditional clothing of the Inuit and different works of art for purchase. Nearby the water’s edge lay dotted with carcasses of narwhal or the remains of such, as well as some camouflaged seals rotting away, all eventually disappearing a few days later.

Arctic Bay is located in the Nunavut territory with a population of around a thousand. Collectively they have a subsistence allocation to traditionally hunt narwhals (about 200 for 2023). They use the meat for food and sell the tusk for a good chunk of change. The hamlet itself was a dusty settlement with a couple of streets and makeshift houses on rows backing up the hill. It’s saving grace was the friendly people and the surrounding views. Everywhere we went (the grocery store) locals welcomed us generously to their community. Non-Inuit Canadians who had been shipped in for work or placement spoke of the scenic painting that they got to wake up to everyday. It was notably a happy place to be, at least during the pinnacle of their summer.

The small breakwater became alive with local skiffs zooming out of the bay at once when someone gave notification of narwhal sightings. It appeared that they both hunted individually and as groups; loaded with a rifle as the means of death and a harpoon kitted on board. Once caught they would tow them into shore where families gathered to watch as the hunters processed the meat and harvest the tusk. It was interesting to be among the action and we soon got wind of the local VHF channel and could listen to the excitement from Caprivi, although not understanding a word of the Inuktitut language. Scattered English of a small child hailing “I love you Papa”, and the animated commotion would keep us tuned in.

We got some rest and some chores done. Ben successfully sewed the spinnaker back together and we replenished our fuel by jerry can, hitching a lift to the outskirts of town where the gas station was located. Seabelle was soon in town having pushed on to Arctic Bay before the storm hit verses heading for Pond Inlet which had just opened up from the ice. On our second day we were surprisingly accompanied by a small cruise ship. They stayed off in the distance and remained for a day as we watched the yellow jackets sprawled about the shoresides hoping to get everything they might want from a small Arctic village in a morning. The local kids knew the drill as they took turns hitching rides on the fancy zodiacs.

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Before the weather was due to arrive we repositioned ourselves at the entrance of the bay to protect us from the southerly winds. As we motored over, the hunt was taking place nearby and skiffs were zooming out past us to get into the action. We hovered nearby at binocular distance as the 15 or so boats appeared working together. Soon we heard an ambush of shot guns firing away into the water, large clouds of mist filled the air but no whales were to speak of. I’m not sure how it is that the boats avoid shooting one another as they circle together. We departed and anchored in our new spot.

Unfortunately, due diligence was of second thought before the winds came in and our dingy was soon violently bouncing at our stern. It wasn’t until the forces were in full bore that we doubled up our bridle on the anchor chain; Josiah and I barely able to hear as we yelled at one another on the bow, and Ben at the helm full throttle trying to etch forward as we repositioned the snubber. Throughout the day and night gusts continuously swept in and the crew watched as the anemometer fluctuated; our commentary increasingly excited as the digits rose. At one point our anchor alarm went off as it dislodged from the inferior seabed. The release was immediate and we were pushed out at an alarming rate. Ben reacted immediately with the engine and Josiah and I quickly followed suit to the bow. The same had just happened to Sentijn whom had subsequently repositioned behind us so we needed to act swiftly before we barrelled down on her. That night we recorded wind speeds of sustained 50 knots, with higher reports from Sentijn and Seabelle nearby. The wind lasted for a solid two days and we remained on board doing who knows but with minimal complaints.

Looking astern down into Admiralty Inlet the waters possessed an angry green which contrasted magnificently against the vexed skies. The dingy would surely be gone in a moment and we would be pushed back north where we in time needed to be.

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Eventually the winds died down and to celebrate all three boats revelled in a fun night on Seabelle. An array of hors d’oeuvres were gorged on, a brazen game of lyrical nonsense and many passes of unknown subjects were the nights tale. We waited for the seas to die back down and for the storm to pass further to the north. By evening the crew of Sentijn, always eager to make fire on the foreshore, laid down the grounds for warmth and socialising in the nightless skies. Young Dean generally avoiding filling his gumboots with near freezing ocean and happily making-do pushing around a loud, rusty barrel. Influenced by the local village children, the adults soon made it a target (with rocks not shotguns) and another game ensued. By day we foraged the waters edge collecting whatever may be: seal and narwhal vertebrae, the standard. An attempt at fishing in the fresh water lake was just that, an attempt, and another round of bonfire filled the proceeding days. We experiment baking brownie in the cast iron on the fire and while more burnt than not, rejoiced among crew. During our time on land we made sure to always keep a sharp look out for polar bears as we were now in their territory. Prudence meant being armed with a shot gun at all times.

An almost romantic setting could be told of messy seas on the horizon; time spent with friends around the fire and a period of rest, but it also reflected a time of anxiously waiting for the unknown days ahead and what the season would bring. However, as each day ticked along, the prospects looked better and better. We didn’t know it then but these were ‘the days’ and as it were, we would barely stop again until we got to Nome 2,500nm to the west.

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It was time to leave. One more top up of diesel, a grocery run and a hike to the top of the ridge with the village children. We said our goodbyes and headed north back out into Lancaster Sound. The seas were still up and we bashed our way into Admiralty inlet, arduously zig zagging as far as we could point on the wind. Drizzle, near freezing temperatures and making less than five knots speed was our hand. We exchanged the staysail for two reefs in the genoa to gain power into the chop and thrashed our way through the water. The diesel stove now off because of our heel and position on the wind.

I had the first watch with a starboard tack. For some reason it’s always a little bit messier and less efficient on a starboard tack. I stood high near the cockpit combing, behind the helm and tethered to Caprivi, keeping her track in tune with the conditions. We were soon down in the trough of the wave and a spotted figure appeared at eye level to my right. It was the back of something large sliding effortlessly through the waters surface and clearly unaware of our position. I gasped. It was distinctly a narwhal. I confidently began yelling down below, “Narwhal! Narwhal!” The crew were unshaken from the warmth of their sleeping bags. It would have been too late anyway. A usually shy and elusive creature, right there for my eyes taking. It was a moment I won’t forget.

By evening, the conditions began to ease and the barometer was increasing. We ebbed in and out of current, trying to be tactful in covering ground. At midnight the temperatures hovered around zero (C) and we began to round Cape Crauford, aided by the engine to make the last tack and finally back out into Lancaster Sound. The early hours were light but ominous in the fog ridden skies. Our last big ice bergs were anchored to the seabed near Baffin Island with the leftover seas battering against their sleek walls of white. Always beautiful; always a respected unease.

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Along the top of Baffin Island finally gaining westerly miles, the new day brought good visibility and scattered light winds. Seabelle was ahead and Sentijn nearby with a tough 24 hours of sailing behind us. Often we would check in with each other over the radio. Thindra, a Norwegian steel vessel had serendipitously joined the fleet having waited out the storm in Tay Bay near Bylot Island. The four of us began rounding the peninsula with the forecasted 2-3 knots of foul current. We calmly, and a little frustratingly, moved along at a mere three knots speed. Our self-steering windvane made an appearance as the electric autopilot was becoming effected by the magnetic variation of this area. The current soon abated and the decreasing light was noted, and in a moment of habit, the navigation lights came on. We hand steered when needed and fluctuated between motor, sail and steering by autopilot. Finally we had some good wind again and sailing in calm seas. Josiah’s log entries often used the word beautiful, and on this evening he cooked a beautiful meal of vegetables on rice with a balsamic reduction.

We were finally heading south once and for all. South into Prince Regent Inlet and bound for Bellot Strait, a 16 mile channel between mainland America and Somerset Island. The first Europeans discovered it in 1852. It’s crossings are often difficult with currents running up to eight knots and – as notorious as something can be in the northwest passage – is a transit marked by swaths of ice and opposing currents. Fortunately at this point, two weeks after crossing Baffin Bay, the ice had vastly cleared from our path. Thanks to the week long gale and it being an unusual season in the words of Arctic experts. Bellot Strait wouldn’t pose the usual impending threats that have crossed many traversing through in previous years. One aluminum sailboat troubles the mind as they were squashed by ice and sank near the entrance in 2018. The crew escaped onto an ice flow and were rescued 12 hrs later – wildly lucky.

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The fetch began to build with short, sloppy seas making it difficult to sail and in our stubbornness, we began to tack. Ahead of us we spot multiple whale spouts which proved true for many hours. Once inland we found ourselves among the action. One whale surfaced nearby and parallel to our port. The wind had come up and we were now scooting along beautifully. Ben was at the helm and we were second guessing where he may surface next. Soon sixty feet to port and in a decisive moment, we headed up wind to cross it’s stern. As we did, the whale surfaced right at our bow and oblivious to our location. Not one to regale certain moments but time absolutely stood still. All three of us were in the cockpit peering forward and it felt like staring down the barrel of a gun. The dorsal-less whale breached the surface, his dual blowholes wide open permitting full, intimate detail. As he crossed over we could fathom his colossal size and soon we realised his girth was that or more of Caprivi. In that moment of stillness, he allowed us to feel his entirety. It was then understood that we were among hundreds of Arctic bowhead whales.

The wind was now in our face directly from the west and we began motoring into the nasty chop, fog and drizzle. At 2230 hours we finally put the hook down after 2.5 days at sea. We scoffed down a meal of Atlantic wild salmon (thanks to Cliff and Mallory) and hitched a ride from Seabelle. With a headlight and a bottle of rum in hand, we went ashore and unlocked Fort Ross at the eastern entrance to Bellot Strait.

Originally built by Hudson Bay Company as a trading post and soon abandoned due it’s unviable, icy location. Now it poses as a refuge and a rite of passage for Arctic explorers. We hadn’t overly thought about the prospect of visiting the hut and focused on simply getting through the northwest passage, whichever route proved best. The doors were latched down by wood planks, protecting it from polar bears. Once entrance was made it really came together where we were and the foot steps in which we were following. A simple place at best with a few bunks, some dry food and a heat source. The walls were marked by previous explorers, recognizing many we had read about. Te reo Maori place names caught my eye, as a few fellow kiwis jotted down their home ports and I was proud to add to the kiwiana that stood on these grounds. A book timely logged the many who had visited in detail and we soon placed our own mark upon it. A world of inspiration, gratitude and marvel was felt as we toasted to making it there. A humble shack but a monument of sorts for a sailor, and furthermore, our point of no return.

Seabelle, Caprivi and Thindra were soon joined by Sentijn and being davit-deficient like us, a ride was organized to scoop them up. We were all on a high. There was the ambient knowledge that ice may not actually be a factor to the success of our voyage. John, perhaps a little worse for wear having staggered in sideways and unenthusiastically beat. The magnetic variation with their autopilot was largely affected and subsequently they had hand steered for much of the last few days. The bottle of rum was gone in no time, and the darkness soon came over us as we sat around the table, lights guiding the way. It was back. We were pointing south and the season was wearing on.

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At 0200 hours we get back on board Caprivi and our initial plan was to hit the next tide in an hour or so with the other boats. However, the conditions outside were still windy, cold and nasty. Now dark, it wasn’t appealing at all and after much debate and an updated weather GRIB we managed to justify taking a rest and decided to head out midday instead. Josiah, always keen to keep moving, retreated to his cabin. It wasn’t particularly strenuous but a lot of mental time went into this moment and it seemed a shame to blaze by while that nagging feeling told you otherwise. We informed the others of our decision over the lagged VHF communication. The physical and mental release was instantaneous and likely palpable over the radio as our bodies gave way to rest, and then to potentially enjoying the next foray of waters. Sentijn decided similarly and stayed for the moons next gravitational pull.

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We awoke to clear skies and calm waters. Well rested, I made pancakes and even had a hot shower. Nothing could be better – a good breakie and a clean human. Sentijn soon rafted to us for easier communications and to discuss tactics. Upon getting our fenders ready, another boat appeared in the distance and whom had come from the west! A wealth of information we thought and we coaxed them awkwardly with hand signals to also come and raft to us. Low and behold we were soon sandwiched between two metal boats; good friends on one side, new friends on the other. So much to share and so little time.

During this commotion of rafting two boats to Caprivi, Josiah spots our first polar bear on shore with the binoculars. I hail Sentijn as they’re pulling anchor “Polar bear! Polar bear!” So many distractions! I didn’t care too much in that moment of Caprivi’s paint job. Witnessing the white bear – even through binoculars – was a sight to behold. Completely surreal having been ashore hours earlier. The way he stood out against his surroundings, his long inward legs strutting along and his confident, casual manor. The fact that we were witnessing such beauty from our home was extraordinary. It was an incredible moment; my eyes becoming joyfully fluid.

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Kluane, is a 30 foot Canadian vessel having left from Southeast Alaska a few months prior. Four crew members appeared from the boat, making Caprivi soon feel quite roomy. We exchanged a hoard of information on both life and the passage ahead of each party. A fast friend moment in time; getting straight to the point and no mucking around sorts of occasion. Young Dean was sure to give everyone a boat tour of both Sentijn and Caprivi, along with successfully fancying himself a tour of the new boat at hand. He’s quite remarkable as he briefly goes over the different systems each boat has, keeping the adults wholly enthralled as he goes along. Quadamaran, a twelve inch wooden catamaran, is Dean’s ship that he dutifully keeps varnished with glitter and it’s rigging to spec, and which he has unconditionally towed behind his mothership since it’s inception in the Caribbean.

At 1330 hours we finally departed Fort Ross into Bellot Strait. The transit proved easy, clear and ice free. It was beautiful and we spot seven polar bears total lingering at the shore side. We watched as one walked the foreshore and entered the frigid waters. A cub and it’s mum preferred the mainland side, perched together up on the hill. The sea ice that they normally live on was not to be found. It was a surprise how many we saw and in the way that we witnessed them – against a brown arid landscape. How did they stay so clean? Was hunting from land still efficient? Classified as a marine mammal for their dependance and lives spent on the sea ice. How will they fare and will they be able to adapt with the rapid changes to their environment?

We pass the most northern place in North America, Point Zenith, and celebrate with a feast of Greenland cod, mashed potatoes, spinach and apple crumble. Bellot Strait – when there is ice – is a major crux in getting through the northwest passage. The next body of water, Franklin and Victoria Straits, are also congested zones that normally only allow a passage through for a couple of weeks each year while astutely dodging the moving drifts of sea ice. Victoria Strait, often not at all. Two weeks prior this sea was solid ice; one week prior it had begun to open and astoundingly cleared soon after. Arctic personnel were realising the current season was quite different to normal.

As it were, the waters were clear and we could head through Victoria Strait with barely 1/10ths ice, bypassing the typical route via Gjoa Haven and shaving off 150 nautical miles. An equivocal affair. For our immediate circumstances this was a positive but for the Arctic waters, it’s inhabitants and humanity as a whole, it’s an entirely different matter.

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