It seems that months have gone by in a blur without a word from this blog and that Caprivi is still somewhere in the high Arctic, likely passing by the shipwrecked debris of John Franklin’s harrowing misfortune of Erebus and Terror. If that were true we would ice bound and watching the time pass until it hopefully melted again come August to escape it’s grip. Thankfully this is all but an obscure dream that some folk do impress to seek. Our senses were with us and we pushed on for six more frenzied weeks and arrived into our winter safe haven way south in the “big city” of Seward, Alaska.

I’ve avoided all instances of the voice in my head telling me to put pen to paper, instead leaning into the feeling of rest, pleasure and not too much at all. One has finally begun to conjure an understanding of such a trip, what it entailed, what it meant and how fucking rad it was. In a state marked by satisfaction, perhaps, and an unwillingness to jump back into the gore of detail, constant challenge or the next goal. 

A step back has been a delight, to view something away from itself and as a whole, is a pleasure and a privilege that we’ve milked much too long. The crew on Caprivi don’t take things lightly and when something is at an end, we relish the emotions that come with it. We don’t slip deliriously into the next rational or irrational thing that society suggests. Instead we do things deeply, fully, then marvel and rejoice in the come-to, prolonging it as much as we can. Likely, this is a flaw in our process but it doesn’t really matter. 

Upon finally securing the lines to the cold, drizzly dock in Seward back in October (!), we escaped by means of aeroplane and indulged in two glorious months of vitamin D riddled New Zealand. As I begin to type again, we’ve been back onboard living under six inches of snow atop six inches of old housing insulation that we scavenged from a land dwellers remodel and sewed into a brown tea-cosy, aptly shaped for Caprivi. It’s worked better than we thought. I shall pick up where I left off, diving into the grit that I was avoiding and hope to regale our moments justifiably. This will be the first of a few posts. Thank you for your patience. 

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We had just rounded the top of the Americas – Point Zenith – at 72 degrees north, having leisurely traversed Bellot Strait in clear skies and ice free waters. Polar bears inhaled our scents and we could watch them ponder the shoreline from a far. It was a moment we wouldn’t forget, and in hindsight, we cherished the two knots of counter current before we would be spat out into Franklin Strait. The swell soon hit us and we were welcomed by the usual fog, mist and rain. We motored south for King William Island until we could get an angle on the wind. Midnight came and soon the northwest winds were with us; 20 knots square on our beam along with six foot seas. It was great sailing. Double-reefed with the staysail, a knot of fare current and a sustained eight knot speeds through the water – we were hauling butt. We’ve forgotten what fast sailing feels like. 

Each hour that passed, heading due south, we lost a substantial amount of daylight. We skirt passed the last jut of 5/10ths ice that decided to reappear in Victoria Strait. Seabelle ahead, was kindly sending us coordinates of ice they had recently seen. Timing was on point with growlers on the horizon soon sweeping by Caprivi’s hull. It was August 23rd, the sun was setting by 9pm – an incredulous bounce back, one week prior barely a slither of darkness was upon us. The wind died off, seas calmed and the visibility became wide open. At once and all of a sudden the sea ice was in our wake; possibly for the last of our trip, possibly never to be seen by the hull of Caprivi again. 

Ahead of us the passage between Alaska and the Arctic ice cap stretched a vast and open expanse. Its extent barely reaching back to Russia and Greenland, and its hold on Alaska and the Canadian Arctic was a woeful, flimsy affair. In the back of our minds a new opening of thoughts began to invade. It could be said that we had officially transitioned through the heart of the northwest passage and what has historically kept sailors from getting through to the Pacific Ocean.

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We switched between sail and motor as we determined to make miles before any weather came in. Approaching the Queen Maud Sound we assessed our fuel situation and made the decision to bypass the hamlet of Cambridge Bay – the largest stop (population: 1700) for anyone transiting through the Arctic – and instead continued west until the weather and our spirits told us otherwise. We viewed it as important to push for miles when the weather wasn’t misery. We informed Sentijn by radio. They resolved to stop for fuel. Unbeknownst to us, our decision had jostled the crew of those in Cambridge Bay and remarks circled whether one should stay in port or push on sooner than anticipated. Either way the intensity to press forward was high. A new notion was in the air – one simply to get out of here as soon as possible.

\\ It’s a bit of mixed emotions as we enter a new phase of this trip. One of still buried elation to have made it through; a little sorrow that the exoticness of a frozen sea is behind us; of relief; of drear and angst for the future of these warming waters and communities; and of absolute humbleness. These thoughts won’t settle in for a while as we’re focusing on the still major task at hand to get down into the Pacific Ocean and out of the Bering Sea before it’s a shit storm of a time. \\

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At midnight we pass by the glistening lights of Cambridge Bay, narrowly making them out against the flat landscape. Ben paid ode to the northernmost KFC that he had previously set his eyes on. A vague tradition of ours is to appraise Kentucky Fried Chicken in different regions of the world. Nothing has come close to South Africa and its American subsidiary. The darkness had taken some to get used to and we’d forgotten what it was like; the relief was in the ice free waters. 

We round Cape Alexander and its patchy islands. The waters were scarcely chartered and new rocks continue to make themselves known by the help from the bottom of the few boats that roam these regions. By day three the barometer began to drop. We were satisfyingly headed due west and pushing on. Temperatures mild and morning set forth barren lands upon pastel shades of sky. Soon the wind clocked our bow from southwest to northwest and we were forced into close-hauled sailing in a short chop. It was more of a slog than we anticipated. Each wave began halting the boat, stealing her energy and refusing her plea in gaining back momentum. We cautiously veered towards land for a calmer fetch but our trust in the charts were naught so we tacked back into the unpleasant, jarring waves that slowed progress and soon all together, conquered the crew’s energy.

After five hours of messy sailing, we took the risk of pulling into shelter near some barely chartered, low lying islands in the pitch black of the night. The radar was still offset, due to magnetic variation, and our depth sounder appeared to be on the brink. Our concerns weren’t eased by the inauspicious name of Disappointment Harbour. Understandably, our bearings were off and we decided to plonk down in the middle of the bay when it first presented an ounce of stillness and when the depth sounder blinked some 30 odd feet. Thankfully, the feeling of sticky mud was sensed beneath our feet. We were glad to be still. 

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A day and half goes by as we anxiously wait. A meal of muskox, cabbage and rice renewed our energy and we motored back out into the then glassy seas of Dease Strait. We note that our cosy harbour, given the circumstances, was anything but disappointing. The Royal Amundsen cruise ship passed us heading in the opposite direction. No one hailed us, nor we to them, only snapshots taken from atop the gigantic deck.

We had 120 nm to our next marginal harbour of safety before the next gale was due. The wind and seas inevitably rose again. Bouts of bioluminescence relaxed the feeling of darkness and great sailing was had as we gybed our way through Union and Dolphin Strait. Speeds of 6.5 knots with just a double-reefed main was our hand. On a sporty tack we finally pulled into Bernard Harbour for a couple of nights, the fleet having caught up with us and we reminisced on land pondering the giant containers of jet fuel that was deposited for the remote airfield that was somewhere nearby. The following evening we dined on the spacious Thindra, enjoying the camaraderie of the handful of crew attempting this passage. 

Our next push was 435 nm to Tuktoyaktuk. The weather forecast was gale force winds but in our “favour.” We left with Sentijn; Seabelle and Thindra followed a little later. It was a slow start as we tried to sail with the asymmetrical spinnaker in light winds before the easterlies arrived. Before dusk we rigged wing-on-wing with the genoa out on a pole and soon began surfing down the back of waves. The seas were continuously building and it was getting intense; appropriate reefing was applied. We gybed the main over and headed inland in the hopes the seas would decrease. We were making good time, and despite the conditions, scallop fettuccine was on the menu. 

By day two we still remained triple reefed with a postage stamp of genoa keeping us directly downwind. New clinks of cups, cans and gaps in our food stores created a musical symphony that we were in no mood to conduct into silence. We’d been surfing down 12 foot waves since the day prior, wind gusts reached into the 50 knot range and temperatures maintained a degree above freezing. Our top speeds hit 13 knots. However, everything felt good and we were in a rhythm. Caprivi was stable, Schmitty – our autopilot, was being a champ. 

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The forecast diminished faultlessly as we rounded Cape Bathurst and we officially entered the Beaufort Sea and its dim, brown waters. Once more we were motoring in calm seas and dense fog. Sure enough, this was when our depth sounder really seemed to be on the fritz as we sailed into the delta of the McKenzie River. A vast expanse of shallow waters ranging from 12-20 feet for miles out to sea. Sediments deposited under our keel into North America’s second largest drainage basin. Barge ships that annually supply the Arctic coastal villages shelter miles from Tuktoyaktuk and small tugs bring in each barge separately over the shoaled waters.

We had weathered the favourable gale and the calm was now with us. Ensuring to skip no steps, the Arctic would swing it’s mood in the opposing direction and we needed to boogy before it arrived. At this point we were constantly checking weather updates and making decisions on the next potential safe harbour. The trouble was that chartered waters close to shore were scarce and those that were, had a labyrinth of rocks and islands to avoid. We didn’t want to take the risk and be pushed into a bad situation. To us sailors, land is scary. The forecast ahead would be a stretch to get into Tuktoyaktuk, the next prominent Arctic village (and only the second village we would visit in the Canadian Arctic and the Northwest Passage). It showed we would be headed by the next influx of westerlies. We were nervous to be in those shallow waters in any kind of sea way, and to approach the harbour with its channel markers beginning a mere five nautical miles from land.

We decided to go for it as alternatives were scant. To do this we needed to veer due west until the wind came in then we would pull off southwest towards the harbour and sail as close to the wind as possible. It was going to be a squeeze. If we couldn’t get the precise angle into the harbour or the forecast was slightly off, we wouldn’t make it and would have to tack back out to sea and attempt it again 12 hours later, or when the wind and seas relented. On a positive note, this is Caprivi’s strong point, she points to wind as graciously as one does and is ultimately in her element. It’s largely why we bought her and she continuously sets out to prove herself.

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It’s a strange thing to motor in flat, calm waters 30 degrees off of your destinations rhumb line. One sense murmurs for us to point directly towards our destination and shave 20 nm (four hours) off of our route. The other more analytical and experienced, held steadfast and maintained that this method would actually allow us to get into port. 

Motoring along we received an unfortunate email from Seabelle saying they had acquired water in their engine and had been disabled. They received help from a boat who’s engineer boarded their vessel but could not fix the issue and instead confirmed its seizure. Seabelle were engineless and it wasn’t looking good. In the meantime, the engineer had accidentally swapped out their socket wrench that’s needed to hand crank the engine, and kindly left behind his hat for humors sake. It’s likely they had water backing up into the exhaust while surfing down waves in the previous night’s gale. They had no option but to sail an agonizing two knots speed and tuck into Cape Parry with Sentijn and Thindra who could assess their options together. As it were, we had pulled ahead of the fleet in the last 24 hours and were now 30 nm to the west.

Ben subsequently spent the next half day scouring his head and the internet (thanks to Starlink) of how this could be remedied. There weren’t many resources up here to pull from. First issue, they would need a tow into harbour, 120 nm away, as well as a second opinion from a mechanic before throwing in the bucket of getting out of here with a working engine. There would be the option to sail and get south into Nome to haul out and avoid being stuck in a region of sea ice for ten months. However, this was 1200 nm (2400 km) away and in treacherous seas that one ought not be wind bound and, ideally, with a crew of more than two. We contacted friends in Newfoundland (still Canada) who could source an engine but it proved too tight and costly. The decision was quickly made that they would get a tow into Inuvik and haul their home out for the season, fix the engine and return ten months later when the ice had melted again. This ordeal happened so easily and is one of those risks that you take to get the privilege to be up in these regions and by your own devices. 

For this to have happened to any one of us up here, Calin and Sonia were the most optimum: both by character and vessel. Calin was astonishingly still cracking his jokes over the phone while this reality was setting in. It’s immensity was stark and felt between all of us; for these vessels are each our homes. There’s no chartering in these regions. There’s no such thing as insurance. We don’t have anything else to call our own, just these floating structures that we love to sink all of our time and hard earned money into, just to make it possible that such an adventure like this could happen within our lifetimes. It’s a confounding display of one’s disposition to take an event like this on the chin and adapt to it so eloquently. An ultimate measure to ones character is how they react to times of adversity. I have much respect for the crew of Seabelle for how they handled this situation.

As for Caprivi, I don’t think it would have been the same. For one, it would have been impossible to be towed 100 nm up the McKenzie River to the town with haul out facilities given the three foot depths of the river, secondly, being frozen into the sea ice with a fiberglass boat was out of the question. Our only option would be to fix it or sail. 

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Eight hours after rounding Cape Bathurst, the wind made its appearance. As planned, we cracked off and thankfully towards our destination. We immediately had the working staysail up and a reefed main as we began beating into eight foot seas, 36 degrees on the wind. Sea spraying over the deck was the go, the sailing was rough and Ben slept on the floor in his offshore gear ready to assist at the helm in his off watch. We were only making five knots but if there was one solace, it was the full moon that lit the seas ahead and thankfully depths of 23 feet were maintained. We pushed on all night, the wind finally giving way, allowing us a little more room just as it increased in velocity. One vessel that was ahead of us for days and whom we had yet to meet, began heading back out to sea and we passed them wondering what was going on or if they weren’t able to point into the conditions. 

We hit the narrow channel with 30 knots of wind on the beam while navigating the 11 foot depths. Caprivi draws 7.5 feet. We held our breath with barely three feet of water under us. Luckily the waves had dissipated and images of us lunging down into the trough while scrunching into the bottom was not the case. Thank you to Tangaroa – god of the sea – who rejected this from our experiences. 

The noon entrance was unflattering and the waters still murky brown. The presence of nothingness was the sight and we couldn’t have been happier to have made it. But we had a job to do. We needed to haul 50 gallons of diesel by jerry can and dingy, unload garbage, pick up some fresh veges, collect a bottle of whiskey from a GPS point and get ready to head back out to sea first thing in the morning to catch the next procession of “favourable” winds. This meant blowing up the dinghy in the 30 knots of freezing wind and horizontal rain, getting in and figuring all of this out on foot before dark in this seemingly empty Arctic village. 

Our first line of duty, however, was to rile up Skokica, whom we’d finally caught up to. His reputation was that of ballsiness, experience and that of a hurry. A world map inside the ski-jumping Slovenian’s vessel displayed his three times around the world routes. He’d bypassed New Zealand every time and needed to amend this at once, it was obvious the northern route would be the choice. Josiah and Ben get fuel and I head to the grocery store. We’re wet and bothered, entranced in our foul weather gear just to get to shore and buy some potatoes, while Ben stressed the whole time about Caprivi’s meagre shelter in these high winds. It sure is an interesting life one has chosen. 

The town of Tuk had been in our thoughts, it’s recent access of an all-weather road meant folks now drove up here to view the Arctic Ocean. Subsequently, Josiah’s friend rode a motorcycle here in the summer and had left a bottle of whiskey for him located at a certain GPS coordinate. This unexpectedly lubricated our minds months prior and gave Tuk a new meaning and adventure. Before leaving Caprivi, I asked if I should pack cups for the occasion. It was quickly dismissed, and on arrival to the once marveled bottle of liquor, we burst into laughter as Josiah pulled out a 50ml tincture from behind a rock! We couldn’t believe it but shared in the findings nonetheless while being battered by the weather and merrily toasted to our success. 

After 450 nm and an unforeseen marathon onshore, we were back to Caprivi by dusk and ready to do it all again tomorrow. In a moment of reflection, we realised we were dodging opposing gales while catching the favourable, only a hint of calm between the two. Definitely not what we had in mind for the Arctic forecasts. I do suppose it had ostensibly drifted into autumn; summer had slipped away just as plainly as it arrived while we had been waiting patiently on the other side. We rested and gorged on spag bol.

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Note: this is part one of an incoming flux of blogs catching up to our arrival in Seward in October 🙂 I do apologise for both the onslaught and the delay.