Blue Water

by Lindsay Wright

  Elkouba was still where we had left her; so, with renewed confidence in the holding ability of the anchor, we stayed another day. The wind howled again that night, and a new coat of snow fell on yacht and landscape alike. When we rowed ashore in the morning, the hardy little Arctic flowers that we had admired the day before were gone. Winter was on the way.

  Large chunks of floe ice, flat and relatively uniform, drifted in Smeerenburgfjorden as we sailed out. It was different from the glacial ice in the fjords. We beat through the frigid flotsam while the north wind blew a frosting of snow into our faces. Once beyond the Fair Isles, off the north-west coast of Spitsbergen, we eased our sheets and reached off towards Moffen Island. I had hoped to see the ‘ice blink’ that I had read about in books, the watery glow which comes from light reflected off pack or heavy sea ice. Despite a rising barometer, however, the sky was still grey and sullen so there was no indication of the ice ahead.

  Moffen Island is just over the 80-degree-north parallel, and is the breeding place of most of the region’s walrus. They use their long tusks to forage on the sandy bottom for Arctic scallops, which they break open. Like the bowhead whales and bears, they were hunted almost to extinction, and, like the whales and bears, they are now a protected species; but they still have to compete with scallop trawlers which drag the sea bed, right into the ice, for the lucrative shellfish.

  Well before Moffen, where landing is strictly forbidden by government decree, we ran into sea ice. Small clumps rattled and crunched along Elkouba’s waterline. Soon, too soon perhaps, we turned back and sailed north-west towards the ice pack, squinting into the driven snow as the log slowly ticked off the miles.

  Perhaps this is part of the attraction of the ice. It is easy to think, if only we had gone a bit further into the pack, if only we had waited a few more days for better weather, if only the boat was stronger so we could push a bit more ice around … We crossed 80 degrees north, a bleak and cheerless bash to windward under engine power. We had been steering north for three months, and were not going to give up now. The wind whistling across the ice cap was bitter, but there were no waves in the lee of the pack ice. Sarah stoked the fire, ready for the return trip, and a reassuring waft of pungent coal-smoke blew back across the cockpit. Soon, I could pick out solid pack ice from the floes — we were there. Our northing days were over, halted by a wall of ice.

  Suddenly I felt at a bit of a loss. Where to from here? I was not into exploring the edge of the pack ice very much in the prevailing weather and increasing concentrations of ice. If we did find a large enough crack, or lead, we could penetrate further north than the 80 degrees 15 minutes we had already achieved, but there was also every possibility of being pinched in the ice and becoming involuntary residents for the next eight, dark, months.

  Almost reluctantly, I pushed the tiller away from me and Elkouba spun on her axis. I eased the sails out for a broad reach, and she picked up and began to foam along in the fresh breeze and flat water.

  I sat in the cockpit, hunched over the tiller, and tried to make order in my mind. I was not sure whether I was happy or sad, fulfilled or frustrated, relieved or restless. This, perhaps, was the enigma faced by Shackleton, Amundsen and Scott. Always, as the boat turns and the compass swings back to the reciprocal, north or south, the question must be there: perhaps we should have gone further, seen more, perhaps seen something crucial? There might have been a good long lead up into the pack ice for 20 nautical miles or so, and polar bears or walrus to see.

  But, perhaps always, the answer is the same. This is just the beginning. We will be back, better equipped, more confident and experienced — and next time we will go further. This is just the beginning of our Polar apprenticeship. And I wondered if Amundsen, after skiing to the South Pole, regretted not traversing the continent.

  The low night-time Arctic sun bathed the sea, Elkouba and her sails blood red — ‘Red sails but no sunset,’ I thought. And Elkouba had indeed carried us safely over the sea. A runnel of frigid water streamed down my spine and forced my mind back to the present. Elkouba raced back to Danskøya and we re-anchored, using the shore transits to drop our anchor in almost the identical location as the previous day so that there was less chance of dragging.

  We were somehow relieved to be back in familiar terrain, and drank coffee laced with whisky in the cockpit, amid the snow-covered coils of rope. Finally the talk turned to Antarctica. Our appetites were whetted. We would be back, stronger and more adventurous than ever.

  XII SOUTHBOUND

  A day later, the sun reappeared and the wind reduced to a sensible velocity. We reached out through Sørgattet, past Magdalenefjorden and, with the spinnaker set, sailed slowly past glacier after glacier. We were probably the last human beings to be on that coast that year, and the encroaching winter gave a melancholy feel to the air. Smeerenburg, the stacks of whale bones and the gap-toothed jawbones of the men who took them, would soon be alone, and under ice for the winter.

  Ny Ålesund had more of a sense of urgency about it now. Scientists were packing up their specimens and samples for the move back to laboratories all over the world. Helicopters came and went, and small piles of luggage were stacked beside the hotel and barracks. I spoke to a young Norwegian who had spent his summer in a small heated shed observing a trio of Arctic foxes that were kept captive in a mesh cage. For 24 hours a day, he and two research mates peered at the animals and wrote down every move that they made.

  ‘You should speak to Harald Solheim at Kapp Wijk,’ I told him. ‘He probably knows more about foxes than anyone alive.’

  ‘He only know how to kill them,’ the young scientist replied scornfully, and went back to watching the foxes, recording their every bowel movement.

  The bird life had thinned out, and what hardy flora there was had withdrawn its flowers for winter.

  We met a Norwegian girl who had hitch-hiked to Ny Ålesund by helicopter to be with her boyfriend. Norsk Polarinstitutt regulations forbid anyone who is not employed by them to stay in the barracks, so she and her boyfriend were living in a tent outside the settlement and he was smuggling food out of the cafeteria for her. They ended up staying in the relative warmth of Elkouba, and, when we bid farewell to Ny Ålesund, Inger sailed with us.

  We had a wonderful waft out of Kongsfjorden. The Mitre was crowned with scarlet peaks by the midnight sun, and the recent snowfall had whitened the rolling landscape down to Kvadelhuken, the cape at the southern side of the fjord entrance.

  Rounding Kvadelhuken we came face to face with a strong southerly wind, funnelling up Forlandsund and kicking the relatively shallow water into steep little waves. We changed to smaller sails and close-hauled them for the beat to windward, and Elkouba settled in to tack her way southwards. Big bergy bits, with just a few centimetres showing above the surface, were only visible when the waves splashed over them. Elkouba pounded in the chop, and ice-cold spray swept across the deck like fusillades of flung needles. Far from ideal circumstances for a first sailing experience, but Inger handled it well. The advantage of this kind of sailing, short tacking to windward, is the work it entails. Working the sails keeps you warm and occupied and your mind off what might otherwise be a miserable experience. In spite of seasickness, Inger hung in there as we tacked between the two ranks of mountains, Prins Karls Forland to starboard and Spitsbergen to port.

  The southern end of Forlandsund was abuzz with activity. Two Polish trawlers hovered about while a helicopter lifted an injured seaman off one of them. The Dutch charter vessel Plancius, a 30-metre former North Sea pilot vessel, and Elkouba arrived off Daudmannsodden within minutes of each other. We had been in the north of Spitsbergen for only two weeks — but it felt like months, and suddenly we were overwhelmed by civilization. We wondered what it would be like to stagger back to Earth after months on the ice pack.

  Inger was, by now, exhausted, and went below to sleep, so she missed the spectacular sail we had down the length of Isfjorden. The wind swung to the west and,
with eased sheets on the working jib and a double-reefed mainsail, Elkouba galloped along, surfing at up to 10 knots off the wave crests. There didn’t seem to be any floating ice in the fjord, so we connected the tiller to the windvane self-steering and sat back to enjoy the exhilarating ride. The Sysselmannen’s boat, Svalbard, a 30-metre former sealer, forged past, her rails lined with heavily clad expeditioners on the way south. She tooted her horn and we waved back, almost literally on top of the world.

  The familiar forest of radio antennae swept past as we rounded into Adventfjorden, past the cluster of orange tents on the field below the airfield and the coal docks with their pyramids of black fuel.

  Longyearbyen’s skyline creaked and rolled as the overhead coal-bucket railway geared up for the winter mining season. We could almost smell coffee brewing at the kulkompani café as we rounded into the wind and Elkouba’s anchor rattled over the bow. Leaving Inger to sleep, we leapt into the dinghy and rowed ashore to walk up the valley to the café. Morton the taxi driver found us halfway up, and we rode in style for the rest of the way while he brought us up to date on what had happened in Longyearbyen during our absence.

  The town was beginning to swap populations. The ‘-ologists’ and scientists of the summer season were packing their projects together for the trip home, and the coal miners, tanned and smiling from their holidays, were taking over the town. Ny Ålesund had been settling for a long hibernation, but Longyearbyen was coming alive. Heavy machinery roared through the streets and four-wheel-drive vehicles bustled about.

  We soon heard that there was one last load of provisions at the warehouse for conveyance to Kapp Wijk, so we brought Elkouba alongside the dock and, using the spinnaker halyard, lifted Harald’s new 350-kg snow scooter onto a wooden pallet I had built for it on the foredeck. This performance earned us a round of applause from the officers on the bridge wing of a nearby freighter. Boxes of tinned food, cases of beer, stores and provisions were loaded, and, late in the afternoon, we headed out for Kapp Wijk.

  Elkouba, despite her thin plating, is built like a working boat. Although I do not mind maintaining varnish and shiny fancy-work on other people’s yachts as a way of gaining income, I prefer my own boat to be rugged and useful rather than cosmetically bright and ‘yachtish’. For this reason I really enjoy working with her, carrying cargo or the small amount of fishing that we have used her for; and this, combined with the constant wear and tear she gets from our living aboard and using her constantly, means she must be a work boat and not a pleasure yacht.

  Our approach to Kapp Wijk was heralded once more by a chorus of howling huskies, and shortly afterwards Harald came alongside in his work boat, his beard parted by a broad smile with handshakes and hugs all round.

  Once again it was the wee hours of the morning, so we unloaded Elkouba, lugged the cargo up to the walled-in skeleton of Harald’s new house, and settled down beside the stove to bring one another up to date over glasses of Russian vodka which had been donated by Harald’s Soviet mining friends from further up the fjord. From under his bed Harald dragged a cardboard box full of a dozen different bottles of liquor and liqueurs, each at a different stage of depletion. ‘Each bottle has a story,’ he explained. ‘Some were left here by Russian miners, some by scientists, some by fishermen, and one came from a yacht that was here for a day last year.’

  We started helping Harald with the new hut, the rattle of hammers at work echoing hollowly across the empty landscape. At night we sat outside and admired the view, or listened to people from all corners of the globe talking to one another on the ham radio. We had come to know Harald’s dogs by name. They were getting excited, he said, because they could sense winter coming on. Summer is a time of enforced idleness for the dogs, sweltering in the heat at the end of a leash, and they are happiest in the dead of winter dragging a sled through the snow. Sled-dogs, like sheepdogs in New Zealand, are working tools, a different animal from their suburban pet cousins. In Canada and Alaska, sledding has become a sport and dog teams are raced against each other like horses. A marathon event, the Iditarod is run over 1100 kilometres of rugged Alaskan territory every year, with great honours going to the winner and his or her dog team; but, as working animals, the dogs’ days are numbered.

  In the last five years snow scooters, called skidoos in the Canadian Arctic and Alaska, have proliferated to such an extent that some local bodies have passed laws banning them because of noise and frequent fatal accidents. As Harald says, ‘On a good day I will take the snow scooter around the fjord to Longyearbyen, but for the real work around the trap line the dogs are best.’ In summer his dogs each eat about 1 kilogram of meat every three days, but when they work during the winter they are fed a lot more.

  Harald told us that a barbecue had been arranged for 3 September, the last day of the midnight sun and the end of the summer season, when the sun goes down below the horizon for the first time. It was also to be a celebration of the 50th anniversary of Kapp Wijk as a trapper’s base. After a couple of days back at Longyearbyen we embarked 10 people, and all the beer, liquor, firearms and equipment needed for an Arctic barbecue, and began the long windward slog across to Nordfjorden and Kapp Wijk. Other boats, inflatables, motor launches and workboats, passed us — all bound for Kapp Wijk — and another Soviet collier steamed close by to get a better look at us. We must again have seemed somewhat of an anomaly: a bright-red yacht, flying a New Zealand flag and manned by Norwegians waving beer cans, sailing down a remote fjord in Spitsbergen.

  Harald had shot a reindeer and, a huge grin splitting his bearded face, he told us the story. ‘I was going around in my boat looking for reindeer when I saw one at the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea. Very quietly, I took the boat to the shore, quietly dragged it on to the beach, carefully lifted my rifle, and BANG — he fell about 1 metre from the boat. This reindeer had a destiny to be part of our barbecue.’

  A driftwood bonfire soon blazed on the beach, and tender reindeer meat spat and sizzled on skewers in the embers. Light snow fell, and cups of coffee laced with potent home-brewed liquor were passed around. Stories of old-time Spitsbergen flowed, in English for our sakes, and in Norwegian. Tales of trappers, hunters, sealers, whalers and explorers, of walrus, polar bears and polar bureaucrats. Elkouba sat at anchor, her red hull blending with the dying rays of the midnight sun and the signal flags I had strung from the rigging barely lifting in the light breeze.

  I wandered away from the fire, a little drunk, and lay down on the tundra, propped on my elbows. For several minutes I just watched, and a feeling of great wellbeing crept over me. The sun dipped briefly below the horizon, to the accompaniment of camera lenses clicking, and the fire crackled quietly to itself. ‘Where in the world does it get more beautiful than this?’ I thought.

  The partying went on for two days. People unrolled their sleeping bags and slept on the tundra, in Harald’s huts or in tents, while Sarah and I commuted to and from Elkouba by dinghy. We drank toasts to Svalbard (plenty) and to Norway, New Zealand and Britain (several). A proposal that we toast France was vetoed. Everyone at the barbecue was well versed in Svalbard’s lore, flora and fauna, but also in global politics and culture. We told jokes in four languages and laughed at them all. We set up a shooting range and blasted away at will, went for walks on the beach and up into the hills, and ate a huge pot of Harald’s delicious reindeer stew, right down to the jawbone, complete with teeth, in the bottom of the pot. Then, reluctantly, people began squirming into their survival suits and dragging inflatable boats down the beach. Summer was over in Svalbard.

  We motored slowly back to Longyearbyen. There was enough wind to sail, but we just could not be bothered.

  Back in Longyearbyen, Bjørn Fjukstadt asked if he could sail to Shetland with us. Bjørn had never sailed before, but he had been a merchant seaman and had mined coal at Sveagruva for 11 years, which, to my mind, qualified him straight away. We asked him to bring some of the food he liked to eat, because our diet might not agree with h
im, and the next day a kulkompani truck arrived at the dock. The truck unloaded enough supplies to provision a Viking longship for a six-month trip. Soon Bjørn turned up to help stow the provisions. ‘Is this enough?’ he asked. I wondered what the extra weight would do to Elkouba’s sailing performance.

  An English expedition, also about to leave the island, asked us if we would like to take what was left of their provisions. This turned out to be a small mountain of sugar, tea bags, liquid soap, dried soups and porridge. We stowed what we could in Elkouba and distributed the rest around the town. Bjørn and I went to buy fresh provisions from the kulkompani store, a facility not normally available to visitors but for which Bjørn qualified, and we left Longyearbyen.

  The dock bustled with incoming mine equipment and outgoing expeditioners and ‘-ologists’. Svalbard radio bade us farewell and bon voyage as we sailed past, and a Soviet freighter, anchored off Greenfjord, sounded a long, plaintive blast on her horn as Elkouba rose to the first long swells of the open sea. We set her bows southwards, but after several windless hours off the coast of Spitsbergen, decided to run into the Polish research station at Isbjørnhamna off Hornsund.

  Bjørn had spent a fair bit of time with the Polish people at Isbjørnhamna. ‘Is good mens,’ he said, which was good enough recommendation for us, so we sailed in. As we motored in to the rock-strewn little harbour, two men came running down the beach and started waving frantically at us. With typical Western paranoia, I assumed they were the Communist party cadres waving away what they thought was a blatant display of capitalist consumerism, but in actual fact, as we got closer, we could see that the men meant for us to approach from further north. Later, after the men had introduced themselves on the beach, one of them said, ‘You are lucky we saw you. Where you were is a very bad rock.’

  The trick, they told us, was to leave the first small reef to port and line up the orange hut on the beach with the fourth window from the right on the main base. That leads you to a good holding ground in about 6 metres of water, close to the beach. Then the party began. The Polish scientists do a year-long stint at the station, and quite a few of them had served similar stretches in Antarctica. Their hospitality was just overwhelming. I was determined not to be a bludger, but their feelings were so obviously hurt if we turned any hospitality down that we just had to accept it. Here the difference in language should really have been a barrier, but it did not matter at all. The old international language of a smile and a handshake won through every time.