THE Sailing Day of the Trip

So, two days out from being over and done with this summer-long journey, we wind up having what may have been the best day sailing so far.

It started with the fresh breeze out of Lerwick, which persisted south of the Shetlands. And contrary to forecasts -- not that they've been right once this summer -- the winds persisted through the course of my 6-9pm watch.

We maintained an eight- to 10-knot speed for the three-hour run, and though the Finns were, let's call them "directionally challenged" at the helm, we made a good, 25-plus-mile run. The sun went down in a blaze of pink cirrus clouds as the waxing gibbous moon rose in the southeast. And by the time we went off watch, we'd reached Duncansby Head, the northern tip of the mainland of Scotland. Even the Finns weren't scowling as much as usual.

On top of that, we even had a fly-by by a tall ship. The three-masted behemoth, with sails flying from all the yardarms, appeared on the southwest horizon as an amorphous shape -- an island where there wasn't supposed to be one. As it grew bigger and began to take shape, we could see the brilliant white canvas driving the ship downwind to the northeast. And as she moved past our stern, the lowering sun brightened the fields of canvas into a mirage, an image from a bygone era: a lone tall sailing ship plying a foamy, spray-soaked sea beneath a cloud-streaked sky that spoke of rain to come.

The ship disappeared into the haze on the horizon, as anonymously as it had appeared. Norway's tall ship headed home after a summer abroad? Seems a likely bet.

Our 3-6am watch that followed was, however, a tad anticlimatic as we came topside amid a field of North Sea oil platforms, ships servicing the platforms and a now-lessened wind that had us full-on motoring to the south. The lights from the plaforms were such that it felt like we'd gone to sleep in the middle of the wilderness and awakened in the middle of Times Square. On top of that, the flames spewing from the tops of the oil rigs recalled nothing more than the drive through the environs of Elizabeth, New Jersey.

Oh well. 'Twas great while it lasted. In all, we covered about 176 miles in the 24 hours after leaving Lerwick. Now we're still full-on motoring but the wind has swung through our bow and is now coming from the southeast and building. My watch team is about to go on duty at 2pm, a watch that will run through 4pm. I'm hopeful that we'll be able to roll out the yankee headsail and maybe get our speed back up into the eights and nines (we're in the mid-sevens right now), and maybe even get in a bit of steering. Yes, with the Finns at the wheel we'll cover more ground than if we let the autopilot keep us on the straight and narrow. But if it placates them even a little bit, it'll be worth it.

Two watches to go, in all likelihood: 2-6pm and then 12midnight-3am. We should be nearing the River Tyne around 10am, the time we're supposed to be on next, which means everyone will be on deck and Boogie will be at the wheel. The countdown continues...

Down The Homestretch They Come

And of course, since the trip is almost over, the sailing conditions are now spectacular.

We left Lerwick this morning amid a nice westerly breeze. The island being to our west, that meant that the wind was moving us along nicely but the seas remained calm. And move along nicely we did: we were over 10 knots for a good chunk of the run south along Mainland Shetland, as it's known.

Now we're out from under the southern tip of the island, exposed to the open ocean to the west. And though the seas are rough and rolly, the sailing is still spectacular.

I should say "motorsailing" as opposed to "sailing" because we've left the engine running, which is giving the wind, and us, a bit of help. While the droning of the damned diesel usually annoys the hell out of me, not this time. For one thing, with the engine going, we're setting a torrid pace for our return to Newcastle and the completion of this trip. And for another, I like going fast so that little extra oomph is a kick in the pants after a summer of plodding along at five knots.

We're in the mid-nine-knot range now and the sun is shining and the sea is shimmering. We're on a close haul -- we're sailing close to the wind -- so the spray is cascading over the bow at times, exploding in a million diamond-bright droplets in the brilliant sunshine. The diamond stardust hangs in the air for an instant and then falls back toward the boat, where it gathers into rivers of crystal-clear water that course aft along the decks and back into the sea. And then Polar Bear surges into the next wave and the cycle is repeated.

I'm below in an empty saloon, heating up the chili that I cooked for yesterday's dinner -- a dinner we all instead decided to eat ashore in Lerwick (as I knew we would). But it was my watch's turn to cook so cook we did and now it'll be ready for this evening. Maybe. Because we're close-hauled, the boat is at a nice, steep 45-degree angle. Yes, the gimbaled stove keeps the big stew pot mostly level, but it didn't stop a lurch a few moments ago from launching the lid of the pot across the galley. I'll get this stuff cooked (though truth be told: it's not my preferred chili; I'm forbidden from giving it any bite like my normal recipe because apparently not everyone likes spicy food); it will be interesting to see how many brave the boat's heel and the rollercoaster ride to sample the fare.

My watch goes on at 6pm and we'll be topside until 9 (well, we'll see if the Finnish sourpuss is up there the whole time; if he gets to steer a lot, he just might). The wind over that period is forecast to ease a bit, and by the end of that stretch we should be nearing the coast of mainland Scotland, which should mean calmer seas. And then we'll head south along the coast in ever-slower winds, winds that are also supposed to move forward and be right on the nose for the final day's run into Newcastle.

But for now, it's a great ride. Strap in, hang on and enjoy!

And Still More Positive Vibrations

We've made the turn into Yell Sound and wow! Easily the best sailing of the summer so far. Talk about last-minute redemption.

The wind that had been on our starboard quarter is now solidly on our beam, and here in the lee of the outer shores of the mainland island of Shetland the water has calmed. But the wind is still running in the 20s and Polar Bear is reveling in the conditions, reaching along at nine-plus knots under bright sunshine. With the engine and generator off, the only sound is the wind in the rigging and the water racing along the hull; these are the conditions that make even die-hard powerboaters and landlubbers come to enjoy (if not love) sailing.

Boogie is letting each of the guests have a turn on the helm, trying to make hay -- or sailing time -- while the sun shines, so to speak. Even the Finnish sourpuss seems to be enjoying this run through Yell Sound.

Rounding the Final Turn: Iceland to Shetland

We're about five miles from the entrance to Yell Sound, the entry point into the Shetland Islands. We still have 30-odd miles to go to Lerwick from there, but by that point we'll have made it to the Shetlands and this leg of the voyage will be complete.

And it's been an interesting leg. Following the diversion to Husavik, it's mostly been a motoring or motorsailing journey (surprise, surprise). But in the last 36 hours or so, we've been sailing, more or less. For the past 18 hours, we've been rockin', actually.

The wind has been from the starboard quarter, meaning we've been running off before the wind on a broad reach. And once the wind shifted to that direction, it started building...and it built into the night until it was in the high 20s and low 30s. It made for a fun, but dark, 9pm-12midnight watch; the 6-10am watch this morning was still fun but with visibility, occasional patches of blue sky, and seas that had had all night to build. Big, rolling swells of deep blue, flecked with white manes, all beneath a powder-blue sky...it was a wonderful morning.

Thankfully. Because prior to that, the journey had been a real drag. Teamed up with the Finnish couple, it was a day or so into the trip when I realized: for the second time this summer, we have a Nordic couple in which the female is the stronger member of the pair. And in both cases, it was the male who'd brought the couple to sailing and the Polar Bear adventure in particular.

In this case, the fine gent took the fabled Finnish stoicism to an extreme: he pouted and sulked through every watch, spending the majority of every watch below in the cabin, and never lifted a finger to help with any of the assigned team chores. His wife, on the other hand, was topside for pretty much the entirety of every watch, no matter how cold and damp, and was tirelessly helpful when it came out turn to clean up the galley.

I don't blame the guy, really. He, and all the other guests on this trip, signed up for a sailing trip from Greenland to Reykjavik and on to the western isles of Scotland via the remote outcrop of rock known as St. Kilda. What they got, instead, was a delivery trip. Instead of savoring the journey and exploring new places, these guests got stuck on a trip where the be all and end all was to get Polar Bear back to Newcastle by Sept. 10. No time to stop and smell the roses, so to speak, and no time to dawdle en route. It's a go-go-go task, which mandated the excessive use of the engine and a reliance on the autopilot on pitch-dark nights. Bottom line: these guests got screwed. And they know it.

But they didn't get screwed by Boogie, Marlies or me, or even the weather. In the case of the weather, it is what it is, to spout that idiotic maxim of today; they knew bad weather was a likelihood on a trip in these waters at this time of year and they were OK with it. And Boogie, Marlies and I are only the crew; we didn't determine the course of this trip.

No, the fault lies solely with the aforementioned Alfred, owner of Polar Bear and the only one involved on the supply side of this service-oriented business with no regard for the customers. But I've been over his idiocy before so let's leave it at that.

However, for this silly Finn to pout like a 12-year-old is pretty asinine. We're out here in the middle of the sea, nothing's going to change the circumstances until we reach port. You might as well enjoy the trip as best you can -- and then beat the shit outta the owner once you're on land. OK, maybe there's no need to get violent but you get the idea: take it up with Alfred. In the meantime, get with the Monty Python plan and always look on the bright side...

And there was a lot of bright side, particularly in the last couple of days. The sailing was been a zippy, rollercoaster ride to the southeast and we've seen a bunch of wildlife en route. For the first time -- the FIRST! -- this entire summer, we encountered a pod of orcas. Woohoo! I dig orcas, having watched them back in Alaska quite a bit. Before I started preparing for this summer, I had always thought they were a Pacific-only species. So when I learned they were common along our route from the Shetlands on, I was stoked. And then...nothing. Not a one until today, so that was some small bit of last-minute redemption.

We also had bioluminescence on last night's sail. Swirling in the waves along the hull and in the wake behind Polar Bear, the little glowing blobs mirrored the brief starry skies we enjoyed early on, and then continued long after the clouds had obscured the skies. Always one of my favorite parts of sailing, bioluminescence is one of those magical special effects of nature that still make me feel like a little kid every time I see it.

Also notable on this leg were the gannets, pelagic birds we've seen since the start of the summer but not so often up in Greenland and Iceland. Ever since we neared the Faroes, however, their number and size have increased. In particular, I've seen a bunch of juvenile gannets that have been just enormous: wingspans that, on first glance, made me think of an albatross (which, it must be noted, I've never seen in the wild). If those are young of this year and they get that big in just a few months...yikes. They've been THAT big as they swoop and soar in circles on the wild winds, never alighting on the water but instead disappearing downwind, only to return (the same bird?) a little later on. Majestic. Like frigate birds of the north.

And then this morning we were engulfed by hundreds of fulmars, all gliding on the winds around Polar Bear and dotting the waters around her as she plowed through the swell. It was reminiscent of that evening we rounded the southern cape of Jan Mayen, with countless fulmars in every field of view. It called to mind Alfred Hitchcock, to be honest, but these birds seemed disinterested, at best.

Sure, the monotonous motoring and the damp, foggy skies were a drag, no doubt about it. But that's what you sign up for on northern waters. Deal with it. That this Finnish bloke couldn't see past his own nose was a bit of a downer. I was letting him drag me into his funk but the conditions of the past 24-plus hours snapped me out of the fog and back into the sunlight of a fun passage at sea.

So now it's on to Lerwick, where we'll spend the evening at the dock and then head out in the morning, bound for the final two-day run south to Newcastle.

Return to Akureyri

We arrived in Akureyri early yesterday morning amid thick fog and placid waters. We tied up to the same dock we'd been at when we were here back in July and cleaned Polar Bear stem to stern. The harbor staff showed up and connected the water and electricity, the customs man came and went, and we were free to play.

First up was, of course, the pool complex. The hot tubs and steam bath were still soothing, the slide still wacky fun, and the facilities all top-notch. A restoring visit once again and I emerged squeaky clean after two weeks of alternating clothes -- one set for on-watch, one set for off-watch -- and regular tooth brushing as the means to maintaining sanitary living. And the earlier-described dip/shampoo in the sea at Hekla in Scoresby Sund was about it when it came to active sanitation methods. Manky? Not quite. But certainly not the height of stylish living, perhaps.

But Iceland is a stylish nation, after all, so I had to clean up, right? Home to just 300,000 people, it is, nevertheless, home ground for several high-end clothing companies that focus on stylish, functional outdoor -- and outdoor-looking -- apparel. One such company is 66 North, perhaps the best-known of Iceland's outdoor companies. I checked out their two stores here in Akureyri and found them both light years better than the store in Reykjavik. In the capital city, the 66 North store was more of a boutique with an emphasis on fashion and city wear. Here on the north coast, one store was an outlet, with bargains on blemished items and off-sizes, while the other store (in a small mall) was more mainstream...but its selection blew away that of the Reykjavik city. If I were in the market for stylish clothes (and had one of my more more tasteful friends here to counsel me), I could easily have spent a ton of money in there. As it is, I walked out with a pair of too-warm overmitts to replace the old Black Diamond versions I sold in my Easter garage sale in Anchorage, and which will come in very handy on the nighttime watches to come.

I hit up 66 North today, a brief respite from final preparations for our departure tomorrow morning. The boat's water tanks were filled, its heater fixed, the forward locker rearranged and packed, laundry done, and food stores put away. We'll head out in the morning bound for the Shetland Islands in what should be a five-day journey or so. The forecast is for every possible wind scenario: dead calm, raging winds courtesty of the remnants of Hurricane Irene; on the nose to dead aft and from both port and starboard sides. It should be an interesting journey, to be sure, and hopefully we'll get to do a bit more sailing en route to Lerwick than we've done pretty much all summer. It's been an overwhelmingly engine-driven summer...not at all what I signed on for. If you know any wind dances, we could use 'em about now, thanks.

All Good Things...

The rain started overnight. A light, misty drizzle when I awoke around 3am; a wind-driven torrent coming down the open companionway when I awoke around 7am (before anyone asks: I closed the hatch). I wandered over to the Lerwick Boating Club for a hot shower and it's just nasty out, as you can see from the "after" photo (to yesterday's "before" shots) at right -- more of what I expected weather-wise from this North Sea archipelago.

Good Morning, Lerwick

While lying in my bunk early this morning, I heard what sounded like the water pumps, indicating that someone was taking a shower on the boat. "That's weird," I thought. "We all showered at the boat club last night." Must have been a dream, it seemed, because not long thereafter, I heard what sounded like a woman's voice on a loudspeaker, issuing orders in some bizarre tongue. "That must be it; I'm dreaming." Thing was: I've had some odd dreams in my life, but I couldn't quite figure this one out. So I finally woke and went topside, only to find we had some company on the wharf...and with that company, the source of the water-pump noise (the Fram's engines as it docked) and the voice was revealed...



(And as you can see, it's another crackin' day here in the Shetlands: blue sky, puffy clouds and nice breezes out of the west.)

Scenes from the Shetlands

A few quickie images after a delightful day in Lerwick. A short motorsailing cruise around the area occupied the morning, while the afternoon, after the guests had departed, was spent cleaning the boat from stem to stern. Evening meant showers (Ahh! Hot water!) at the local boating club followed by dinner -- our second truly spectacular meal in two nights...and I cannot overestimate the quality of the meals I've enjoyed in this small town the last two days -- which included a long, entertaining post-meal discussion with the Norwegian sailors at the next table over...all of which took place under the blue skies of a long, high-latitude summer day. Spectacular. Simply spectacular. This place is definitely on the "to do more of in the future" list. More details tomorrow; now...sleep.

The impossibly picturesque village of Lerwick, Shetland







Local kids powering through an afternoon rowing practice -- side by side, no sliding seats, no thin rowing shell...tough stuff





The (fuzzy) view north from Lerwick Harbor at 11:45pm on Memorial Day 2011

Dateline: Shetland Islands, UK

29 May 2011
1730 hours, local

Landfall in the Shetland Islands

We're currently motorsailing along the eastern shore of the main Shetland Island. It's rainy and windy out, with coast guard warnings of a force 9 gale imminent (thankfully, from the west so the island will provide some protection), followed by a force 10 gale in the not-too-distant future. We're about an hour and a half from the port of Lerwick, where we'll tie up for the night.

As an aside: we're at just about the latitude of Anchorage (and Bergen, Norway, just a couple of hundred miles to the east) and the island scenery recalls that of the Aleutians Islands back in Alaska: treeless, green, windswept and rainy.

It's been an interesting two days' journey from Newcastle -- not least of all because this journey has implications that past trips haven't. In the past, I hadn't sold my home, my car and most worldly possessions; I was just out for a temporary sojourn. In the past, I wasn't contemplating a season in close quarters with complete strangers (foreigners to my Yankee sensibility, no less); I was just out for a few days with people of like interest. In the past, I wasn't hoping to learn the lion's share of what remains in my nautical knowledge with an eye toward possibly moving aboard for the foreseeable future; I was just out to learn a bit more on that quest and have a good time in the process.

So there's been a lot going on inside my head the last 48 hours.

I broke with tradition this trip and didn't throw up the first evening's dinner. That might have been because I napped through the meal but who's counting. On the whole, I've felt better than I usually do first day out -- gratifying since I haven't been aboard in more than a year. I did feed the fish at the end of my 12-3am watch, but it was no big deal and nothing too troubling.

I've been doing a lot of sleeping during my off-watch times, which is par for the course for many as one settles into life at sea. I find it's not so much a case of getting one's sea legs, but rather, a case of getting one's sea head or sea stomach. Perhaps I'm splitting hairs here but it's a distinction that fits, I believe: I find that it's my head that takes adjusting (hold the jokes, please) rather than my legs. My balance and ability to move on board a boat comes back quite rapidly; a clear mind and visual focus (when belowdecks, especially) takes a bit longer. I cooked dinner for the boat last night (chicken curry, and "cooking" is giving it too much credit...it was more "mixing jars together") and am typing this belowdecks right now, so it appears that my mind is adapting to the marine environment.

And that mind has, as I mentioned, been doing a lot of thinking over the last 48 hours. As I did last spring en route from St. Maarten to New England, my initial thoughts were quite full of doubt: "I can't do this full-time because it takes me too long to recalibrate to life at sea" and "There's no way I can sail singlehandedly: I like to sleep too much."

Those feelings have waned, particularly in the last day. Racing along at sunrise before 25 knots of wind with porpoises tagging along us in the moderate seas can lighten one's mood. Being able to actually see the minute gusts-within-gusts manifested in the ripples on the water's surface as you look into the sun rising over the sea to the east makes the very air seem like a palpable, conscious entity. It's as if you can talk to the wind -- and expect a reply. The reply, of course, is when you feel the sail grab the gust: the boat accelerates before the increased force, heels a bit and then you feel the wheel tug against your hands. Throw in an hour of accompanying ballet courtesy of the porpoises and those are the connections you seek when you come out here to sea.

And there's no feeling that can compare to landfall after time at sea. Whether it's your home port (or region, in the case of last spring's sail from the Caribbean) or a place you've never seen before, there's something special about doing the work and spending the time to reach a place on your own. Landing on an airliner just doesn't compare. Quicker? Easier? Certainly. And maybe just as exciting. But it's not as gratifying. Or as welcoming.

So thus far, two days in, Summer Tour 2011 is off to a good start. Not without its bumps; more on those later as we're nearing Lerwick so it's time to head on deck and prepare for arrival. And no, we're not just putting our seat backs and tray tables in their full, upright position...