Clifden to Djupivogur – into the midnight sun

In which we leave Ireland astern, heading north towards the Faroe Islands and ultimately Iceland. The contrast between a cruiser and a racer’s mindset is brought into sharp focus, fishing is attempted, helio-geometric observations are enjoyed, and darkness is left in our wake.

At 0800, 20th of June, we raise the anchor under a warming Clifden sun, and head for the Atlantic. We motorsail between Inishboffin and Inishark islands, abandoned buildings telling the usual tale of urban/mainland drift. As the wind fills in over the morning it is further north than expected, the chill in the air is an early wake up from the champagne sailing of the last few days; we’re arctic-bound, and we better believe it. Teddy slogs along under four sails until the mizzen is in a constant state of luff. We’re staying hard on the wind to stay offshore and make Achill Head on this tack, the lumpy northwest sea reflecting strongly off the nearby cliffs. It’s a lovely start to the passage, easy on the helm, and great off-watch naps as we settle easily into the watchkeeping rhythm. Rounding Achill Head we turn nor-northeast for the Inishkea Islands, and a possible dinner ashore with “the hermit” of Inishkea North.

Hove to under main alone, Nick catches dinner off the Inishkea South rocks around 1700. Four mackerel on one drop, the curse is lifted. Or is it? “Purely by coincidence”, Hue is asleep throughout the provisioning, and can barely believe her eyes when confronted by the omega-rich morsels. We carry on to anchor under sail, as Nick and I uncertainly debate the willingness of a Buddhist hermit to eat fish. If ignorance is bliss, we could be reaching Nirvana here. At least we can assume the hermit will be too nice to be outwardly upset by our oily offerings. We row ashore to a low-lying island oozing history, and are greeted by a flock of sheep streaming out from amongst old stone walls and barren potato mounds. The hermit wanders down to greet us, looking disappointingly un-hermitlike with his clean clothes and freshly shaved face. At least his feet are bare. The hermit is a good friend of Nick’s, having welcomed him ashore on numerous occasions throughout Nicks’s northern wanderings. He recently spent three years in silent meditation on the island, his buddhist vow of silence only broken by his Irish hospitality towards wayward sailors. I chuckle slightly at the thought of the silence vow being broken to communicate with a deaf man; every image I have of the Buddha indicates he enjoyed a good joke.

The hermit leads us on a tour of the island, combining history and geography lessons with a genuinely warm welcome to his slice of paradise. Neolithic ruins and early-christian crosses mark a large man-made mound; previous monkly occupations included a dog-whelk dying workshop, circa 7th Century AD. The Island was abandoned around 1930s after a particularly bad storm took ten of the island’s fishermen in one night. The hermit’s family own one of the two complete buildings on the Island, and he spends a fair amount of time out here. The Inishkeas were used as a Norwegian whaling land station in the early 20th century, and later occupied by Sea Shepherd in the 1980s to cease the local culling of seals. After our evening wander we head to the hermit’s house for dinner with him and his wife, mullet politely refused in favour of some lighter-karma salad. Back aboard Teddy by 2300, we have our last sleep in Irish waters.

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We raise the anchor at 1000 after breakfast and some stove maintenance, and motorsail out in search of a forecast southwesterly. The forecast holds true and by midday we’re running flat downwind under genoa, main and mizzen; it feels damn good to finally be underway. By 2100 we’ve had dinner, and I can no longer contain my need to fiddle on the pointy end. We’re still running flat on a magnetic course of 020 towards St Kilda, and I haven’t changed a sail in aaaaages. What’s more, the skipper hasn’t yelled for anything all day. To ease my latent bowman’s discomfort (coincidentally while Nick is below doing dishes) I run forward and un-lash the twin spinnaker poles. With the genoa poled out to leeward, and the staysail to windward, I drop the main and we settle into a marginally faster, much less comfortable ride. It’s not a masthead kite, but it’s something. Nick’s thoughts about this set-up are writ large across his silent face, but I plead non-verbal deafness and continue trimming* the twin headsails throughout the evening. The breeze is slowly dropping throughout the evening as the sky grows overcast. The sun is still above the horizon as I head to bunk at 2230.

*”trimming” is herein synonymous with: fiddling, meddling, or generally farting-around in a pseudo-ADHD state

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I’m woken by Hue just before my 0000 watch, as a large brightly lit vessel crosses our stern less than a mile off. Without AIS or other modern kit, we’re left to guess as to the nature and purpose of the vessel. Whatever it was, it was big and close enough to spook Hue, and Teddy is now off-course, heading east. The backed mizzen has prevented Hue from getting back on track. Drop, turn, re-hoist. Hue heads to sleep while I settle in to an uneventful two hour watch, tagging out for Nick at 0200.

Back up at 0600 after a sub-optimal sleep, the rolly fruits of my foredeck-fiddling. This watch is more eventful however, marked by three close encounters with south-bound Sperm Whales, readily identified by the characteristic 45 degree offset spout and boxy forehead. I’ve only seen a Sperm Whale once before, necessitating a rapid post-beer sunset gennaker furl as the South Sea Vagabond skimmed through the Loyalty Islands, en route to Vanuatu. These northern statesmen are spaced out at half hour intervals, the nearest diving only ten meters off our port quarter. I stay on watch later, giving the Skipper a sleep in. Or am I selfishly keeping the whales to myself?

Sometime during the morning the rolling is put to rest, as we shift gears back to the standard four-sails all to leeward approach, the wind having come f’wd slowly. Midday brings the call for a position fix. While not quite traditional/low-tech enough to take a sun-sight with a sextant, our position (via handheld garmin GPS receiver) is plotted on a paper chart, easier said than done when heeling at twenty degrees or more. As of 1200 local time we are at 55 30.272 N 010 30.341 W, giving us approximately 160 nm to run to St Kilda, on a course of 022 (True). There’s nothing much to report for the rest of the day, alternating between sitting at the helm and reading. Teddy rolls along at (estimated) 4-5 knots on a magnetic course 020-030 (magnetic variation approximately 10 degrees here), four sails set and full on a deep broad reach. A large pod of dolphins keep their distance around 2100, enthusiastically backflopping and splashing to port, as a light drizzle accompanies the wind shift from southeast to east. Bunk at 2130.

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Up (late) at 0100, with a viscous cocoa/coffee mug in hand, as Hue took an extra hour on her watch (probably trying to break her cetacean curse). The breeze has freshened and a light drizzle adds moisture to the spray-drenched deck. The flogging mizzen calls for a reef, as Teddy trucks along at five to six knots, holding our magnetic course of 000-020. On two occasions I’m visited by large dolphin-esque shadows, seen before they’re heard, either Orca or Pilot Whales. I extend Hue’s extra hour to Nick, and tag him in for watch at 0400.

Back on watch around 1100, Teddy’s self-steering really proves her worth, as I notice a distinct slackness in the steering. A steering cable has failed at the tiller end, not that you’d notice unless you were trimming** the wheel, Teddy unwaveringly running down the miles on course. A small part of my brain wonders if Nick loosened the failed cable clamp himself, if only to stop the devil playing with my idle hands, as this problem gives me a solid half hour of fiddling with cold fingers at awkward angles, finishing just in time to mark our noon position. 057 20.170 N 009 52.439 W, a 24 hour run of 108 nm (AKA slightly more than enough). We’ve got about sixty miles to run to St Kilda, although this requires a magnetic course of 065 to account for our leeward drift. Compounding this, the winds and swell would likely render the only harbour unsuitable; perhaps we shall make for the Faroes (nominal port of entry being Sandoy), some 290 miles away. Or will be carried directly to the East Coast of Iceland, with not a single tack put in?

**fiddling again, (allegedly) unnecessarily

The nor-easterly continues to freshen throughout the day, putting the complete kibosh on our St Kilda stop. By 1945 we relent to the excessive heel (and resultant leeway) and throw a reef in the main, standing Teddy back on her feet and pointing as high as possible. A clear sky ahead convinces us to hold off dropping the genoa in favour of the working jib. The sunset, around 2250, is one for the books, painting a lingering psychedelic scene across the northwest quarter of our world. Molten rose gold ripples across the deep blue ocean, prismatic bow spray refracts resplendent rainbows, and colours drip from the genoa leech like a holed lava-lamp. A flock of pastel pink cumulus wander across a field of neon cirri, glowing with all the hues of mother-of-pearl. The sun morphs from a golden orb to a blood-red octagon as it sinks into the sea, and a sine wave of gannets oscillates along the horizon, stitching sea and sky into one contiguous fabric.

We’ve entered perpetual twilight, no more darkness for us, as we run with a long rolling swell from the south, simultaneously sliding over the steeper northeast wave train that has pushed up throughout the day. With not a hand to the wheel (and just as well, considering we’re all still descending from our nature trip) Teddy continues northwards, no slamming or crashing, the port rail getting a good drenching under full genoa and stays’l, reefed mizzen and main. A familiar brown shape buzzes our bow sometime after eleven, a St Kilda Skua perusing these southern intruders. A farewell from the United Kingdom.

It’s already full daylight by the time I’m back on watch at 0400, dirty old instant coffee in hand. Teddy is hissing along with the reefs still in, and the ride has hotted up a touch, with spray dousing the cockpit every few minutes. I’m thankful for the sage advice of the (always fashionable) Captain Cranker; I bought a set of Guy Cotten foulies to replace my tired Gill race gear, and the impermeable PVC is magic for the colder climes. It’s a fairly uneventful morning, occasional Fulmars swooping past for a look as the wind and sea slowly ease, albeit from the same quarter. Our COG is 340-360 True, perhaps we’ll be waving goodbye to the Faroes also.

Our noon position (59 29.685 N 10 58.220 W) gives us a noon to noon run of 137 nm, averaging over 5.5 knots. Knot bad at all, more than enough. Finally north of Scotland and the Orkneys, we’ve got about 195 miles to run down to Sandoy, requiring a course straight up the guts of the nor-easter. It seems like Tāwhirimātea wants us to get a move on towards Iceland; he perks up again after lunch, and we gear down to working jib, in order to ease eating and sleeping operations below.

Stays’l, working jib.

Blue collar solutions for

blue water problems

– High Seas Haiku no. 8

By 2200 however, we’re back up to full gear; the sea has dropped markedly, and the barometer is rising. The sun is fully set at 2318. At the time of yesterdays (2250), the sun was roughly 4 x sun diameters above the horizon; taking 1 diameter to be half a degree, we have a two degree (or 120 nm) difference over 24 hours, which aligns fairly well with our noon to noon run (138 miles straight line). Geometry at sea kids, it’s cool. Further, it takes over six minutes for the entire disc of the sun (i.e. – lower limb to upper limb) to set completely. At the equator this takes around two minutes; at the poles near on twelve hours. The first of many scrabble battles begins as twilight sets in. Final scores: Hue – 220, Josh – 192, Nick 187. *Nick or Hue, am I reading my log correctly?! Nick suggests we all get some sleep as the conditions are incredibly benign and dropping, and the light is such that visibility is no problem. No one on watch? Definitely not recommended by the orthodoxy; but those Vendee Globe guys do it, right? Nick’s logic is inarguable, but a small part of me struggles with it. Although I go below, I wake up for a pee -and-a-look-see more than once. My 0300 survey reveals a bold half moon climbing out of the twi-lit horizon of neon pink.

The yanmar splutters into staccato wakefulness, as it’s called up on watch over a flat sea. It’s four thirty in the morning of 25th June, and there’s not a breath of wind. By 0900 we’re motorsailing at least, and now on a different (port) tack, COG 020-030 M. The d-sail is turned off again by 1000, and we’re four-sail reaching across a moderate south-westerly, estimated speed just under four knots. The sun is still blazing through some thin high altitude cloud; the high isn’t going to bother us for too long as it wallows eastwards. We use the champagne conditions to air out underclothes and sleeping bags, and Hue trawls two lines in order to (re)gain some kaimoana-mana. The ship’s clock goes back an hour to Iceland time, and I go below for a nap; who want’s to be awake through 10-11 am twice in one day?

“FIIISSHHH!”

I stumble topside from my time-travel nap, to find Hue wrestling with a reel and shrieking with excitement. “I’ve got a fiiish!” I round Teddy up into the wind, while watching the battle play out behind me. Whatever it is, it’s big, really putting Hue through her paces. A fin breaks the surface at the end of the taut nylon. A long slender fin, with an odd forty-five degree kink in it. A fin with feathers? “Shit. I’ve got a bird” The curse runs strong; a Fulmar has foul-hooked itself on one of Hue’s lures, brought to close to the surface due to Teddy’s blistering pace. I help Hue reel the drowning bird in as quickly as possible. It takes a while to untangle him from the line and unhook his webbed feet. We let him rest on the foredeck for a while, before returning him to the sea, hoping that what didn’t kill him only makes him stronger. Hue resignedly stows the rods below.

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Noon. 60 53 060 N 012 33.040 W; 90 nm in 24 hours. We’ve got 230 miles to Papey Island (our turning mark to Djupivogur) on a magnetic course of 347. By 1400 it becomes apparent that high has well and truly left us, as a reef is called for the mizzen, and then the main before 1700. Within another hour we’ve dropped the genoa for the working jib, retired the mizzen, and Teddy is at full gallop. With the barometer falling we recheck all lashings above deck, and make all things below secure for a bit of a sea. Scrabble done by 2310; Nick – 332, Josh – 217, Hue – 164. The mizzen is re-hoisted at 2330 with two reefs to bring us back on the wind. With no canvas aft we had dropped off the wind somewhat, and the resultant oblique angle to the sea was fairly violent. Watches will be sat from the chart table tonight, with regular checks above.

On watch from 0200 to 0400, a solid Force 7 blowing accompanied by four metre waves. She’s a lively ride, but the sea is fairly regular. We’re constantly heeled between 15-20 degrees, with double reefs in the main and mizzen, and Teddy has some decent falls off the waves, although slamming is at a minimum. A GPS check shows that we’ve crossed the sixty-second parallel. The morning progresses in a series of simple food, no hot drinks, and bracing oneself against the nearest flat surface in order to sit/read/eat. Noon. 062 47.767 N 013 03.636 W; 105 nm in 24 hours, 112 miles to Papey. The conditions are slightly easing by 1400, enough for the first coffee of the day. I spend a couple of hours in the cockpit and up on the bow, reveling in the weather. I’ve heard it said that prolonged sailing in decent weather is akin to a challenging psychedelic experience. The intensity ebbs and flows, the occasional larger wave shaking your complacence as you glide down from the peak. The connection to, and absolute awe of, natural forces much bigger than yourself. The dissolution of ego, and recognition of how inconsequential you are in the face of the universe’s machinations. It’s a great perspective check, and riding out the tail end of it brings a sense of calm, joyful introspection. The damage tally from this moderate blow includes the door to the head (1 1/4″ thick oak split through), and the near loss of my beloved spinnaker pole. By 2100 we’ve flattened off enough for a game of scrabble, the main and mizzen both back to a single reef, and the sea markedly more settled. Nick – 243, Hue – 233, Josh – 224.

Relieve Nick from watch at 0400, 27th June. Land Ahoy! As I raise the genoa and shake out the main, I can make out the geometric outlines of several peaks on the hazy horizon. A stack of lenticular clouds point to the Vatnajökull, Iceland’s largest icecap, some 7,900 km². The sun is out and the breeze is off our port quarter, downwind we go. By 0700 we’re 17 miles off Papey, the stays’l and mizzen are dropped and the genoa is poled out as we surf across a greasy sea. the raw geology of Iceland looms nearer and nearer, and the air is full of the smell and fell of ice. We’re here.

We round Papey at noon, and turn the yanmar over to motorsail up the fjord, keeping a few marked reefs to port. Radio chat with the coastguard ensues, a first for Nick, and Customs are notified of our imminent arrival. An officer will drive over to meet us sometime in the afternoon. By 1400 we’re tied up in the small fishing harbour of Djúpivogur. There’s only one other yacht here, a seriously kitted out alloy ketch from Brittany, with all the gear for some serious expeditioning. Steffan the harbourmaster greets us warmly, in thick, lyrically accented English. Nick has visited Djupivogur several times, and it’s easy to see why. A beautifully protected inner harbour, with a couple of cafes/bars within a stone’s throw, and several very good friends to share the time with. We’ve got a two hour wait until customs can see us, so the time is filled with a rum, burgers, coffee and beer. Nick’s good mate Jon Karlsson, a cod fisherman, joins us at the cafe, as we swelter in the landlocked heat. No joke, it’s super warm here, board shorts and jandals are the flavour of the day.

The ever-pragmatic customs officer waits for us to finish our beer before commencing with formalities. His only real concern is our shotgun. Firstly, do we think it’s big enough for bears? Secondly, do we have a lock for it? The answers to these questions are: “we hope we don’t have to find out”, and “sure, let me just find a suitable shackle and padlock…” It’s an entirely painless encounter, lacking any of the onerous bureaucratic bluster encountered in other ports, and all wrapped up inside half an hour. We’re now free to explore Iceland.

Explore we do. To the hot pools for our first wash in a week or so, then pizza and beer at the hotel. We scramble up the small hill behind “town” to survey our surroundings, climbing over raw lichen-covered rock and weaving between patches of blue lupines. The combination of post-passage achievement, warm water and a full belly has a markedly soporific effect on us, especially those of us (moi) that are never able to nap during a landfall day, despite being up since 4 am. The sedative is not potent enough to quash my strategic scrabble game; passing out at the scrabble board halts Hue’s storming march to victory, and ensures I don’t get another “L” on the scoreboard. GAME ABANDONED.