Quetzal had recently glided into Lunenburg Harbour under spinnaker, five days outbound from Bermuda. It was great to be back in one of my favorite Nova Scotia haunts, and time to get ­serious. Polar Sun, my friend Mark Synnott’s Stevens 47 cutter, was also in Lunenburg. Mark is a ­climber, professional adventurer and bestselling author. We had most recently sailed together in Grenada, and now he was also bound north, leading a National Geographic expedition through the Northwest Passage, hoping to find new evidence about the fate of British explorer Sir John Franklin. We gathered in Quetzal’s salon and chatted long into the night, discussing our preparations and aspirations for our upcoming voyages.

On June 15, Quetzal slipped her mooring and steamed into the fog. It was reassuring to have Alan, a dear friend from Lunenburg, back aboard. Ron, a Quetzal glutton who has crossed the Atlantic with me twice before, and Mark, a terrific shipmate from Montana, completed the crew. Our job was to sail to Newfoundland, where our Viking voyage would commence. However, our first landfall was fabled Sable Island, a crescent of shifting sands 90 miles south of eastern Nova Scotia. It’s notorious as the “graveyard of the Atlantic,” and more than 350 wrecks form a necklace of tragedy. It’s also home to an unlikely herd of 500 wild horses. It’s also not easy to visit, so when Alan arranged a coveted landing permit, we had to stop.  

After a two-day sail from Lunenburg, we dropped the hook just off Sable’s northern shore. We hailed the park authorities, launched the dinghy, and prepared for a beach landing. There are no harbors on Sable, and landings often go badly because of stealthy wave breaks. We were the first boat to arrive in 2022 and had been warned not to attempt to get ashore unless the conditions were favorable. It was calm and clear as I searched for a stretch of beach with a minimal break and then gunned our 6 hp Tohatsu. In my mind, we were marines storming a beach. As the dinghy plowed into soft sand, a modest wave plopped aboard. We struggled to jump out and haul the dink up the beach. Reality hit with the second, soaking wave. We were four post-middle-aged guys in an overloaded dinghy, but we were ashore on Sable Island.

The park rangers helped drag the dinghy to a spot beyond the reach of the tide. Trekking through sand and marram grass, we encountered the horses. Perched on a low dune near a freshwater pond, we observed an injured stallion fend off unwanted inquiries from a pair of frisky colts interested in his harem of mares. The once-proud stallion was limping badly, and Mark, a veterinarian, assured us his days were numbered. Parks Canada has a hands-off policy concerning all wildlife on Sable, where the horses, introduced in the 1700s, have thrived. Originally from Acadian stock, they have developed into a unique breed to withstand the harsh climate of the North Atlantic. As we made our way back to the beach, we encountered a plump of gray seals, and a few curious harbor seals, a mere fraction of the thousands of seals that breed on Sable.

With strong winds forecast by late the next day, we decided to cut short our visit and head for Newfoundland. After a breezy passage across the Grand Banks, we made landfall in St. John’s. We secured every fender we had and eased alongside an unfriendly wharf. Alan’s friend Mike Riley delivered two beefy 12-foot spruce sections that we later fashioned into ice poles. In the spirit of Viking plundering, we enjoyed great food, drinks and Irish music along George Street, whose claim to fame is having the most bars per square foot of any street in North America. Continuing north, we made landfalls in Trinity, Fogo and Twillingate before arriving in Lewisporte, a small town with the nicest marina in the Canadian north. 

The crew for the next leg, the challenging 1,800-mile, 18-day passage to Iceland by way of Labrador and Greenland, turned up on July 7. Scott, Antonio, Levi, Brian and Jeff had all sailed aboard Quetzal before, some many times and most across an ocean. After a dry run of stuffing ourselves into survival suits and a sobering safety briefing—falling overboard was a very bad idea—we shoved off for an overnight passage to L’Anse aux Meadows, the only documented Viking settlement in North America and a national historic site administered by Parks Canada.

We had icebergs on our minds. Environment Canada provides ice updates online, and I studied them daily. I also downloaded the app Iceberg Alley, which documents icebergs and whale sightings. There were reports of a few stray bergs along our route, and we kept a sharp lookout through the night. We didn’t see any icebergs, but a pod of minke whales escorted us around Cape Bauld at the tip of Newfoundland’s Great Northern Peninsula.

As the dinghy plowed into soft sand, a modest wave plopped aboard. Reality hit with the second, soaking wave. We were four post-middle-aged guys in an overloaded dinghy, but we were ashore on sable island.

We came alongside a new wharf at Garden Cove. Two local fishermen took our lines. They didn’t seem to mind the driving rain and near-freezing temperatures. When I told them that we were headed to the nearby park, one informed me, “You can’t walk there from here.” I was surprised because it was just over a mile away and I’d made the walk before. “Nope, can’t walk there. It’s too wet. But you can take Rabbit’s truck. Keys are on the dash.” 

The visitor center at L’Anse aux Meadows, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, details the Vinland voyages of the Vikings, who reached this faraway shore sometime around 1000 A.D., nearly 500 years before Columbus. Sagas, originally oral histories, tell the story of Leif Erikson’s voyage to Vinland. With a crew of 35, they departed Greenland and made their way north and west. Their first landfall, which Erikson dubbed Helluland, or place of stone, was likely somewhere on Baffin Island. It was a forbidding land, and they sailed on. Their next landfall, Markland, meaning wooded land, was probably along the Labrador coast, but they didn’t tarry and rode a favorable northeast wind farther south. Finally, they came to the shallow, rocky anchorage near today’s L’Anse aux Meadows and decided to make the grassy knoll overlooking the harbor the first European settlement in the New World.  

The term Vinland, or place of grapes, has historically been problematic. The ­sagas are clear that when Erikson sailed for Greenland the following spring, his cargo included grapes and vines. While it is unlikely that wild grapes have ever grown in Newfoundland, the Norse ­artifacts at L’Anse aux Meadows are indisputable evidence of a settlement dating from around 1000 A.D. First discovered by Norwegian archaeologists Helge and Anne Ingstad in 1960, these remains are of Norse-style sod buildings, including a forge and small shipyard. Artifacts include slag from forging, numerous iron nails used for shipbuilding, and more than 50 wrought-iron pieces. It is possible, or even probable, that Erikson’s landfall was farther south, and many historians now believe L’Anse aux Meadows may have been where his brother-in-law, Thorfinn Karlsefni, tried to establish a permanent settlement a few years later. Hiking around the respectfully restored site in a bone-chilling rain, I had deep respect for the men and women who sailed from Greenland in a low-slung boat, probably less than 60 feet long, with a single square sail and only their natural instincts to guide them.

That night, one of the local fishermen provided the crew with lobsters for a feast. Before we shoved off the next morning, Scott took a swim, an invigorating ritual he undertook at every landfall, even when we were surrounded by ice. We made our way across the Strait of Belle Isle and approached mainland Labrador. Fog closed in as we neared Battle Harbor, but, undeterred, we threaded our way through a maze of rocks, racing darkness to the wharf. 

Battle Harbor occupies a rocky outcropping that is steeped in history. A Marconi wireless tower was raised in 1904. Five years later, Robert Peary used the tower to telegraph news that he had reached the North Pole. Reporters from all over the world were dispatched to Battle Harbor, though today, significant historic and scientific research has concluded that he most likely did not reach the pole.  

I had deep respect for the men and women who sailed from greenland in a low-slung boat, probably less than 60 feet long, with a single square sail and only their natural instincts to guide them.

Continuing up the Labrador coast, we finally encountered an iceberg. It was a classic wedge berg, and we cautiously sailed toward it. I used my sextant to measure its altitude and the radar for a distance off reading. A quick calculation put the iceberg at more than 160 feet high and about 250 feet wide. We were in awe and shot photos from every angle, paying homage to the giant castaway from a distant glacier. Little did we know that a week later, we’d be routinely punching through ice-choked waters, casually dismissing isolated bergs like this one while searching for passages through sea ice. 

We anchored in Eagle Cove, a ­fishhook-­shaped harbor carved out of Hawk Island. This was genuine wilderness. We had been warned by veterans of Arctic travel to be on guard for polar bears, and some suggested that we carry a gun for protection. Instead, we carried bear banger cartridges and a pen launcher, which travels about 100 feet and then explodes with a mighty blast. It would certainly get a bear’s attention.

Scott and Brian were a long time ashore before I noticed them in a distant corner of the cove. When I retrieved them in the dinghy, there were shivering in their underpants. They had discovered a bed of mussels and braved frigid water to stuff their pants with hundreds of them for dinner. 

After a swift passage through a steep-sided strait intriguingly called Squasho Run, we made our way offshore. We timed our departure to catch strong but favorable winds on the back side of a deep low-pressure system, and to have as much daylight as possible to get beyond the numerous icebergs that Environment Canada’s weather and climate-change website assured me were hovering near the coast. The first 24 hours were rough as Quetzal ran before near-gale-force westerlies while being rocked by seas from every direction. Not for the first time, we came to appreciate the hard dodger and full enclosure that kept us dry and warm. A day later, conditions moderated, and soon we were under power gliding over quiet seas with a squadron of fulmars tracking our every course correction. On Day Four, 60 miles from land, we encountered many large icebergs. Then, through a clearing in the low clouds, Brian spotted the towering, snowcapped mountains of southwest Greenland. We were entering another world.

Icebergs come in different shapes and sizes. The big ones, which are masses of frozen fresh water, are generally easy to pick up on radar. Bergy bits, usually fragments of larger bergs, are 3 to 12 feet high and more worrisome to sailors, ­especially in bad visibility. Growlers, which occasionally hiss or growl as trapped air escapes, are 3 feet or less above the surface but can be deadly. They’re typically around 200 square feet in size but can weigh up to 1,000 tons. Imagine smashing into a growler at 6 knots.

With the sun shining, Levi launched his drone. He managed to land it on deck while we sailed between bergs. In addition to beautiful photos, it was also nice to get a view of what lay ahead. The wind freshened as we made our approach. We tried to stay upwind of the larger bergs, knowing that bergy bits and growlers were likely to be on the lee side. We slipped around several growlers, and one small berg that tried to block the entrance to the town of Qaqortoq. Its harbor was crowded with local boats, so we tied up alongside the commercial dock. Later, we moved across the harbor to an open fishing dock. Finding secure dockage in Greenland requires that you be ready to move when a commercial ship arrives and that you have long lines with chafe gear and heavy-duty fenders.  

Qaqortoq, the largest town in ­southwest Greenland, is also close to the site of the Vikings’ original Eastern Settlement. Founded by Erik the Red, Leif’s father, around 980 A.D., the ­settlement remained vital into the 14th century. Several Norse remains are visible in nearby fjords. We took on provisions, topped off our fuel and, surprisingly, had a delicious Thai meal in a small restaurant in the port.  

In Greenland, I shifted my attention to the excellent daily ice reports provided by polarportal.dk, a Danish ice- and climate-­monitoring institute. Our intended route was to follow an inside passage south to Nanortalik, then enter Prince Christian Sound. This spectacular 70-mile passage north of storm-ridden Cape Farewell provides a protected channel to the Irminger Sea and the east coast of Greenland. Protected, that is, if you can get through the ice. We were now worried about sea ice, or storis, which is frozen seawater that forms quickly and disappears just as quickly. Driven by wind, current and bathymetry, storis can completely block a passage. Looking ahead a week, our planned exit would likely be blocked by ice.  

High-latitude sailing and planning don’t mix. You take things a day, or even an hour, at a time, then react to drastic changes in weather and ice conditions. We had a hard upwind slog from Qaqortoq, tacking and motorsailing to stay clear of hundreds of large icebergs and countless smaller ones before finding an open spot along the wharf in Nanortalik. It’s a quiet village whose name translates to “place of polar bears.” The protected harbor ­provided a respite from the strong winds. 

The following day, July 19, we picked our way through minimal sea ice and entered the Ikerasassuaq Strait. Gale-force north winds were forecast, so we made our way to a landlocked bay, Paakitsuarssuaq, and conned our way past rocks and ice into the stunning anchorage.

The passage here is, simply, ­magnificent. Sheer-sided 6,000-foot mountains explode from the water’s edge, and several ­glaciers reach down to the sea, calving off bergs and bergy bits. It was calm, and we motored most of the way. Several times we slowed to a crawl, usually just downstream of a glacier, as the channel became choked with ice. Brian and Jeff manned the bow all day long, guiding us through narrow openings and using the poles to shove growlers out of our way. We nosed up to Kangerdluk Glacier and let Quetzal drift. Levi and I stayed aboard, and once again the drone was aloft. The crew took the dinghy to the foot of the glacier and snagged a few nice chunks of ice for captain’s hour.  

Luckily, the strong winds of the night before had pushed the storis south, leaving a clear path out. That night was the most stressful of the summer as Quetzal sailed toward Iceland in fog, gusty winds and ice-strewn waters. Jeff was a champion, manning the bow for hours in the dark despite the cold, wet conditions. We monitored the radar and became adept at picking up even very small bergs. It was an incredible relief to finally gain sea room, and the five-day 600-mile passage to Hafnarfjordur, Iceland, was surprisingly smooth. 

Quetzal and I took a well-earned break in Iceland. My wife, Tadji, my daughter, Narianna, and her fiance, Steven, flew in, and we toured the island by car. Iceland is a rugged land of fire and ice. The Fagradasfjall volcanic eruption was ­greeted with nonchalance by locals and intrigue by visitors. Nari, Steven and I hiked 6 miles each way on a rough trail to get a firsthand look at molten lava. Quetzal was treated well by the Icelandic Keelboat Association, and I gave a talk in Reykjavik in appreciation. We toured the Settlement Exhibition at the City Museum. The first humans in Iceland were Viking settlers who arrived around 870 A.D. In just over 100 years, these bold mariners had made their way to Greenland and Canada.  

The new crew turned up on August 7, and we were underway the next day. Fridrik, a photographer and dauntless sailor who circumnavigated Iceland solo in his 33-foot X Yacht, filmed our departure. Jim, Chris, Sean and Denise, all Quetzal veterans and good friends, had a lumpy first sail as we pushed north through a leftover swell opposed by strong winds. We decided to take the long way to Norway, along the north shore of Iceland, which would also take us just above the Arctic Circle. We skirted the dramatic headlands of the Vestfirdir (west fjords) and made landfall at Isafjordur, where several sailboats were holed up. They were waiting for the ice conditions in East Greenland to improve before carrying on. In what had become a pleasant ritual, we made our way to the pool for a soak. Every town in Iceland has a pool that usually includes a hot and (really) cold tub. You alternate from one to the other. 

We had fair winds as we headed east, rounding the headland of Horn at latitude 66 degrees, 30 minutes. I had a reminder of the many miles Quetzal has before her. In December of next year, we hope to be rounding the other horn, the infamous cape perched at the tip of South America, nearly 7,500 miles of latitude away. 

We made landfall at the small island of Grimsey. Known as the “island on the Arctic Circle,” it’s home to 30 permanent residents, thousands of puffins, and seemingly millions of pissed-off Arctic terns that dive-bombed us as we hiked to the monument that denotes the actual position of the Arctic Circle. It’s a massive round block of concrete. It’s round because the circle keeps moving a few feet each year, and it’s easier to relocate a round monument than a square one. That night, Magnus—the busiest man on the island who runs the fuel dock, airport and his own fishing boat—came aboard for a drink. He informed us that the puffins were getting ready to depart. Apparently, a memo goes out, and within a day or two, all the puffins head offshore and don’t return until the following spring. The terns were also getting ready to start their epic migration from the Arctic Circle to the Antarctic Circle and back. 

From Grimsey, we made a nonstop passage to the brooding and beautiful Faroe Islands, the next waypoint on the Viking route across the Atlantic. We were never alone; doughty fulmars and soaring gannets kept us company. We hove-to just west of the island of Kalsoy to wait for a 5-knot tidal current to change our way. It’s critical to time the tides right, and the Rak app was incredibly helpful. Riding the current, we zipped through the starkly beautiful Leirvik Fjordur channel and made landfall in the capital of Torshavn. The Faroe Islands need time to explore properly, and the few days we had were not enough. We departed for the Shetland Islands, our final stop before Norway, at 0300.

The morning was clear and the wind crisp. Chris and Jim are devoted celestial navigators, but opportunities are rare in the often cloudy north. This was the perfect morning. Chris skillfully measured the angular distance between the silvery crescent moon and Jupiter, a process called lunar distance, and a challenging sight to take. He then patiently worked Jim and me through the process, and, many calculations later, we were able to check the accuracy of our ship’s chronometer. This technique was used by Joshua Slocum and other early voyagers, which liberated them from the need for accurate timepieces. 

The North Sea was determined to keep us from calling at the Shetland Islands. A hard east wind accompanied by 8-to-10-foot seas with an annoyingly short period between persuaded us to carry on for Norway. Denise and Sean took long stints at the helm, conning Quetzal to weather. 

The last three days of the crossing proved to be the toughest as we pounded our way east. Conditions finally eased as we approached the coast. We sighted the red-and-white lighthouse on the tip of Fedje Island in the late afternoon of August 19. It was a bittersweet moment for me. Quetzal had completed her ninth Atlantic crossing, successfully retracing the Viking route, the result of two years of planning and three months of challenging sailing. It was hard to believe that we had pulled it together. But as we made our way into the quaint harbor, the only sailboat in sight, I realized that plenty of adventures lay ahead. 

The post In the Wake of Vikings: Sailing Nova Scotia, Greenland, Iceland and Norway appeared first on Cruising World.

Andreas B. Heide has led several expeditions to the high latitudes aboard his Jeanneau 37 Barba. His most recent adventures have taken him on winter voyages to far northern Norway to swim with orcas and humpback whales. During our conversation, he shares photos and videos of those adventures.

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A day to remember: August 16, 2015. The crew of Barba had been sailing north from Stavanger, Norway, for a full seven weeks, making our way along nearly the country’s entire coastline before heading offshore to Svalbard, and then beyond.

The cloud cover was low and as heavy as a duvet, and off in the distance, a polar bear stalked the sea ice before disappearing from view. As far as the eye could see, we were surrounded by ice. And Barba‘s fiberglass hull let us know it too by its creaking and groaning as we maneuvered slowly through the floes, using every skill we’d trained for, on this day.

We had reached the journey’s ultimate goal: to sail as far north as the ocean allowed us in the best boat we had. And our next goal was just as important: to get ourselves and Barba safely back home.

Barba is a 37-foot Jeanneau, intended for sailing in warmer climes. Perhaps it’s not one’s first choice for journeying in polar regions. But the best boat, as the saying goes, is the one you have. That said, gear, crew, preparation and the implementation of all those moving parts are as important as the boat itself. And we had prepared as best we could for the adventure.

Prior to our trip, a number of upgrades were made to Barba to give us the best odds possible in the north. Radar, AIS and forward-looking sonar were among the upgrades to the old navigation equipment. The mast was reinforced with a cutter stay and running back stays. A new engine was installed to replace the faithful one that had served us well for 10 years. And then, of course, there were all of the other upgrades that might escape the naked eye, including a tailored tarpaulin that we could deploy in case of hull leaks, flexible metal plates for more-permanent repairs, meters of Dyneema anchor rodes, and all manner of first-aid materials meant for patching up both the boat and crew while at sea.

As important as the boat, as any sailor knows, is the crew. Two months earlier, following hectic weeks of preparation, the five of us stood ready at the pier in the south of Norway.

Fresh from the German Alps, Daniel Hug is a mountain climber, outdoorsman, photographer and paraglider pilot with almost every skill in the book except notable sailing experience. Terry Ward, from the United States, is a travel journalist, scuba diver and general adventurer with limited sailing experience from previous (and easier) North Sea cruises with Barba. Ivan Kutasov from Russia had been recruited a couple of weeks earlier when we came across an image on Instagram of him ­sailing in the remote Russian Arctic archipelago of Novaya Zemlya. We got in touch by email and learned that while he worked as a computer programmer, in his heart he was an outdoorsman who had hiked solo for weeks in Siberia, sailed aboard unknown but spectacular Russian sailboats and, most likely, accumulated a few world records for outrunning polar bears and hopping onto rooftops for protection.

To ensure Norwegian sovereignty on board and to maintain the required level of sailing skills too, an old and faithful crewmate from Barba’s Jan Mayen expedition (“Norwegians Would,” April 2016) was enlisted as well. He is Chief Commander Jon Grantangen, a ­weapons-savvy open airman of the highest class, and now an experienced expedition sailor. And then there was me, the skipper, a Norwegian with trips to Iceland and Greenland under my belt, as well as Jan Mayen, the farthest destination north, until now.

As is always the case when Barba sails off on a high-latitude expedition, a common question arises: Why not sail to warmer areas? For us, it’s not about getting a suntan and sipping rum drinks in a pretty anchorage. Rather, it’s about reaching spectacular destinations that are not practically achievable without a sailboat and an adventurous crew.

Svalbard had long been a dream of mine. The archipelago off the northern coast of Norway, high above the Arctic Circle, is known for its unspoiled nature, glaciers and epic wildlife such as polar bears, reindeer, walruses and beluga whales. The distance from mainland Norway is surprisingly doable, with a three-day transit. But despite that fact, an extended sailing trip to reach a place like this comes with many challenges for both boat and crew. And it was precisely this combination of adventure, amazing ­scenery and all-out challenge that became our common inspiration to sail as far north as we possibly could. And what better platform for discovery and adventure is there, after all, than a sailboat?

After a rather pleasant leg up the Norwegian coast, the five of us arrived in Tromsø, as had many a polar adventurer before: giddy to sail away from civilization. On July 15, we saw the mainland disappearing in the proverbial rearview mirror.

With a half-ton of diesel, 40 days’ worth of supplies, paragliders, all manner of scuba diving gear, and weapons for protection from polar bears on board, Barba was riding heavy in the water—but full of hope for distant horizons.

We were still wearing T-shirts when we passed Bjørnøya, or Bear Island, the southernmost island in the Svalbard archipelago. But a day later, the rain came at us sideways. Then, out of nowhere, we saw a bergy bit in the water, a lone piece of ice that was far from titanic but nonetheless felt like a harbinger of what was to come.

The wind was strong and the sea ­frothing as we approached Sørkapp on the southern tip of the island of Svalbard. After our crossing from Tromsø, we finally spotted the snowy mountains on the horizon on day three. And a fresh breeze carried us to Bellsund, the first natural stopover on the archipelago’s northwest coast.

There had been some sacrifices to the sea along the way, but spirits were high as we dropped anchor at a spot specified in the guidebook. We immediately searched the terrain for polar bears but saw little more than bare mountains, snow and herds of reindeer.

A half-hour later, we decided to move on. After studying the map further, we found a new and better anchorage where we spent the night peacefully. Lesson learned. Guidebooks can be useful and have well-meaning recommendations, but sometimes it’s best to go with your instincts and what you find on your own.

Hornsund, where we ended up by using our own intuition, was one of the highlights of the trip, partly because of the good weather we enjoyed there that allowed everything from mountain hikes to paragliding to maneuvering around ice from calving glaciers. The polar bear tracks we saw on the dark sand beach made for plenty of excitement too, as we scanned the terrain with binoculars, sure we’d spotted the animals. But a closer look proved the shapes were just ­polar-bear-shaped boulders.

Soon enough, it was on to Longyearbyen, Svalbard’s population center and a most necessary stop on the journey for both provisioning and obtaining information from local acquaintances. Barba was moored modestly next to a number of steel and aluminum expedition boats. We were not to see any of them again as we pushed north.

Our first port of call out of Longyearbyen was Barentsburg, a small and cozy town inhabited nearly entirely by Russians and Ukrainians, which in many ways was more interesting than Longyearbyen because the contrast in living conditions was so different. The pier wasn’t the best here, but the reception was welcoming, and the local food and home-brewed beer ample. A modern sauna and the chance to walk around a city from a bygone era made it an absolute worthwhile stopover before heading into the truly wild areas of Svalbard.

Our route continued from there, north along the west coast of Spitsbergen, where we fed ourselves on fresh-caught deepwater cod, met our first walrus, and stopped for a few days in the international research settlement at Ny-Ålesund to refill the diesel and party into the ­midnight sun with scientists stationed there for the summer.

For cultural interest, Virgohamna Nordvest in Svalbard was an interesting stopover. A former Dutch whaling station, it’s the place to see the remnants of the equipment used to send off Salomon August Andrée and Walter Wellmans in their attempt to reach the North Pole by hot air balloon (a mission that turned out to be one with a one-way ticket).

The biggest highlight came when several of the crew decided to try spending the night on land in a tiny hunting cabin that was open for overnight stays. Daniel and I were charged with keeping watch on the boat, and when we went to shut the hatches for the night, we saw a polar bear stalking on land. The initial high of our first sighting was quickly replaced by nervousness, as the bear was slowly picking its way toward where the rest of the crew were sheltering for the night. But the majestic King of the Arctic soon headed off on an alternate route around the bay. Daniel and I marveled at the sight of him from the dinghy—I had sprung into action, shotgun in hand, in case of a potential encounter—while our mates were similarly impressed from their quarters ashore.

Svalbard accounts for 19 percent of Norway’s total landmass. The main island of Spitsbergen in the west is flanked by Nordaustlandet in the east and Barentsøya and Edgeøya islands in the south. Even though we had five weeks at our disposal to explore the archipelago, we were limited in what we could discover—there is just so much to see in this part of the world.

One of the many high points while sailing around Spitsbergen was finding a harbor where we could spend happy days as true adventurers under the never-ending midnight sun. Volumes of driftwood made building a fire a natural activity, and we even found waterways to fish that were positively teeming with Arctic char.

The landscapes here have the look of an Arctic desert, yet the contrast underwater is incredible—once you put on a mask, snorkel and drysuit to brave the freezing ocean temperatures. Colorful anemones decorate the sea bottom, along with all kinds of mollusks.

One morning in the northeastern reaches of Spitsbergen, I looked over my shoulder while pulling up anchor on an early watch. A couple of yards behind the boat, something giant was swimming in the flat water. The polar bear alarm was sounded, and it was suddenly all hands on deck.

A young male bear was approaching the boat, with breakfast in mind. We managed to keep him at bay with a large wooden pole intended to move ice away from the boat, slapping the water at times to startle the bear into keeping its distance, and yelling at the animal in Norwegian, English, German and Russian. The bear retreated in the end to a perch on a rock over the water, and seemed to watch us with both dismay and curiosity until we sailed out, bound for farther north still.

After studying ice and weather maps downloaded over satellite phone, we sailed past Sjuøyane, the last piece of land before the North Pole. And at 81 degrees north, Barba was finally halted by pack ice. Surrounded by frozen brine in every direction, we had finally met our limit—and realized our ultimate goal.

We piled out of the boat onto an ice floe the size of a basketball court, and broke out some schnapps from South Tyrol to celebrate. Two members of the crew suited up in their drysuits to go for a scuba dive—one of those things you most likely do just to say you’ve done it. The view below was endless blue, and small jellyfishlike creatures in the freezing cold water was all there was to see.

Later, as we retreated into the open water, we remembered the wise words of our Russian crewmember: It’s hard to sail to the Arctic, but even harder to sail back home again. An uptick in wind had made the ice shut in around us, and the radar showed that we were surrounded. The next couple of hours were spent slowly navigating our way out, pushing with those polar-bear-repelling wooden poles as Barba‘s fiberglass exterior groaned in trepidation.

After 56 days cruising, it was with a great sense of relief that we finally headed back south toward the green-clad mountains and warmer waters of mainland Norway.

But there were other highlights before we left Svalbard, including beluga whale sightings and the chance to sail past the Blåsvell Glacier that covers large parts of Nordustlandet. It is a continuous ice cap of some 8,500 square kilometers; Barba was dwarfed in front of its vertical ice wall looming some 30 meters high.

Moments like those, and many more, go down in the memory books for life. And when we finally made it back to the quay, which we’d last seen some four months earlier, the champagne awaiting us felt well-earned indeed.

The Barba expedition to Svalbard was intended to be an adventure, using the boat as a platform for close interaction with nature. It will never go into any history books of explorations. But in terms of boat and crew, we were pleased to cover some 4,040 nautical miles without damage to either. We had done it. We’d fended off polar bears, flew paragliders from mountain peaks where it had never before been done, and raised our glasses in a toast to adventure on an remote ice floe as far north as we could sail.

And then we’d made it back safely to where it all began.

Andreas Heide is a conservationist and marine biologist from Norway, and is currently preparing his sailboat Barba for an expedition to document whales in the North Atlantic.

Looking for Adventure?

Andreas Heide and Team Barba are planning a return voyage to Svalbard in 2020. They are currently looking for crewmembers, onshore support and partners for the project. If interested, contact Heide at barba.no.

Tips for Sailing to Svalbard

• A good anchor and windlass are high on the priority list. There’s good information online for what type of anchor is recommended in Svalbard. Aboard Barba, I use 100 feet of 8-millimeter chain (I limit it to this length because of weight) and an additional 300 feet of 18-millimeter line. Since that trip to Svalbard, I have upgraded to a Lofrans windlass and a 20-kilogram Spade anchor. I also carry a 3.2-kilogram Fortress anchor that I can attach in series with the spade anchor. And I have acquired an anchor sail to keep the bow to the wind.

• Undoubtedly the best guidebook for the area is The Norwegian Los, which is available for free online.

• The best ports of call not mentioned in the guidebook were found by studying charts and paying close attention to the weather ­forecast for upcoming days.

• To sail to Svalbard, you must apply for a permit with the governor, which is an affordable and straightforward process.

• A satellite phone is an absolute necessity for downloading ­weather files and ice maps.

• Condensation is a classic problem in the high latitudes. Insulate the mast with self-adhesive mats, use insulation under mattresses and along the hull, and be sure to have sufficient diesel on board to keep the boat heated.

• Polar bears inhabit the entire archipelago and are often hungriest during summer. Follow the instructions from the Norwegian Polar Institute on this matter, and there will likely never be a tragic outcome for bear or human should an encounter occur. When traveling outside Longyearbyen limits, it’s imperative to be armed with a powerful rifle in case of an encounter.

• It is recommended that cruisers have experience sailing in polar areas before passing the northernmost point of Spitsbergen. First-time adventurers in these environs should consider sticking to the west coast.

The post Sailing to Svalbard appeared first on Cruising World.

Are you up for an adventure? The Norwegian sailing yacht Barba is once again getting ready to set sail, this time to spend the winter north of the Arctic Circle documenting whales.

The expedition is organized by me, Andreas B. Heide, Barba’s owner, and fellow Norwegian adventurer, Kari Scibevåg. I’m a marine biologist and ocean enthusiast who has lead numerous expeditions to the arctic, including sailing Barba to 81 degrees north, into the pack ice surrounding the North Pole. Scibevåg is second in command. She has dominated the sports of skiing and kite surfing for a decade, and is a world champion at both.

The trip will be an extended version of the previous season’s, when three weeks were spent documenting whales in Northern Norway. Barba will depart in October, transiting a greater part of the spectacular Norwegian coast. Once in Northern Norway, we plan on studying whales from November to February. March and April will be spent sailing, skiing and exploring the remote northern wilderness.

Team Barba is currently reaching out to get volunteer crew to join us for both short and longer legs of the trip. Competent sailors and videographers are of special interest. Needless to say, you’ll need to be rather adventurous to join our ranks. Additionally, any other supporters and sponsors wanting to help tell the story of the whales would be welcomed onboard. Additional information, including details on how to join us can be found at barba.no.

Check out photos from their past adventures!

The post Crew wanted for a Whale of a Time appeared first on Cruising World.

For those who’ve followed our previous posts, you’ll know already that Barba, my 37-foot Jeanneau Sunfast, sailed north in January, covering 800 nautical miles of Norwegian coastline in the depths of winter. We endured -20 degrees Celsius temperatures at the worst and parted with the sun as we crossed the arctic circle. The purpose of our endeavor was spending time with the overwintering whales around Senja, the second largest island in Norway. A thousand or so orcas, humpback, as well as the occasional fin whale roam the waters feeding on herring. Although cold and miserable at times, in terms of experiencing nature, this Barba escapade proved to be a stroke of genius, at least in our crew’s mind.

With the exception of two days during which we were held back by weather, we had the same everyday routine for three weeks, sailing out of the port Hamn, on Senja, with wetsuits and camera gear ready down below. Once at sea, the only common denominator was that it was cold, and that we would end up seeing whales. Some times we had to go far from land, other times, they were close to shore. As the days passed, we got better at finding whales, as well as timing when to jump in. Occasionally we only found a handful of them, but we also had days with hundreds of orcas and dozens of humpbacks surrounding Barba.

A key element of our mission to document these majestic mammals was the work produced by award-winning professional underwater photographer Tony Wu. He has devoted his life to capturing images of whales, in the interest of generating public awareness for their preservation. Tony flew in from Japan for his first arctic-winter whale experience. He was told to post any complaints regarding lacking sun and bitter cold in the Barba complaint box, which is located over the side of the boat. On the second day of the journey, Tony got to spend an hour and a half up close with a pod of orcas feeding on herring. Back aboard, he recovered from his swim and the loss of sensation in his toes due to the cold with a big long-lasting smile. This was the first time he had been with orcas in the water. Numerous whale encounters would follow.

World champion kite surfer Kari Schibevaag was also onboard, realizing a long dream to swim with whales. During her first dip, she suddenly found herself in the midst of a dense school of herring, and realized that she could easily be engulfed by a humpback charging in. According to Tony, this posed a real threat, although in truth, a whale would not be able to swallow her, due to the size of its esophagus. Kari´s reaction as well as other highlights from the Barba whale encounter can be seen in this video.

Whales are good swimmers. They will outperform any diver or sailboat without any noticeable effort. The best opportunity to paddle among them is when they are feeding, in which case they are rather indifferent to you. Otherwise you can hang out with them when they are resting or transiting, in which case they occasionally will come up to the boat out of curiosity.

A sailboat is suitable for whale watching, as it’s a slow, non-intrusive way of hanging out with the friendly giants of the sea. But an expedition into arctic waters is not without its hurdles. We were able to keep the boat warm by continuously using the 4,000-watt diesel heater, but bundling up for each trip on deck required forethought. We suffered one engine failure (contaminated diesel), but were comfortably able to sail to sheltered waters to fix the problem. Still I always get nervous when I am on an engineless boat in unforgiving circumstances.

Overall, I’m happy to report that Barba’s January’s expedition was one unforgettable adventure. Numb hands and feet can thaw, and life in constant freezing conditions is all well worth it once you establish eye contact with a friendly looking 25-foot orca bull that’s nibbling to a herring it just killed with a flick of it’s tail.

Barba is hoping to sail north again for yet another ocean adventure when winter sets in later this year. We are, as always, looking for relevant crew who can help us tell this whale of a tale.

Check out more photos of the whale expedition here.

The post Video: Diving with Whales in Norway appeared first on Cruising World.

The post Photos: Barba’s Whale Safari appeared first on Cruising World.

Setting sail to one of the world’s most remote and seldom-visited islands is fraught with those headiest of sensations: mystery, anticipation, and, as always, healthy doses of fear and respect. But as we boarded Barba, my 37-foot Jeanneau Sun Fast, and loosened lines to depart the southern Norwegian oil capital of Stavanger, the four of us felt another overriding sensation: the realization of how precious little we really knew about where we were headed.

Arctic destinations are, by nature, ­remote. But Jan Mayen, a lone island in the North Atlantic between Iceland, Svalbard and Greenland, is particularly ­isolated. Stretching some 30 miles in length, and with the active 7,470-foot-high Beerenberg volcano as its defining feature, the island is as exotic as its name (a nod to a Dutch whaling captain who may or may not have discovered the island in 1614). It has been under Norwegian sovereignty since 1929.

In terms of cruising, Jan Mayen presents a particular challenge because there is no harbor on the island, narrowing ­anchoring options to open-ocean roadsteads along the northern and southern coastlines, only tenable depending on what the weather brings. Just a handful of private yachts make the trip to Jan Mayen each year, and Barba was one of them.

RELATED: Off Piste Sailing in Norway

Among our crew for this adventure was Henrik Wold Nilsen, a particle physicist prone to brainy ramblings, who was armed with all the factoids you might expect from a scientist. Before our departure, he’d ­analyzed weather data from the region, going all the way back to 1963, and estimated that the statistical set gave us less than a 5 percent chance of encountering a serious storm along the way — news that was met with unanimous smiles from the rest of us.

A look at the charts showed we had an approximate two-day sail to the town of Floro, just north of Bergen on Norway’s west coast, followed by another five-day crossing over open ocean before we could expect to see Jan Mayen’s towering peak, Beerenberg, appear on the horizon.

With head winds expected the entire way north, we loaded up with 100 gallons of diesel and set forth on an expedition that seemed the best possible way for four adventure-seeking friends to maximize three weeks of summer vacation.

Ours was a motley crew, and between us we covered the various shades of gray between seasoned salt and brand-spanking-new sailor. That latter distinction applied mostly to Jon Grantangen, a student from Oslo who had previously challenged himself (and succeeded) by traversing the entire length of Norway by foot, but who’d never before stepped aboard a sailboat. He was initiated into the less glamorous side of sailing as Barba entered the open ocean just outside of Haugesund and he “called the moose,” as we say to describe mal de mer in Norwegian. (The Norwegian word for moose is the most melodious “elg.”)

Also aboard Barba was Hanne Bowitz, a lawyer with a childhood steeped in competitive sailing. She served as my first mate, ­eagerly trimming the sails and tweaking the rig while the others took mental notes ­until they felt confident enough to pitch in. And there was me, of course, Andreas, the Stavanger-­based captain, marine biologist and avid scuba diver.

We were pieces in an adventurous puzzle made complete by an abundance of onboard gear, from ice picks and survival suits to an air compressor for scuba diving forays into the chilly arctic waters.

After a month of planning, the time had come to depart. We were fully stocked with many question marks about what we were getting ourselves into — and with an exclamation point, our adventure ahead.

Soon enough, we were sailing along at 6 to 7 knots across calm seas, heading north along the Norwegian coast. A distinctive ocean mood settled in, and with it freedom from all those pesky material trappings that seem so important on land.

Jazzman Chet Baker crooned on the sound system, someone was cooking up a bon voyage steak dinner down below, and we cruised alongside graceful fulmars flying over the sea.

After her launch in 2005, Barba had ­operated as a charter boat in Portsmouth, England. When I bought the boat, I upgraded her with a wind generator, an arsenal of spare parts, and pretty much every adventure toy in the book, including a paraglider that I looked forward to launching when the winds were right. Simply put, she was my platform for adventures of all kinds.

From previous experiences leading an expedition on a similar boat from Norway to East Greenland, I knew that Barba‘s 37-foot-long frame could withstand most sea conditions. But I was nonetheless comforted by the fact that Henrik’s weather calculations proved accurate as we sailed along, storm-free and northward.

We’d filled the tanks with 85 gallons of ­water, enough to sustain our crew for three weeks, provided that we washed up, brushed our teeth and boiled our potatoes with ocean water. Our watch schedule of two hours on and six off was entirely manageable, and made all the more so by the fact that it never gets dark during summer in these northern latitudes.

A book we’d brought along, whose title translates to Jan Mayen, a Norwegian Outpost in the West: The Island’s 1,500-Year History, by Susan Barr, told us we should be able to spot Beerenberg from more than 100 nautical miles away if the weather was fair. So after four days on the open ocean, we started to ­optimistically scan the horizon for land. By the fifth day, however, there was still nothing, and we began to wonder if our free Mac-compatible charts program and eBay-sourced GPS antenna were playing tricks on us.

Then, finally, Jan Mayen materialized — and a scant 5 nautical miles away, at that, thanks to a thick layer of fog that had been keeping the island under wraps. Happy as I was to see land, I cursed the weather. Back home in southern Norway, we’d had nearly endless warm sunshine all summer long, while up here in the ­Arctic, we were holding at 6 degrees C under a thick blanket of haze, which was only to be ­expected. But even if we weren’t thrilled by the weather, we had other exciting surprises in store.

When we rang up the military base on Jan Mayen to say we were arriving from Stavanger, I’m quite sure we surprised the ­duty officer of the day. Spontaneous arrivals by sea are not commonplace at an Arctic outpost with no harbor. The closest island to Jan Mayen is Iceland, a good 320 nautical miles away. Regardless, we paddled ashore in the dinghy that some heartless friends had dubbed Inflatable Barba. We were a joyous band of pirates making landfall, and soon the base commander escorted us to meet the locals, a total of 18 military personnel who rotate in and out for six-month stints.

Supplies arrive on Jan Mayen 12 times per year via 11 Hercules military transport aircraft flights and a single supply-vessel visit. So it was hard to tell if our new friends were just happy to see new faces, or if their spirits were boosted by the sight of the week-old newspapers and stash of fresh oranges we’d brought from the mainland. Either way, we found an exceptionally pleasant group of people responsible for maintaining Norwegian sovereignty up here at the country’s westernmost point, and we were invited to a ­party that evening that finished with high blood alcohol content, lots of camaraderie, and a sketchy late-night paddle in the dinghy back to Barba. Even if we’d wanted to, we couldn’t have stayed ashore. To remain in compliance with the strict preservation laws of the island, guests are allowed to stay only up to 24 consecutive hours on land. Camping, we were warned, is strictly forbidden.

When we woke the next morning, Barba was tossing on the waves. Strong winds made it impossible to paddle the dinghy to shore, so we came up with an ­alternate plan. Zipped into drysuits with ­scuba fins to propel us, we gathered ropes and swam to shore to rig a shore anchor. All we had to do then was hop in the dinghy and pull ourselves along the rope to land.

As for who was left aboard to man the ship that day, it came down to a good old lottery. In life there are always winners and losers, and this time Henrik was left ­behind on Barba, which was anchored off Båtvika, on the south side of the island, to shelter us from stronger winds predicted to arrive from the north.

Ashore, the fog began to lift, revealing landscapes that even a crew of avid Norwegian outdoorsmen had hardly realized existed in their own country.

Jan Mayen is volcanic and resembles a desert. The southern part of the island is covered in thick moss, the only thing that will grow here. Fauna is similarly limited. While arctic foxes once roamed the terrain, they were hunted to extinction in the 1930s to sate the demands of mainland housewives with an addiction to stylish fur. The last polar bear that showed up here was shot dead on sight in 1963. There has been no trace of the animals since the sea ice ­began retreating 40 years ago.

When it comes to bird life, however, this stopping-off point between the Greenland and Norwegian seas is a real hotspot. More than 130 species of birds have been ­recorded here, on an island that’s just 144 square miles in size, and we ­quickly picked a favorite feathered friend, the skua. A predatory sea gull, it’s easily identified by its black plumage, superlative size and hostile demeanor. You know you’re ­approaching a nesting area when they dive-bomb you. Another telltale sign is the dead birds scattered around the terrain, having been invited for a last supper. Come too close to a nest, and the skua will fearlessly lunge your way, fully capable of ­inflicting a none-too-gentle blow to the head.

Jan Mayen, it should be noted for tropical-­latitude sailors in particular, is not a destination to get your fill of vitamin D. With a near-constant fog layer rolling in from the north, the island averages only six sunny days a year. We considered ourselves extremely lucky when we woke up one morning to blue skies. To the north was Beerenberg, Norway’s most fabled mountain and the northernmost active volcano on Earth, tempting us to its summit.

The sail around the island to the spot where we could best access the volcano took a full day, during which we spotted humpback and minke whales, a 980-foot-high eroded cross-section of another volcano that had blown itself apart, and the longest icefall in Norway.

While the crew insisted it was a lucky fishing rod that landed us six cod along the way in under six minutes (a total of 88 pounds of delicious fish dinners), the humble captain would like to say it came down to his Viking-style angling. We later donated the fish to the island’s residents, who don’t have a boat with which to access the rich waters. The day’s pleasure cruise was also a ­recon mission, and prepared us for the next morning, when we found ourselves at the base of Beerenberg, pockets ­fully loaded with chocolate bars and full-on glacier-­climbing equipment in tow, ready to scale the peak.

Norway’s longest continuous uphill climb didn’t fail to challenge us. It took eight hours of steady plodding upward to reach the point where we decided it was prudent to attach ropes. Ahead of us were crevasses and another six hours to climb. Just when we started to wonder if we were ever going to make it, there we were, atop the volcano, midnight sun glowing ­brightly at 2 a.m. and casting Beerenberg’s long shadow far out to sea. We continued along the crater rim, sea fog approaching, and then began the long slog back down to complete the 22-hour round trip. To say that Barba was a welcome sight, lying in wait there at anchor all by her lonesome, is perhaps the greatest understatement of the entire trip.

For the remaining few days on the ­island (we stayed one week in total, the maximum time visitors are allowed), we paraglided off sea cliffs and scuba dived in chilly waters waving with kelp, where seal bones littered the seabed and big cod eyes peered up at the human aliens. Then we fished up one last whopper cod for ­dinner and raised the anchor to set sail back south, Beerenberg fading into the ­distance with our wake.

Soon Barba was surfing gale-blown waves, the horizon quickly changing from a comforting line in the distance to an all-too-close calamity of thrashing crests. With nearly 10,000 feet of ocean under the keel, the waves were of the long and forgiving variety, but constant concentration was required for all of one fast and ­furious day at sea. As quickly as they had come up, the winds relented. And soon enough we ­arrived in Lerwick Harbor in the Shetland Islands. We rewarded ourselves with an ­Indian dinner — surely the finest tandoori in the North Sea — and regaled the other sailors in port with stories of a remote and little-known island far, far to the north.

Just two days later, Barba was docked back in Stavanger. And as is often the case, once I was back to the real world, mundane tasks once again filling my days, it hit me just how incredible our journey had really been.

Over the course of three weeks, we’d sailed some 1,700 nautical miles, scaled a volcano, and set eyes on a little-known piece of our homeland that we can now say firsthand is worthy of the utmost preservation efforts. Someday in the future, when a new set of sailors heads out for Jan Mayen, we can only hope they will find the island as pristine as we did.

You can read more about Andreas Heide’s Arctic adventures aboard Barba in his blog posts, at cruisingworld.com/barba and at barba.no.

The post Norwegian Adventures appeared first on Cruising World.

The 800 nautical-mile slog up the Norwegian coast in wintertime is perceived, by most, as an unnecessary punishment of both boat and crew. It is attempted only by the very few. Up north at this time of year, the polar night prevails. It´s blistering cold and storms are frequent. Our eventual goal was to reach the island of Senja, well above the Arctic Circle and facing the open North Atlantic. It is here in the Senja region that the entire Norwegian Orca population is found in January and February, joined by humpbacks and fin whales in large numbers, too. The orcas come to feed on the overwintering spring spawning herring, herding the fish up to the surface and into the shallows in such numbers that the water appears to boil with breaching whales and frightened herring. It is one of the greatest shows nature has to offer, and there is no better way to take part in it than with the flexibility of a sailboat, an adventurous spirit and, of course, a wetsuit for an upclose look at the action.

With only a three-month buffer since we arrived back in the homeport after our previous journey to Svalbard, it has been hectic in the Barba HQ. Over the past few months we´ve undertaken various repairs, installation of new parts, insulation of the hull and, of course, sorting out all the diverse gear we need for this expedition, including tailor made wetsuits from Italy. Barba, a fiberglass Jeanneau, is not really built for these conditions. But the best boat is always the boat you have. And waiting for the perfect occasion and perfect boat often means you don´t get to go out and do want you want to do on the ocean. So I prefer not to wait.

Also essential for any expedition is a competent and trustworthy crew. For our first leg to Tromsø, the capital of Northern Norway, Barba welcomed three new sailors on board. Rasmus Tornqvist from Denmark – a sea dog and a boat builder, engineer and offshore competition sailor – was first to volunteer for the journey. Next to join was Jaap van Rijckevorsel, a former pro sailor from the Netherlands who needed a lift back to Tromsø to continue his doctorate studies. Finally, we had Malin Waage, a landlubber with no previous sailing experience, who jumped at the occasion to catch a ride north to Tromsø, too. The boat was skippered by myself, Andreas B. Heide, from Norway, with adventure, nature and the ocean in particular as my greatest life passions.

The sail up the coast was mostly a pleasant one. Our first concern was the notorious headland at Stadt. Known for bad weather, the peninsula would, back in the day, cause the Vikings to haul their vessels over ground around it, avoiding the seas here altogether. We cruised past Stadt in flat seas and offshore winds with the Gennaker flying high on my birthday, celebrating the good conditions with a ration of rum and cake. From a sailor´s point of view, the beauty of the Norwegian coast is that most of it can be covered inshore. Just Stadt and a few other landmarks force you offshore, where are you fully exposed to often brute force of the North Atlantic.

As we pushed north, the green hills of the south were soon replaced by snow-covered mountains. We adapted a 3-hour watch system and the time flew by as we navigated through narrow fjords and channels, with the weather ranging from snow and gales to calms with clear skies, stars and the gift of the Northern Lights dancing on the horizon. The diesel heater was running continuously below deck and morale was as warm as the temperature, even as outside the mercury plunged to -20 degrees Celsius. On watch it was somewhat cold and, at times, very exciting navigating in more or less continuous darkness through a minefield of underwater rocks.

After 10 days, with two overnight stops along the way, we reached Tromsø early in the morning on January 12. Jaap and Malin signed off while Rasmus and I provisioned and got Barba fine-tuned for the next crew.

Terry Ward, a dear Barba friend and freelance travel writer from the U.S. and a previous crew member on numerous Barba adventures, flew in from Florida. Later in the evening, we picked up Tony Wu, who arrived from Tokyo. Tony Wu is a nature enthusiast and photo naturalist, and ranks among the top underwater photographers in the world. Whales are his current area of expertise. This was to be his first whale interaction in winter time in the Arctic.

Having sorted Arctic clothes for our new adventurers, we sailed out of Tromsø harbor on Friday night (I tend to prefer sailing out at night to make the most of the daytime). The sun had not been seen for the previous five days, and when we left it was still lurking below a snowy horizon. As we passed by the rugged coastline of Senja early in the morning, we were greeted by a humpback whale. Soon after we moored up in one of finest harbors in Northern Norway, Hamn i Senja. Here, there is a nice hotel with a cozy restaurant and bar, an excellent marina, a sauna and a hot tub in an old wooden boat, all surrounded by spectacular views – but little more. Just the way we like it. We are now three days into the adventure with two weeks to go. Yesterday, Tony and I had the pleasure of swimming with around 15 orcas and humpbacks for over an hour in a cove where they were corralling herring into the thousands. The water was shallow, but we couldn´t even see the seafloor due to the density of the schooling herring. And the show that ensued was nothing short of incredible. Out of nowhere, the masses of fish would explode as the ocean´s apex, the orca, came barreling through the school to stun the fish with a tail slap and feed on them, one by one. The orcas came within touching range at times, but some boundaries should not be crossed. The adventure for the Barba crew here in Senja has just begun. It´s a cold, challenging and, at times, dangerous environment. But that is, of course, part of the reason why we are here. To be continued…

The post Barba Heads North appeared first on Cruising World.

Our expedition was over. Some 6,500 km and four months of living aboard Barba– a 37-foot-long fiberglass-hulled Jeanneau built more for the tropics than the Arctic – were in our wake.

The natural curves of the mountains and fjords we’d been immersed in for months were replaced with glittering glass and concrete underfoot in Norway’s well-heeled oil capital. The notion of operating as a crew was relegated to a final afternoon deep-cleaning the boat from bow to stern. And soon we’d be schlepping through airport security with the masses to return to our separate corners of Europe.

I knew it would be a while before the reality of all we accomplished together, in high times and low, took hold.

When we’d arrived back in mainland Norway five weeks before – exhausted from all we’d seen and done while circumnavigating Svalbard – our coastal cruise south, the journey’s last leg, felt like the promise of pure vacation.

I have not seen a coastline more beautiful than Norway’s. But we’d hurried along it on our way north, in a rush to get to Svalbard to maximize our time during the fairest season for sailing.

With the hardest and most technical part of our expedition over and the rough ocean crossings behind us, we were set on making the most of the Indian summer.

On the way north, we’d toned down the adventures on land in an attempt to minimize the risk of someone getting injured rock climbing or paragliding before we made it to Svalbard. Now was our time to be a bit more daring on terra firma.

At sea, however, we had to remind ourselves that this was no time to let down our guard. The Norwegian coastline may be well charted, but its rocky shallows make it a treacherous place to be a sailboat. Still, we wanted to stay inshore for most of the trip to make the most of fun on land. So we found ourselves snaking a route around countless tiny islands and through channels busy with shipping traffic where autopilot would only get us so far. We still had the formidable Stadt headland to get around again, too, all without the midnight sun that had accompanied us for the first few months of our trip.

Autumn is berry-picking season in Norway. And at our first anchorage in a hidden Finnmark fjord – still feeling vitamin-C deprived from a lack of fresh produce during our last few weeks in Svalbard – we greedily filled Nalgene bottles with wild blueberries and cloudberries. After the barren mountains of the high Arctic, mainland Norway felt so in-your-face alive. And the ocean here was downright balmy by comparison, at 44 degrees Fahrenheit. A dive in the tidal currents under the bridge at Tjeldsundet, said Andreas, was like navigating through an underwater storm with passing clouds of silvery fish and sideways-blowing kelp.

We usually highlight the crew´s achievements, glossing over our less glorious moments. But one of the latter came when we least expected it. While enjoying dinner while moored to an isolated floating pier just south of Ramsund, it became obvious that Barba was leaning to starboard. We had miscalculated the tide by about half a meter and the keel was stuck in the sand, leaving us grounded at an uncomfortable angle for about three hours while waiting for the tide to set us free. We were never in danger, but when glasses started sliding off the galley table it was another reminder to keep up our guard up. We might have managed our way around Svalbard, but we were still far being home and dry.

In the Tysfjord area, Andreas, Jon and Daniel managed an epic cave exploration where they spent 11 hours squeezing through claustrophobia-inducing passages and rappelling along a route 1,900 feet down inside the deepest cave in the Arctic, the rarely-visited Raggejavreraige (http://barba.no/raggejavreraige-the-arctic-cave/).

Another notable crew accomplishment came a few days later at Stetind (4,56 feet), Norway’s national mountain that looks a lot like the Matterhorn, which we scaled for the reward of views north to Lofoten and a last chance to spot our floating home looking speck-like below us in yet another majestic Norwegian fjord.

Near Bodø, we cruised into the world’s strongest tidal current, Saltstraumen, hoping to go scuba diving. The current can reach speeds of up to 20 knots here, where water roughly 2,000 feet deep inside the fjord suddenly rises to just 85 feet, bringing all sorts of plankton and fish life with it. But conditions were far too wild with the much-hyped “Super Blood Harvest Moon” rising. We had a good time white water rafting with Barba in the currents, Andreas at the helm, as she flew along at 12 knots and got semi-sucked into the whirling eddies. The people fishing onshore were surely expecting to see a tragedy unfold but it all went swimmingly. And we filmed what undoubtedly would have been epic drone footage if we hadn’t ended up sacrificing our little flying friend to the ocean gods when trying to land it back on the boat. She had a good run, at least, our drone that made it to 81 degrees North in Svalbard! Needless to say, nobody was tempted to dive into the Saltstraumen to try to save our footage and gear. And we agreed that it was incredible, actually, that our drone was the only thing we lost to the ocean during the entire trip.

The autumn storm season was upon us at this point in the push south, and we got stuck in port for several days in Rørvik while winds up to 60 knots made for very angry seas. Temperatures were dropping as quickly as the falling leaves. And our desires to get back home were rising with every night spent bobbing up and down, momentum-less, in port. When the storm passed, we wasted no time getting south.

Approaching Florø, we got word from a helicopter pilot in Norway’s 330 Squadron (one of the few female pilots in the force, who we had met by chance while hiking in Senja a few months before) that we could participate in a training mission. During the exercise, two of our crew would be winched from Barba up a rope and into the belly of a Sea King chopper to simulate an at-sea rescue.

To prepare, we’d stripped Barba *down to the basics – lowering the spray hood, taking down some of the extra rigging wires on the stern and stowing all loose ropes and other hazards that could risk, quite literally, entangling the operation. Then Jon and Dani got into their survival suits to ready themselves for the lift from *Barba’s cockpit as the Sea King appeared on the horizon.

The whole exercise was over in a matter of minutes, as the squadron’s team of six (including two pilots, a navigator, rescue swimmer, doctor and machinist), pure professionals, swooped in, lowered the ropes and lifted away our boys with what appeared to be the same ease I feel dipping a ladle into a bowl of soup for lunch.

When we finally got back to Stavanger, we knew there would be questions to answer. How was it living in such a small space for so long? Were you ever scared? Wasn’t it freezing? Aren’t you sick of each other? Of course, there’s a long and short answer for those questions and others. And perhaps that’s the best reason of all to experience adventures with other humans. We can easily break the expedition into a summary of highlights – the short version, if you will. We had fended off a polar bear hell-bent on getting aboard Barba, sailed her into the pack ice surrounding the North Pole, scuba dived in a rainbow-colored underwater world where few human bubbles are ever exhaled and paraglided beneath bird cliffs where polar bears prowl. And between those moments was, of course, another story. Our own. The one we had lived out together during more than 100 days spent sailing, scuffling, celebrating and flat-out surviving the Arctic adventure of a lifetime on Barba.

To read more about the adventures of the Barba crew, check out their blog, or visit photographer Daniel Hug’s website for more photos.

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