RTW Leg 31: Greenland

Home to Scotland, the final chapter

Lucy's seal of approval

Having been pinned by a gale for forty-eight hours to a gnarly unforgiving derelict dock on the tiny uninhabited island of Smokey Tickle, we were ready to go.  Finally, after two weeks of maybe, maybe nots, we had a precious and solid window to cross the Labrador Sea.  The wind had abated but the sea beyond the islands would still be running at four meters, and we needed to give it time to smooth.  A fishing boat on the other side to the dock and our sole companion during the gale, would not leave till nine that night, but I was worried about leaving in the dark with ice bergs and growlers all about. We left at six.  An hour later we emerged beyond the islands in the gloaming, the sea was running at three meters, uncomfortable but tolerable, Lucy and I settled into our routine of watches for the next four days to Greenland.

Smokey Tickle just before we left

The passage was uneventful with intermittent wind and an irritating reliance on the engine. The most significant challenge of any multi day passage is that first couple of days of cold turkey.  Going “dry” and weening oneself of Lucy’s lady petrol and my beloved IPA was a little like Renton, except, we were locked on a boat and had a bit more to get us through the ordeal than tins of Heinz Tomato soup and a porn mag. It was some comfort to know that arrival in a few days would offer respite with an evening of overindulgence and a reassuring hangover to follow.

Iceberg, Bergy Bit, Growler

The ever-present concern was ice bergs.  These are categorized as: A – Ice bergs; the size of a small detached two-story house to as big as a block of flats.  B – Bergy Bits; broken of ice bergs, these range in size from a large car to a two-bedroom flat.  C – Growlers; broken of bergy bits, sized from a fridge to a car.  D – Pack ice or storis; the sea frozen solid and then broken up into plates.  Ice charts are issued daily, and these gave an indication of concentration for general passage planning but were of no help in navigation.  In a sea with breaking white capped waves, it was nearly impossible to spot growlers.  In the fog or at night you had to rely on the radar but growlers and bergy bits were too small to ping a reflection and the ice bergs would only be detected a mile or so away.  In other words, avoiding an impact relies on diligence, concentration and healthy dose of good fortune.

The Canadian Ice Charts issued daily indicated the number of icebergs per degree square, roughly 60nm x 60nm. This does not account for bergy bits or growlers.

Land ho! Greenland ahead

Aside bad weather and banging into an iceberg, the supreme worry of all worries was falling in.  In the tropics, if you fall overboard, such is the warmth of the water you can reassure yourself that you have plenty of time to bob about while your crew mate sorts the sails out, turns around and tries to find you.  As long as you can stay afloat (wearing a life jacket helps with this), and depending on weather, you might have several hours before you succumb to your watery surrounds.  In cold waters it’s a very different story.  They talk about “The 1 - 10 – 1 Rule”.  On falling in, you have one minute to control your breathing.  You then have ten minutes of meaningful movement for self rescue.  And then, within one hour you will pass out from hypothermia.  Remember that on falling in, you will suffer cold water shock which  triggers an uncontrollable gasping reflex and if your head happens to be underwater when that happens, then your lungs will fill and you will drown.  If you get past the cold-water shock stage, there really is very little time for your crew mate to find and recover you before you die, particularly in bad weather, when, lets face it, your more likely to fall in.   You can protect yourself against these inconveniences with an immersion suit, but these are big and bulky and awkward to work in and would be impractical to wear all the time.  We elected not to carry them and instead operated the don't fall in rule.

The regulatory agencies regard cold water to be anything below 21^oC.  We recorded as low as 2.9^oC.

We were aiming to make landfall in Narsaq where our boat buddies Langa were waiting for us.  But that was not to be without its excitement.  A gale was forecast for our arrival that afternoon with 35 + knots with potential and probable katabatic winds barreling from the mountain tops and down the fjords.  It was a grim and untenable prospect trying to dock in those conditions whilst playing dodgems with the growlers. Therefore, we planned for a contingency to shelter in the small and close by Sildefjord before the gale built.  In the end, the lure of the shore won us over and we decided to risk it. Fortune favors the brave.  Death or glory. Who cares who wins. We made it to a hero’s welcome, Langa helping with our lines, polar bear hugs and a shower of kisses.

Langa crew with Lynne, Rob and Woulter with Danish Coast Guard vessel behind. Whale meat at the market. Narsaq. Tied up with Langa, Broadsword in Narsaq from high.

Greenland.  We made it.  Palpable relief. Time to explore.  The Greenlanders; small, chiseled and beautiful with tight eyes, sallow skin and black arrow straight hair.  They speak Greenlandic and town names are pronunciation contortions taking an entire day to master.  I’m ashamed to say we learnt just one word; Qujanaq which translates as thank you.  But even this modest investment stood us in good stead with interactions soliciting a smile of gratitude that we had simply bothered to make a small effort.  The indigenous Greenlanders are Thule Inuit, an ancient people having migrated originally from Asia, through Alaska to Canada, and over the frozen sea to Greenland around a millennia ago.  Not on the front foot of friendly, perhaps understandable given that the Danish colonial assimilation policies often had harmful repercussions.    

On watch

Narsaq is a small fishing village of around 1300 people.  A scattered settlement of brightly colored houses connected by rough roads and gravely paths.  The basic amenities are all here; a shop, a small hotel with a rudimentary restaurant, a church and a police station.   The landscape surrounding it is tall and bold with unforgiving mountains of sheer rock with little accommodation for vegetation.  Small shrubs and some grasses cling to the sides like lichen on a boulder.   Villages on the mainland may as well be islands.  There are no roads from one village to the next, instead an efficient network of small Targa ferries that dart from fjord to fjord at an alarming 27 knots delivering a dozen or so foot passengers at a time.  We are here in the summer, its cold with icebergs all around and I am continually wondering what life must be like here in the winter.  I imagine the Greenlanders are Emperor Penguins, stoically enduring the winter gale, standing shoulder to shoulder with their backs to the blizzard, then to enjoy the rich bounty of the short summer.

This picture illustrates how much of the iceberg can extend below the surface of the water.

Having explored the village, it was time to explore the area.  Langa and Broadsword set off heading towards Qalerallip Ilua fjord which promised a close encounter with a glacier.  With no wind, we motored, Langa in the lead, picking our way through the growlers and bergs like threading the eye of a needle.  We had to be careful, small lumps of ice the size of a typewriter could break the propeller.  Three hours later and closing in on our objective, we happened upon an upturned kayak.  Jesus God, where’s the owner?  Langa pulled it aboard and ominously we continued.  On we went and later, in a sweeping bay two miles opposite the glacier, we found a camp of kayakers.  The leader paddled out, joyous and grateful to see the return of his kit.  He explained that two nights previously, a huge iceberg calved off the glacier and caused an enormous tidal wave to thunder down the fjord.  The camp and kayaks were high above the water line and yet the wave took three of his kayaks.  This was the second kayak recovered, one still MIA.  On to the glacier we continued, agreeing to perhaps not get as close as we had originally intended!  And there it was.  I have been privileged to walk on many glaciers whilst mountaineering in the Alps but never before have I witnessed one from the sea; with the broad wide snout reaching across the icey water, while the mass extended thousands of feet up and hundreds of miles back to the ice cap in distance beyond.  The scale was off the scale.  Awestruck, I marveled and pondered, contemplated time, a hundred thousand years of solid ice, the planet’s history melting away.  Like ripping out the pages of a book, one by one, soon there will be none.

We anchored in the bay with the Kayakers and went ashore and I climbed a high hill with Rob and Lynne leaving Lucy and Woulter to potter on the beach.  The climb was a steep scramble, exposed in places but the top rewarded us with a stunning vista of the ice cap with Broadsword and Langa far below.  We descended over the back and down the gravelly moraine where nonchalant caribou dismissively wondered on. The mosquitoes were a brutal distraction.

Qalerallip Ilua glacier behind. Growlers stranded on the beach when the tide goes out.

Our plan was to continue exploring south and then dissect the southern tip of Greenland through the Prins Christian Sund Fjord.  This fjord spares the inconvenience of sailing round Kap Farvel, a notoriously dangerous sea which pilot guides recommend affording a wide 150 nautical mile berth.  The cape acts as an acceleration zone for depressions moving west from Canada or high winds south from Iceland.  Combined with the continuous flow of ice bergs south down the east coats of Greenland, it makes for a treacherous sea brim full of danger.  By contrast the Prins Christian Sund is protected from all these hazards.

Qaqortoq dock

From Narsaq we continued to Qaqortoq.  Yes, that’s three Q’s and no U’s.  The first Q pronounced “ch” as in a Scottish Loch, (please, not Lock if your English).  This is the largest town in the south and the administrative Centre of the province.  We cleared in with the police and went shopping at the supermarket which had a gun display in between the bakery and the tinned goods section.  As far as I can gather, you don’t need a license or any particular paperwork to buy a high caliber hunting rifle from your local supermarket.  Polar bears are an ever-present threat, particularly on the east coast and the perceived wisdom is not to venture far without the protection of a rifle.  Bears generally, be they black, brown or grizzly will only attack you when cornered, threatened or generally pissed off.  Polar bears are distinct in that they are apex predators who see a human as food and will set about hunting you.  And they are prodigious hunters, adept at deploying stealth and surprise, attacking with no warning.  Attacks on humans have increased with the loss of their natural hunting habitat of sea ice which has rendered them nutritionally stressed.  Forced to search for land-based opportunities, humans are firmly on the menu. My ambition to enjoy some walking and climbing was fast diminishing.

Sorely tempted to buy one!

South we continued and the ice bergs seemed to grow in both size and concentration, the risk compounded by ever present thick fog.  It felt like being in a submarine, denied vision, cautiously feeling one’s way with fingertips dancing over the instruments.

You can just see the iceberg at the arrow emerging though the thick fog. Note Lucy on the bow in the circle, spotting.

Uunatorq is a small low lying uninhabited island that boasts a hot spring that is unique in Greenland.  We dropped our anchor in a small bay, concerned for the large icebergs drifting by, one such could decide to set course to collide and if asleep at night, that would indeed be a rude awakening.  Uunatorq has a small dock to accommodate the numerous visitors, many from cruise ships, drawn by the lure of the springs and we were relieved to be the only yacht in the bay and not a cruise ship in sight.  We dropped our tender and motored to the dock joining the two local day boats. 

Uunatorq: Broadsword in the bay at anchor with icebergs threatening.

After a short ten minute walk we arrived at the thermal pool to find a dozen or so Inuits enjoying a day out, but oddly, just mums and sons, a granny, a couple of babies but no dads.  Without giving it a second through, we changed into our cossies joining just two boys in the pools, slowly immersing ourselves in the warm tingling water reflexing instant grins.  The incongruity of sitting in a warm thermal pool while ice bergs wallowed beyond was not lost on us and to enjoy this with an Inuit family was rich with authenticity. We returned to the dock to find a two new speed boats had arrived... with the dads!  They had been away hunting Musk ox and from a large tub proudly whisked out a freshly pruned head, still dripping with blood.

Musk ox, pooling around, Inuit children

Time was short and as always, we were chasing the schedule, under pressure to be back to Scotland by mid-August.  We took the easy decision not to return by Iceland, preferring to spend the remaining time we had in Greenland.  Nevertheless, we had to get going and continued south to Nanortalik to clear out with the local police.  This was the final reprovisioning stop before leaving Greenland and the essentials were duly topped up.  Ahead of any passage, Lucy throws herself into the galley and precooks a number of our fave easy to heat good to eat meals to freeze then defrost on demand.  This spares the comedy of chopping an onion in a big sea while bracing yourself between saloon seats and the galley top, chasing said onion around as it rolls from one side to the next, all the time blinded by onion induced tears.  The regular fair includes: Beef casserole with potatoes and carrots all mixed in. Spagbol (obviously), Thai Chicken Tom Yum with egg noodles.  Larger quantities provide leftovers for lunch the next day.

Our final passage in Greenland would be to navigate the Prins Christian Sund.  The Arctic and Northan Waters pilot guide describes the PCS  as “one of the worlds most magnificent passages.  Mountains rise between 1200m and 1800m on either side and several glaciers reach down to sea level to add their bergs and bergy bits to the pack ice which blocks it for most of the year.”  It takes two days to traverse, and we stopped at the tiny fishing settlement of Aappilattoq.  Aappilattoq means “sea anemone” and is a stunning natural harbor with an entrance as tight as that of a multistorey car park.  Dwarfed by vertiginous mountains on all sides there was an unlikely tension between agoraphobia and claustrophobia.

Aappilattoq: Broadsword in the harbor. Many of the houses were abandoned.

We continued up the fjord on day two spellbound by the grandeur and majesty of our surroundings.  One-minute, sheer 1000m cliffs plunging into the sea, the next huge glaciers reaching toward us as we passed, dispatching icebergs as if patrols to defend its limits. At the very east end at the exit into the North Atlantic, we entered the small tight harbor of Ikerasasuaq and tied onto an awkward dock.  High above the harbor is the weather station which used to be permanently staffed by a team of hospitable Danes.  Now automated, the custodians are long since departed. Wishing to climb to the weather station, polar bears were on my mind.  My cousin Mark who lives and works part of the year in Nuuk and had been incredibly helpful in planning this leg, had imparted the sage advice that a polar bear encounter was “low probability, high impact”.  Ridiculously armed with my ice axe and three rocket flares, I set out and up for the weather station, Lucy calling after me that I would only succeed in making a widow of her.  At the top there was an extensive and irregular collection of buildings perched on the cliff edges connected by precarious and slightly decayed wooden walkways.  A helicopter pad was central to all.  Higher still and in the surrounding hills beyond were numerous antennas, satellite dishes and masts of every shape and size connected by wires and more walkways.  Disserted and decrepit, it was dystopic. A contractor appeared from nowhere and we exchanged pleasantries.  I asked if it was safe to continue to the hill tops above and he firmly said no, I should borrow his rife.  This he gave me without question.  No discussion if I knew how to use one.  As it happens, I used to be a soldier and am familiar with weapons, nevertheless, it was a relaxed state of affairs that would pass for criminal in the UK.  My walk completed and rifle restored to the contractor, I returned to Broadsword and a relieved wife.

 Prins Christian Sund's majestic cliffs and fjord. Ikerasasuaq weather station. The tight dock. Polar Bear defense tools.

The next morning, we left for Scotland in calm conditions and for the lack of wind we motored out of the sound where a group of icebergs had gathered to bid us farewell.  The forecast was not good, and Lucy and I were anxious for what lay ahead.  By nightfall, we would be hit by a depression with 35 kt winds and 3m waves. It would be from the west and behind which is always more manageable.  This would last for 48 hours and then there would be a day of respite before we would be hit by a second depression, this time on the beam from the south, not as strong as the first, but a harder point of sale. This was the forecast and with little choice accepted it for what it was.  The weather was indeed terrible with a hellacious sea, but we have learnt that after the first 24 hours or so of such challenges, you become inured to the conditions, numbed and resigned, a new normal which diminishes the fear.  As skipper, there is plenty of room for fear helped only if balanced by a little of the brave stuff. When the shit hits the fan and control of the boat is lost, calm decision making is needed to regain that control and keep the crew and the boat safe.  In these wild conditions, for Lucy’s sanity it was important that I always at least appeared calm and collected.

On the top, the white dot is our position when this live snip was taken. And below, the conditions on the "ground". This was the second lesser depression hitting us on the beam from the south. The "L" shows the direction the low (depression) is moving and the speed over the ground it is moving at.

We were hoping for St Kilda where the anchorage at Village Bay was only tenable in settled weather.  Two or three days to go, it was looking probable that weather would be good enough and we adjusted course for St Kilda.  The archipelago is 35 nm west of Harris in the Outer Hebrides and has the highest sea cliffs in the UK.  Hirta is the principle island which was settled in the 16^th century and maintained an extraordinary community isolated and alone, deriving a meagre living harvesting the abundant fulmars and gannets for eggs, meat, oil and feathers.  It’s a story of sad decline where eventually there were just 37 residents remaining and they themselves judged their life unsustainable and in 1930 requested an evacuation to the mainland.  Today a small population maintains the MOD base.

Our approach to St Kilda and passing Soay Island after which the sheep are named.

We dropped anchor and took Danny Boy ashore to be met by Sue, the National Trust Ranger, who gave a useful introduction to the islands and some pointers for exploring.  The principle attraction is The Main Street.  The medieval black houses were redeveloped in the 19^th century to provide the row of modest houses, today mostly ruinous. We wandered.  Starting at the church, a source of so much of the misery, to the Main Street, some of the houses refurbished and occupied by visiting staff, the rest in ruins.  A circular graveyard, and all around cleitean.  A cleit is a small stone store and ubiquitous throughout the island, used to store birds and feathers harvested from the cliffs and gradually moved from cleit to cleit, closer to the village for eventual processing.  Lucy settled down with her sketch book and I went for a walk climbing to the top of Mullach Bi with vertigo inducing views down the cliffs, through the circling birds to the boiling sea far below. Constant close swooping fulmars intent on upsetting your balance.  Then over to Conachair on the slopes of which I was subjected to what can only be described as a coordinated assault by Great Skuas. The first attack was a surprise.  I felt the air above my head disturbed and heard the accompanying whoosh but saw nothing until it had passed.  Then I was alert and, on the look out.  The next came in low, piercing eyes fixed on me the target, downward beat of the wings, claws outstretched, the speed giving little time to react.  I whisked off my day sack and held it above like a Roman centurion’s shield and only at the very last moment, inches from my sac, it pulled up and out of the dive.  The attacks kept coming and were both magnificent and terrifying. At each last moment you would be within an arm’s length and this proximity to such a huge and rare bird was breathtaking. 

The Main Street. The Factors House. Soay Sheep. View from Mullach Bi. St Kildans. Grass roofs 500 years old and 5 years old. Boreray Gannetry, the largest in the world. A fulmar.

We were nearly home.  I had not been home since January while Lucy had a brief visit in May.   We were most excited to see our children Harvey and Lily with Sara and Saga who would get the ferry on Monday morning to the Isle of Coll where we lived.  Our plan was to sail into Arinagour village and tie up to the middle pier on a rising tide at 1400.  To meet this obligation, we sailed from St Kilda to Barra for two nights and then left Barra at dawn on Monday, motoring to Coll in stunning weather. As we rounded the corner into the bay, a small boat came out to meet us with Harvey on board, leading us in playing the bag pipes.  And there ahead was the pier.  Jesus God, I was expecting the children, not half the village.  Bunting, flags, banners, balloons, tables of drinks and worst of all, I had to park Broadsword under all this jubilant scrutiny. Tied up, we scrambled onto the pier, lumps in our throats, tears in our eyes. Hugs and smiles, gratitude abound, so many people; our children, our friends, our community. Our homecoming.

Castle Bay, Bara. Middle pier on Coll. The Kinloch Moidart team, twelve came over from the mainland in two boats for the day to welcome Broadsword in.;

Epilogue

Lucy and I left Scotland at the end of July 2021 and over the last four years completed our circumnavigation, visiting 43 countries and covering some 44,000 miles.  It’s estimated that fewer than 200 sailing yachts complete a circumnavigation each year and less than half do so without the support of an organised world rally.  There is a good reason why so few succeed. It’s difficult.  It’s difficult to abandon the life and career that you have grown comfortable with.  It’s difficult to leave behind friends and family and aging parents.  It’s difficult to find the money to buy a boat and fund the journey. The journey is difficult fraught with danger, risk and uncertainty.  The life is difficult, constantly repairing and maintaining, planning and preparing all the while living in a confined space often unable simply to go for a walk.  These difficulties are of course trumped many times over by the richness of the experiences, the extraordinary places visited, the wonderful people met with the joy of the lifelong friendships forged. 

But perhaps the most profound difficulty of all when contemplating a circumnavigation is persuading your partner of the merits and then going onto  finish the journey on as good terms as you started.  I was lucky to have a willing accomplice in Lucy, but make no bones, this was not her thing, she did it for me, an enormous sacrifice that I will forever be grateful.  I know that Lucy enjoyed very much, much of the journey.  But I also know that much of the journey was hard for her.  In equal measure she loathed and feared the terrible conditions at sea.  She missed home enormously particularly when our children had troubles and needed their mother.  She worried about her parents frailty and wanted to be home to support them. Her friends at home were a magnificent prop, particularly those who would send loving messages after blogs or just random emails with news updates from home.  To those friends, I thank you, you have no idea how much these messages and notes meant to Lucy and kept her buoyed.   But, and this is not to diminish that support from home, only those who truly understood and fully empathised with her were other sailors who knew what it was to be a sailor and how hard life on a boat at sea can be. 

Lucy and I were fortunate and privileged to overcome all these difficulties and more, for what was both our greatest challenge and our greatest success... enjoyed together.

We have decided to sell Broadsword.  At the end of September, I will sail her with friends back to Cherbourg to the yard where she was launched and from there trust she will sell well. Whilst this is the final chapter, there might well be a sequel.

Explore our route

Click on the image below. Then click for the slide show or just zoom, rotate and have a play.

RED: 2021

GREEN: 2022

BLUE: 2023

PINK: 2024

ORANGE: 2025