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Greenland Tourism's Project Leif 2000
Wandering Viking is looking for shelter in Newfoundland, Nova Scotia
Log Date: September 15
Author: Doug Cabot
Location: Cape Bluff Harbour
Position: 52.51 N, 55.52 W
Weather: Partly cloudy, wind from SE
I'm starting with a flashback [to September 6]:
a journal entry from nine days ago, which the gods of satellite communication chose
to intercept. It is a bit dated, in that we are now much closer to the finish line;
but the general impressions it contains are still fresh. And the open invitation
to an invitation still stands!From Doug Cabot, September 6
It's about 10 PM as I sit down to write, and we are underway in the dark with a respectable swell on our beam. The wind has held steady from the northeast all day, and we have used it to get ourselves free of the islands that surround Nain. We are hard on the wind, steering as high on a port tack as we can, because the coastline at this point is still not far to the south. Not being able to see it, or the many lonely little islands that beckon us for a sudden stop on their rocky shores, it's best to stay well clear.
We have made some fifty miles today so far. Gradually, the wind has picked up and the waves have grown bigger. Once again, I am amazed to see how well this boat handles a swell. The sea comes hurtling toward the ship, whitecapped and mean-looking, and slams against the hull. A booming thud resounds, and a great explosion of spray appears over the rail. But the hull shape deflects all that water outward, and once again Snorri pops like a cork, out and over the wave.
An amazing thing about that other vessel, the human body, is the way it forgets misery. We have spent some long, cold, wet nights and days sailing this boat. But without fail, as soon as the sun is out and our wet clothes are drying on a line, all is forgiven. At such times I almost want to summon back the feeling, just to enjoy the contrast with present comfort. But as soon as my skin is warm, even the memory of the cold recedes, until it is only as real as a story told by somebody else.
I hope it is not the same way with this voyage. Now that we are underway again, and knowing that we could be back in a matter of a few days if only we get a steady favorable wind, the end feels near. The fact that we have several hundred miles yet to go, and much of it is likely to be a challenge, doesn't much matter. To be finished, and then to be home: I am looking forward to these things very much. But at the same time I am already begrudging those changes for what they must do to this experience: to go home will be to end this trip, to consign it to a new status as memory and story.
Question Of The Day: more of an plea. Since I won't be home for my brother's wedding, I am planning another voyage of discovery, this one personal: two or three weeks to see some of Newfoundland and Nova Scotia, before I return to Boston. I might hitchhike, take planes, buses, or ferries, or even rent a car; or all of the above. Nothing is set in stone yet. What I need, or rather what I would like very much, is to hear from people in these lands who might, for a day, share the roof over their head, in exchange for tall tales of Viking adventure. Dear Virtual Vikings: what a great chance for cultural exchange! And I'll save some money. Shameless, I know, but I thought I asked quite nicely, for a marauder. I will get back to everyone who emails. Thanks.
Log Date: September 15
Author: Doug Cabot
This morning, Rob wondered aloud: what's the closest anyone has come to reaching their destination, sailing in the cold parts of the world, before being iced in and forced to spend the winter? This is a pretty unlikely scenario for us, I suppose, but the question does shed some light on our collective state of mind. We are separated from the finish line by one good day of sailing. Yesterday's forecast was for the strong north winds that would speed us home. But today the wind is out of the southeast, and a storm is on its way in, which will likely keep us pinned down for at least a couple more days.
But we are no strangers to waiting, and we're pretty good by now at passing the time. Yesterday, John G. led a fishing expedition and brought home 25 trout, which Hodding fried up for breakfast this morning. They were crispy, succulent, with tails like little potato chips. At this moment the fishing continues, and we're hoping for twice as many tomorrow morning. We have given the hull a new coat of pine tar above the waterline; cleaned up the aftermath of an exploded jug of spaghetti sauce in barrel 8; slept soundly; read our books and caught up in our journals; and re-opened the Snorri Crafts Workshop.
Best of all is the opportunity to go ashore and explore. Yesterday was a warm, sunny, and still day, with wind and fog moving in only in the late afternoon. Though the night before had been a long one, everyone was energized by the sunshine and the sight of this beautiful land. Plus, here (we thought) was our last chance to wander off into it before we reached civilization.
So as soon as we dropped anchor and got things squared away, I was off. Just around a steep-sided point of land from the boat, I found my spot. There is a thicket of short, gnarly beech trees, nestled in a little gully, and the gully meets the water at a tumble of flat rocks. My first thought was only to take a swim. The water temperature has not gone up much as we've come south, but I've found that no water is too cold when the sun is out. So I stripped and dove in.
As I sat drying in the sunshine, I was suddenly caught by an unfamiliar noise: the faint watery sound of wind through leaves. I stared at the beeches, the leaves a bright green, with a few patches of lemon-yellow where they had begun to turn. A breeze in a tree: it's been long enough that the sound had startled me. I stayed there for an hour, just basking in it all.
Got dressed and went for a short hike, first following the cove around to a beached wooden dory, then heading up away from the water in the direction I usually take, which is toward the highest point I can reasonably get to. The land reminded me of my favorite place in the world, North Haven, Maine: the clear light, the rocks and evergreens, the rich tangy smell of shade and moss and wet. As I climbed a little higher, though, it looked in places like the high arid country of the West, where thin and stunted trees struggle out of stony, orange-colored soil. In this case, the orange was moss; and so was the red, yellow, green and brown.
Back on the boat, Homer stepped up and was Cook For A Day, fixing us a fine feast of spaghetti bolognese. Tonight is my night, and I'm planning the Thai curry to end all Thai curries. It will surely end them for this trip anyway, since I'm going to polish off the coconut milk. In fact, we've started powering through our peanut butter, hot cocoa, pecans, Hob Nobs, and other more cherished supplies, as though we were sure of a quick finish. Here's hoping the ice is still a ways off.
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