Alden - the Norwegian horse - hidden in clouds.
A modern vintage ocean cruiser, a contradiction in terms, was what lured me up the west coast of Norway - Vestlandet -, as far north as Atløya off Askvoll, north of Sognefjorden. Like this I entered waters that I only had a vague notion of from pictures and travelogues. What called me was a classic sailboat, but with modern design born on a drawing board in the Netherlands around the years when I was designed myself. What I never thought would happen did happen; I had bought a boat unseen, a boat that might turn out to be shabby and worn out after nearly 50 years. But it also could turn out to be a treasure. I had bought it out of intuition, but with the owner’s assurance that both the rig and the engine had been renewed. A bonus coming out of the madness was this: Finally I got the opportunity to cruise along almost the entire Norwegian west coast in a wink, from Atløya to Stavanger, on my own boat and without the annoying drawback of a return just as long. Now my crew and I simply took a northbound plane. Then our intention was to sail southwards towards our home city and the boat’s new home-port. Of course I was aware that something would probably go wrong as usual, but never mind.
Trough the window of “our” Wideroe WF124 airplane – constantly expecting the propellers to be thrown off and cause a sudden death – I get my first glimpse of these western waters. The coast doesn’t look that different, though, from my own dear fjords and archipelagos in the Ryfylke region, but this coast is more open and wilder, with steeper mountains and cliffs compared to the soft and friendly Ryfylke, a bit modest like its people. It’s a difficult task to decide which seascape should stand as the prettier. Often completely different appearances prove to be equally fascinating. What fascinates me by this new coast, though, is at least a tiny scent of Nordland, a region made famous for instance trough Knut Hamsun’s novels, but unattainable from where I live due to huge distances and my general shortage of leisure time. Now we are half the way, at least, in Sunnfjord as this region is called, and this is good enough and far enough for a while.
Trough the window of “our” Wideroe WF124 airplane – constantly expecting the propellers to be thrown off and cause a sudden death – I get my first glimpse of these western waters. The coast doesn’t look that different, though, from my own dear fjords and archipelagos in the Ryfylke region, but this coast is more open and wilder, with steeper mountains and cliffs compared to the soft and friendly Ryfylke, a bit modest like its people. It’s a difficult task to decide which seascape should stand as the prettier. Often completely different appearances prove to be equally fascinating. What fascinates me by this new coast, though, is at least a tiny scent of Nordland, a region made famous for instance trough Knut Hamsun’s novels, but unattainable from where I live due to huge distances and my general shortage of leisure time. Now we are half the way, at least, in Sunnfjord as this region is called, and this is good enough and far enough for a while.
Unfortunately the airplane now turns and follows the long Førdefjorden, with no indication of wanting to throw us off. Suddenly we are far away from the coast, but - unfortunately - Førde is the nearest airport. “Is this the bus to the centre of Førde,” I ask the bus-driver later on, and he shakes his head. Besides, to where else in the world could a shuttle bus at Førde Airport possibly head? Førde – where I've never been before – turns out to be one of the most ugly towns in Norway. Only the bus station is, I admit, a beautiful, modernist building, probably from the early sixties, but this building too has been spoiled by later extensions. Just down the road something big and black has been built, reminding me of the Islamic shrine Ka'ba or something similar, but it's probably meant to be a town hall or a shopping centre, or both, since politics and shopping are one and the same nowadays. Unfortunately, it’s still an hour before our bus departs for the coast, so we decide to explore Førde in the meantime, my crew and I. Then, suddenly, the unbelievable happens. Like an oasis in this jungle of concrete brutalism, the “Rikken” art gallery and hardware shop reveals itself, with opening hours from 11 a.m. to 16.50 p.m. and a phone number to call on any odd hour. Art gallery, music shop or ship chandler, it’s not easy to decide. Here, each shelf is a separate world, and the ruling system, according to the proprietor, is chaos. In this small pocket of surviving culture, we are shown old pictures of Førde as it ones was and still could have been – if it wasn’t for…etc. etc, it’s enough to make us cry. The proprietor gives us some good offers, but we must resist the opportunity to stock up. We do not know what our new ship really needs, but at least we find a superb Beatles poster, designed by Førde artist Oddvar Thorsheim. Apparently he lives just up the hill, and in this gallery his works are everywhere. But now it's time to move on towards our two hours bus ride, jolting on ailing roads before we get to see the coast ones again. Finally we arrive at Askvoll and we immediately run to the general store. Soon the ferry carries us across the small inlet to Atløy where our “jewel” is waiting patiently; a real Pionier E.G. van de Stadt design, 9.10 meter overall, the incarnation of a modern fibreglass cruiser, a neoclassic hull with soft, modernist lines from the late 50's, a design so complete that a worthy owner will accept with light hearth some scratches, some leakages and some layers of muck and mildew accumulated over the years. The previous owner gives us some information, but in a hurry. He is eager to get back to Oslo where he lives. So here we are, suddenly, my crew and I, alone with an unfamiliar boat, with airy hopes that everything will function. For me, an ardent pessimist, it’s pretty much to ask for, but to my great surprise the diesel engine starts without a murmur, I really don’t understand why. In advance I’ve investigated concerning all sorts of monsters in the fuel and numerous other fatal complications. Something is bound to crack up now or later, and what then comes next? Will we manage to sail down the whole west coast without an engine, like the old-timers did? What I do not imagine is a pale captain having to turn, for the first time in his life, to the bilge pump.
A new boat, that is an old that is new to you, is always a challenge. You are not familiar with its peculiarity and character, and do not know the multitude of personal, more or less sensible devices, introduced by previous owners. For my own part, not only the diesel engine was an imagined horror, but also a modern – at least for me – chart plotter. Of course I knew what a plotter was, but to use it is something else, and I was completely inexperienced. Until now I had preferred to scrutinize waves and horizons rather than staring at some kind of computer reminding me of my daily work at the office. We depart at 6.30 p.m., motoring at first, and the engine actually runs nicely even though it’s Friday 13th. Not the best day to cast off, according to old tradition. A light breeze is blowing straight from the south, that is upwind, but luckily the pouring rain now seemed to fade away. Everything goes smoothly as we sneak out between the small islets outside Nærvika, on the south shore of Atløya, using our recently purchased paper-charts at first. But then, after entering Aldefjorden, the hullabaloo starts. I turn on this modern, wonderful navigation gear; a chart pops up on the display with an arrow signifying "us" - that is my new Pionier 9. But wait a minute; suddenly we are running in the wrong direction, and what about Atløya? Didn’t we just depart from the southern bay – but now we are suddenly on the north side, and keep on running directly towards the north? I promptly confer my paper-chart, but now I’ve lost all sense of orientation. Has the whole world gone mad? According to the paper-chart I just knew where I was, but now when I gaze, with eyes wide open, from the chart-plotter towards the skerries surrounding us, I must admit a convincing the high-tech correspondence although north and south seems to be changed around. For a moment the voyage turns into pure existential philosophy: Where are we, where are we heading and what importance does it really have? Finally I realize. While north on the printed chart is always up, "north" in the chart-plotter-world is simply our current bearing, in this case towards the south, which then becomes "north", that is upside down. Still confused, and in the mental shadows of all thinkable shoals and underwater rocks, I make a choice before disaster strikes. Both the paper sheets and the brand new technology are fine, but do not use them simultaneously (at least not at first). Luckily the island Alden, often called "The Norwegian Horse", re-establishes my navigational ability. This characteristic island lies out there to the west of the flat archipelago of Værlandet, making a precious point of reference. Its summit, 480 meter above sea level, is currently enveloped in dense clouds and gives the island a mysterious, exotic look. I had planed to anchor underneath the cliffs in the secluded Aldervågen and go mountain climbing, until I realised we didn't have the time to fulfil such adventure with its expected overwhelming view of the west coast archipelago. Consequently we must reconcile ourselves with the still impressive and always present view of Alden, as we set sail and run smoothly southwards along the coast. The wind is slightly rising, but for the present we let our engine run idle. Of course we know that internal-combustion engines, in a sustainable world, are a passing phenomenon, but being without much knowledge of the boat and the rig, it makes us feel a little safer. The clouds still hang over us, dark and heavy, but soon we enjoy a nice moderate breeze. After a while the waves start to break, but now the wind strikes us just in the bow. We let go all pride, and ones again leave our forward thrust entirely to our 14 horsepower engine. Against heavy odds, no monsters seams to have awakened in our fuel system. The boat handles the waves nicely and the cockpit is dry. We contemplate our surroundings. Still out there, Alden rises as a magical kingdom in its bank of clouds. Towards the south, steep mountains cut the rainy clouds in their abdomen while the sun is bold enough to illuminate the rocks here and there, even gleaming down to the deep fjords and valleys. Now, we are entering Buefjorden, gazing southwards towards Vassfjellet and Hervik village, I think.
We slip by and enter the calm water between Buskøy and Steinsøy.
We have started our west coast voyage at least, but the night is drawing closer and we can’t expect to reach too far this first day. Besides, our lanterns aren’t working for some reason, and we also need some time to put things straight on the boat. After studying the chart again, we find a sound where it looks like we might anchor safely in the lee of some islands. It's not that far and just ahead. We aim at what we believe to be Buskøygavlen light, and indeed, for some inexplicable reason, it proves right. We slip by and enter the calm water between Buskøy and Steinsøy. By the inlet a picturesque cluster of typical west coast houses makes us expectant, but unfortunately, further on the sound is disappointing. A rusty factory-quay with all sorts of junk and rubbish does not tempt us to go alongside with its black infectious tractor-tire fenders. Further south the sound becomes to exposed and is also packed with private piers and jetties that do not invite us alongside. After some hesitant navigation, back and forth, we find a nice cove all the same, and let go the anchor. It’s time to try out our Icelandic Svartadaudir shot (The Black Death), and then to look things over. This is what we do before the never-ending northern dusk, unfortunately without discovering the seawater level slowly rising in our bilge. Actually, we haven’t checked the hull properly. The boat had already been afloat for 24 hours when we entered. Still floating, I thought she probably would continue to float. Unaware of the leakage, we feel optimistic for a moment, after running – at least – seven nautical miles on our very first leg. Now only 173 nautical are left until we are safely home again, pooh pooh. Our plan is to be back early on the 16th of May, that is ahead of Constitution Day with its waving of flags, children’s parade, its homage to Henrik Wergeland, etc. etc., and tomorrow is still no more than the 14th. Unfamiliar waters surrounds us, but some kind of delayed, youthful hubris, make us confident that the God Aeolus, with friendliness and sympathy, will let a fair, norhern wind blow.
The evening sets in and nothing is more restful than to let go the anchor, to make fast, sort out some ends and clear up the worst disorder, light the cooker in the galley an after the mess, take a shot of Svartadaudir an another one when the coffee is ready. Now it's time for some confused, loose-tongued and bottomless amateur philosophy about one thing and another, without any complains concerning traumatic relationships or midlife crises. Life aboard is meant to be less complicated, just as well I guess, after a drink or two too much. Our talking point could of course have been “Women” – i.e. those chosen ones whom we love, those whom we would have liked – at least in principle – to join us instead of desperately waiting for us (in our imagination) back home. But our dubious dialogue mostly touches upon adversities and delights concerning our present voyage, reflections on our new vessel, our opportunities on this heroic mission, etc. etc.. We don’t mention it, but a strange, undefined community seems to circumscribe us. We are following a well-used, ancient fairway along the so-called “Nord-vegen”, but it is still unexplored by us. We are here for the first time. Unsettled weather surrounds us, waves and currents, flow and ebb, and an old culture signified trough boats, old warehouses and boathouses, all part of a weathered coastal aesthetics. Tiny waves will soon be rocking at least one of us into a profound sleep, gratified as we both are as humble guests in this waters, ones a world peopled by sailors, fishermen and smallholders. Mostly their life must have been toil and moil in this rough but beautiful landscape, enjoyed presently by us, cruising for pleasure only. Luckily the fishermen still nod in recognition when we pass by, even those who have become fish breeders and millionaires in the new era.
The evening sets in and nothing is more restful than to let go the anchor, to make fast, sort out some ends and clear up the worst disorder, light the cooker in the galley an after the mess, take a shot of Svartadaudir an another one when the coffee is ready. Now it's time for some confused, loose-tongued and bottomless amateur philosophy about one thing and another, without any complains concerning traumatic relationships or midlife crises. Life aboard is meant to be less complicated, just as well I guess, after a drink or two too much. Our talking point could of course have been “Women” – i.e. those chosen ones whom we love, those whom we would have liked – at least in principle – to join us instead of desperately waiting for us (in our imagination) back home. But our dubious dialogue mostly touches upon adversities and delights concerning our present voyage, reflections on our new vessel, our opportunities on this heroic mission, etc. etc.. We don’t mention it, but a strange, undefined community seems to circumscribe us. We are following a well-used, ancient fairway along the so-called “Nord-vegen”, but it is still unexplored by us. We are here for the first time. Unsettled weather surrounds us, waves and currents, flow and ebb, and an old culture signified trough boats, old warehouses and boathouses, all part of a weathered coastal aesthetics. Tiny waves will soon be rocking at least one of us into a profound sleep, gratified as we both are as humble guests in this waters, ones a world peopled by sailors, fishermen and smallholders. Mostly their life must have been toil and moil in this rough but beautiful landscape, enjoyed presently by us, cruising for pleasure only. Luckily the fishermen still nod in recognition when we pass by, even those who have become fish breeders and millionaires in the new era.
The straits we pass are surrounded by bare, rocky heath-land, stretched out along the coast towards Bømlo and further on, often without a cottage or a house to be seen. On this coast a visitor is almost always welcomed. Even going alongside a private pier is generously accepted if you only ask permission in accordance with good manners. The people from western Norway may be a bit reserved at first, but they don’t send you off. On the south-eastern coast “no admittance”-signs written in gold letters (but with spikes), may occur. But in this western waters (the cradle of freedom), stupid phenomenons like this are rare and not in accordance with ancient tradition. Nothing to worry about, then, even if the examination of our boat – and the planning of our voyage – has been so-so. But why is the skipper still awake? Perhaps he wonders why the engine hasn’t stalled, why nothing in the rig seems to be broken, why the halyards doesn’t slam like they usually do, why the mast doesn’t quiver and haul in the early land wind, why the anchor is not dragging. The skipper lies awake till late in the night, surprised that everything – despite all probability – seem to be just fine.
We sleep in, mess at a leisurely pace and loosen our tongues with a chat. Maybe we haven’t really realised entirely what kind of voyage 170 nautical miles represent, and in addition the wind still blows from the south. The engine has to be stirred up and again it starts without being grumpy. In a fit of optimism we hoist the main too, and after some fumbling this combination seems to work. When turning westward in Lågøyfjorden, the foresail is set – and what a feeling! She runs beautifully! The breeze is light, though, but just now that fits us nicely as newcomers aboard. The sun shines and soon we are making 5.4 knots with the engine still rumbling at idle. It waits for our change of course towards the sound inside of Ytre (outer) Sula, Ytre Steinsund, where the wind is bound to hit our nose again. The jib is furled without problem. I still expect this modern “roll up” system will turn out to be a hassle, but it's somewhat easier than messing around on the foredeck, I admit. The day is sunny, but cloudlets still touches the mountain peaks and the air is spring-like but nippy. Far behind us “Hurtigruten”, the coastal steamer "Nordnorge", approaches and soon passes us with glory and speed on its way towards Bergen. But we are heading further south, and with a more mature attitude. Our small yacht is nearly 50 years of age, and although she shouldn’t be compared with a vintage, wooden yacht, she has without doubt her own “style”. We have forgotten to put up the colours on our stern, but now it's hoisted in a hurry before we wave proudly to the tourists on top deck. Soon their adventure will have come to an end, and that is much to early. Making Bergen the port of departure when running north – and the last port of call on Hurtigruten’s southbound voyage, is a stupid decision probably taken in Bergen.
We sleep in, mess at a leisurely pace and loosen our tongues with a chat. Maybe we haven’t really realised entirely what kind of voyage 170 nautical miles represent, and in addition the wind still blows from the south. The engine has to be stirred up and again it starts without being grumpy. In a fit of optimism we hoist the main too, and after some fumbling this combination seems to work. When turning westward in Lågøyfjorden, the foresail is set – and what a feeling! She runs beautifully! The breeze is light, though, but just now that fits us nicely as newcomers aboard. The sun shines and soon we are making 5.4 knots with the engine still rumbling at idle. It waits for our change of course towards the sound inside of Ytre (outer) Sula, Ytre Steinsund, where the wind is bound to hit our nose again. The jib is furled without problem. I still expect this modern “roll up” system will turn out to be a hassle, but it's somewhat easier than messing around on the foredeck, I admit. The day is sunny, but cloudlets still touches the mountain peaks and the air is spring-like but nippy. Far behind us “Hurtigruten”, the coastal steamer "Nordnorge", approaches and soon passes us with glory and speed on its way towards Bergen. But we are heading further south, and with a more mature attitude. Our small yacht is nearly 50 years of age, and although she shouldn’t be compared with a vintage, wooden yacht, she has without doubt her own “style”. We have forgotten to put up the colours on our stern, but now it's hoisted in a hurry before we wave proudly to the tourists on top deck. Soon their adventure will have come to an end, and that is much to early. Making Bergen the port of departure when running north – and the last port of call on Hurtigruten’s southbound voyage, is a stupid decision probably taken in Bergen.
Ytre Steinsund offers the first touch of what is to come of “never-ending” fjords. Our tiny vessel runs for hours and hours, passing island and sounds, bays and coves, one after the other. Occasional a skip, an old skipper’s house or a cottage or two, reminds us that we have not completely lost sight of civilization, but we are far away from so-called urban areas, that’s for sure. A web of fjords and islands constantly encircles our fairway, forming archipelagos that we would gladly explore for some weeks if it weren’t for the stupid limits set by our daily life as wage earners. Maybe some other time. It's a pity to pass by, but to coast like we do is fascinating too, making a distance run of 60-70-80 nautical miles a day. We are both on watch, a refreshed hand take hold of the tiller from time to time, but hours and hours we both sit in the cockpit, gazing, drawing our breath in the fresh air, letting the play of light from the ever-changing sky embrace our winter-pale faces. Then, at last, the sound become wider and Sognesjøen lies ahead. East of this wide water, the magnificent Sognefjorden penetrates the heart of the Norwegian mountains, reaching as far as 100 nautical miles – if Lustrafjord and Skjolden are included. With our average speed this would mean 40 hours of sailing, back and forth, 20 if one decides to turn native and live the rest of ones life as “Sogning”. The fjord is surely tempting, but the distance alone equals our whole voyage Atløy-Stavanger, or if we turn to the west, two-thirds of the distance to Shetland - once a part of Norway and still an adventure. However, our current adventure is probably the most beautiful, following this sheltered, western fairway, the coastal “freeway” for ages and ages.
A "passing boat" deserving a picture.
Now we are in the shipping lane meant for huge tankers calling for or departing the Mongstad refinery. Our attention is drawn towards some warnings underlined in our chart, but our qualifications are faulty, and we choose not to understand. And besides, didn’t the poet – Alexander L. Kielland – name this very coast the cradle of freedom? So we pray and run ahead, silently begging all tankers to keep a decent distance. By the way, no tankers show up, they must have been warned: "Watch out! Fair-weather yachtsmen in vintage ocean cruiser, enters our shipping-line."
After Røytingkalven light we steer southwest towards Grimeskjæret light, and then further on into Fedjefjorden. Fedje is, in our imagination another adventure, one of the many rural mini-versions of "Venice" on this very coast, at least according to our sources. But the wind is fair and it's too early to let go the anchor, so our voyage continues. We have to be content with the view of this luring archipelago far off. The wind shifts to the west, we are making well over 5 knots and begin to fantasise about reaching all the way to Bømlo where the skipper has friends with a guest room in the barn – (open to all kind of cruising men and women coming out of the blue). But our seamanship never was sturdy. Obviously we haven’t taken the trouble to check the distance still separating us from the longed-for duvets of Bømlo. When checking we realise that as much as 60 nautical miles remain, a distance run almost the double of what we have covered so far. Besides, we now experience how outstretched the open fjords along this coast are. We keep on running, the landscape passes by, but out there in the west, the line of the islands called Øygarden, still seems to be the same. From time to time we check the position and wonder: "Haven’t we got any further?" We aren’t suffering, though. All sails are set. For the most part the engine hum gently in the background, giving us some extra speed. Nevertheless, after hours, we eventually run out of conversation topics, and – to be honest – what is the point in chatting constantly? Crew-members who know each other well enough to be silent, are a refreshment when one is out at sea. Therefore I can make this story a bit shorter too. Quite a few hours can be summarised easily in the ship journal: "Nothing worth telling." At last we enter Hjeltefjorden, then the city fjord – Byfjorden – near Bergen. Time passes and we realise the evening will set in without us getting a glimpse of Bømlo.
"Hurtigruten" passing.
Early morning. In the forepeak the crew is really a sound sleeper, but in the cabin the skipper has slept poorly, with eyes wide open at the crack of dawn. Now we are in Alvøpollen, a cove just north of Vatlestraumen. Yesterday evening at dusk, we happened to let go the anchor here just when it began to rain cats and dogs. The cove is shielded with a mood of poetry. It really is beautiful here, but a beauty of decay and wear and tear. Some of the sailboats in the cove have their residence at the bottom, and we can guess the shapes of what ones were elegant hulls. The masts penetrate the water surface like beacons. It’s still raining while peace prevails. A house close to the shore, with functionalist style, could have been worth millions if only built on another site. Alvøpollen is like a blind alley, something like a pub lies by the pier, but the street is dead except a dog pulling the owner reluctantly trough the rain. It’s 6 o’clock in the morning, and the sleepy skipper doesn’t really notice how the environment appears in the morning light. He already has put off, and breakfast must wait.
With only the jib set, the boat rushes before the wind, making as mush as 6-7 knots trough Steinsundet. In the moderate breeze from south, the newly fledged boat owner realises that his old van de Stadt is a wilful but vacillating lady. The helmsman can’t develop more than a single crooked thought and the boat turns to port or starboard. Directional stability is totally absent and I send a sad thought to my old faithful IF-folkboat Maritornes, long keeled and with her nose never lost from course, not even with the helmsman off guard a few seconds to grab a chart, a snack or to take a leak. With its fin keel and spade rudder, the Pionier 9 has other qualities that she will have to show me sooner or later, but in return she must be checked by the autopilot or by fastening the rudder in one way or another. Otherwise you are stuck to the tiller, at least when sailing single-handed.
While the crew serves me breakfast, we run southwards in clouded and cold weather. With the wind abeam, we approaches Korsfjorden rapidly, we decide to sail trough Krossøysundet just to check out Austevoll witch seems to be a real maze of Islands, according to the chart. The islands form a circle, almost like an atoll from the South Seas. This water seems to be rather desolate and wider than it looks like on the chart. It is beautiful for sure, but not as beautiful as the islands off Bømlo and Fitjar, and this is exactly where we are heading as we hurry across Møkstrafjorden and change course towards Bekkjarvisundet. Then we run north of Fitjar and along the outstretched Nyleia (The new fairway) between the large islands Bømlo and Stord. Now I'm in familiar waters again. Less than a year ago, just among Fitjar’s many islets, she laid here on the sun-heated coastal rock slope, this woman, unfortunately not part of our present crew. I call my friends in Bømlo – they live at the western shore of the Island – and I explain why we can’t pop in, we are on the opposite side, and have decided to sweep past.
The skipper motor-sailing.
The joy of returning to familiar waters, is different from the enthusiasm caused by novelty. I don’t dear to claim what joy is the greatest joy; as with most things, it depends and varies. How many marriages would last, if not for the Kierkegaardian art of ethical repetition and ability to enjoy what is well known (but on the other hand, sometimes an old, almost forgotten flame suddenly appears; another kind of repetition). At least I already know this waters, and the ambivalence I feel when passing by, changes. I now appreciate the opportunity to glide silently and smoothly into the narrow, familiar sounds and inlets, those spots where we spent a nice day, a romantic evening, a hopeful morning. The crew hasn’t been here before; and now shows an uncontrollable urge to explore the shoreline and to take all kind of detours around islets and into bays, with a quarrelsome foresail as a result. But never mind, everyone to his liking, and the one at the helm rules. Why we call at Rubbestadneset is more than the skipper understands, though, as he recollects a far more romantic Bømlo-harbour; the secret bay that we never knew before sliding into it.
With only the jib set, the boat rushes before the wind, making as mush as 6-7 knots trough Steinsundet. In the moderate breeze from south, the newly fledged boat owner realises that his old van de Stadt is a wilful but vacillating lady. The helmsman can’t develop more than a single crooked thought and the boat turns to port or starboard. Directional stability is totally absent and I send a sad thought to my old faithful IF-folkboat Maritornes, long keeled and with her nose never lost from course, not even with the helmsman off guard a few seconds to grab a chart, a snack or to take a leak. With its fin keel and spade rudder, the Pionier 9 has other qualities that she will have to show me sooner or later, but in return she must be checked by the autopilot or by fastening the rudder in one way or another. Otherwise you are stuck to the tiller, at least when sailing single-handed.
While the crew serves me breakfast, we run southwards in clouded and cold weather. With the wind abeam, we approaches Korsfjorden rapidly, we decide to sail trough Krossøysundet just to check out Austevoll witch seems to be a real maze of Islands, according to the chart. The islands form a circle, almost like an atoll from the South Seas. This water seems to be rather desolate and wider than it looks like on the chart. It is beautiful for sure, but not as beautiful as the islands off Bømlo and Fitjar, and this is exactly where we are heading as we hurry across Møkstrafjorden and change course towards Bekkjarvisundet. Then we run north of Fitjar and along the outstretched Nyleia (The new fairway) between the large islands Bømlo and Stord. Now I'm in familiar waters again. Less than a year ago, just among Fitjar’s many islets, she laid here on the sun-heated coastal rock slope, this woman, unfortunately not part of our present crew. I call my friends in Bømlo – they live at the western shore of the Island – and I explain why we can’t pop in, we are on the opposite side, and have decided to sweep past.
Traditional houses, Nyleia in Bømlo.
The joy of returning to familiar waters, is different from the enthusiasm caused by novelty. I don’t dear to claim what joy is the greatest joy; as with most things, it depends and varies. How many marriages would last, if not for the Kierkegaardian art of ethical repetition and ability to enjoy what is well known (but on the other hand, sometimes an old, almost forgotten flame suddenly appears; another kind of repetition). At least I already know this waters, and the ambivalence I feel when passing by, changes. I now appreciate the opportunity to glide silently and smoothly into the narrow, familiar sounds and inlets, those spots where we spent a nice day, a romantic evening, a hopeful morning. The crew hasn’t been here before; and now shows an uncontrollable urge to explore the shoreline and to take all kind of detours around islets and into bays, with a quarrelsome foresail as a result. But never mind, everyone to his liking, and the one at the helm rules. Why we call at Rubbestadneset is more than the skipper understands, though, as he recollects a far more romantic Bømlo-harbour; the secret bay that we never knew before sliding into it.
Finally we are approaching the bridges in the famous "trekantsambandet" (triangle connection), we pass Mosterhamn, get the wind more on the starboard beam across Bømlofjoden and run along at nearly seven knots. The helmsman now works like hell with a weather helm; is the boat unbalanced in some way, is it the hull, or is our sail just trimmed badly? Sooner or later, I guess, the boat and I will become friends anyway, and find out how to do things. Now the sea starts breaking; the breeze is fresh and blows more from the north, which ought to give us moderate sea when crossing the wide and infamous “Sletta”. At port side, we see the coastline of Sveio where I ones was lucky enough to let go the anchor in a beautiful cove. Then we run out into the open blue again, in safe distance to the rugged, rocky coast and Ryvarden lighthouse. We pass the rock “Store Bloksen” so close that we can see the mermaids deep in their eyes, and just behind; the dreary spar that is all we see of “Little Bloksen”, the reef where 16 lives were lost in a meaningless way, when everything went wrong aboard the fast ferry Sleipner, a stormy night, the 26th of November 1999. It feels strange to sail by like we do just for pleasure and in fair weather. What we do not know is that in two weeks, a yachtsman known to both of us, is going to be flushed overboard in this very waters – in rough weather – and he disappears. Nevertheless, we soon have forgotten about Bloksen, and instead are making complaints concerning the dropping wind, we do less than four knots and we lurch quite a bit as we get closer to Haugesund. Far to the south we can already see the beautiful, church-like Storhaugøy lighthouse, also called “Tonjer”. So it's time to glide quietly through Smedasundet where the maritime atmosphere is still obvious along the docks, although some warehouse in Vibrandøysundet have seen prouder and busier days. It starts to rain, and the wind dies completely. The engine is started, for in addition to the falling wind, we sail against a strong current. As best we can, we sway along Karmsundet while large cargo-ships pass and look down at us from far above. Yes, we know we are in different leagues. Then it opens up and we suddenly get a fresh wind and 5-6 knots, so the engine is turned off ones again. We are in an old Viking fairway. Avaldsnes, the residence of the first Norwegian King, and the town Kopervik is passed in no time. The speed results in our greatest out-sailed distance, but now the skipper is cold, and examines the chart in search for a suitable anchorage. We first think of the nice islands south of Fosen and Høvringen, but decides on Ognahamn where a public pier in a quiet cove is waiting for us. It is a good choice, and here, eventually, even the skipper gets a good night's sleep.
A visitor, heading north.
We pass the rock “Store Bloksen” and just behind; the dreary spar that is all we see of “Litle Bloksen”, the reef where 16 lives were lost a stormy night, the 26th of November 1999.
Storhaugøy lighthouse, also called “Tonjer”
Old "Cappy" has seen Happier days.
Haugesund's visitor harbour.
Storhaugøy lighthouse, also called “Tonjer”
Old "Cappy" has seen Happier days.
Haugesund's visitor harbour.
Haugesund - the maritime atmosphere is still obvious along the docks.
It is magical to wake up a calm morning in Ognahamn. The sea is smooth and glittering, the sun shines, but yet only gives us a hint of the summer to come. The occasional morning traffic that sweep past on the E39, nearby at the hillside, makes us sense the nature with more intensity, strangely enough. We are close by the road, but it seems to belong to another dimension. The calm weather tells us there will be no sailing today , but never mind, we've probably sailed enough for a while, and the wide Boknafjorden in calm sea is not to disdain, either. We cast off, and our slim hull rushes off, driven by a nice forward propulsion. After some disagreement about course and calibration, the autopilot finally understands us, and we enjoy our breakfast on the completely calm fjord, only occasional casting a glance trough the windscreen. We approaches the beautiful island Brimse, east of Rennesøy, when the crew suddenly makes a disturbing discovery. In our cabin, there is water all over, and it is not due to a leaking water tank or something. This is seawater. The thought of some fatal leakage fills the skipper's mind, and I remember countless stories of "new boat home passages” leading to abject failure. Fortunately, the boat has the luxury of a bilge pump, and the skipper runs to it, trying desperately to dry out the boat. The crew monitors the water level. Does the water still rise? The skipper pumps like hell, and after a while, the crew gives him hope after all. The water level drops, the pump has done it's duty, at least we're not sinking. When the bilge is finally emptied, we nevertheless note that water is still trickling in from somewhere. The enjoyment of the beautiful morning has to wait, and we start searching for the leakage. Was it naive to buy the boat unseen? Have I bought a pig in a poke, or a hulk that will not float? In the cabin we find nothing. Could it be the shaft? A plunge into the inspection hatch gives us the answer, and it is simple and rather banal. The lid on the grease cup has not been properly screwed on, and from this cup seawater trickles in. Luckily we find the missing lid, and after some fumble, the leakage is eliminated. At least we think so. Some days later the bilge is inundated ones again and a new inspection reveals a broken pipe from where the seawater trickles gently. Ones again the boat owner sees his boat on the depths of the ocean, especially when the pipe breaks completely when he touches it. His finger is immediately turned into a human plug, but fortunately. The designer, E.G. van de Stadt, had his way of doing things. The leak seems to be just in the waterline or even slightly above, and a small box built around the pipe is probably all that would be filled, at worst. Some days later the broken pipe is replaced without problem. And this is how the first chapter ends of my life together with the legendary Dutch ocean cruiser, Pionier 9, production number1520, year 1964. We have sailed 180 nautical mils along most of the Norwegian west coast, and finally, after less than three days, we are home. The crew and the skipper says goodbye – still friends after completed deeds. It is the 16th of May 2011. The Norwegian Constitution Day is coming, with the mandatory tribute to the great Norwegian poet, Henrik Wergeland, a spokesman for freedom, justice and human rights. Meanwhile, my modern vintage boat seems to be a bit in a daze. But now the senior yachtsmen, the real old-timers, come limping along the pier with or without a walking stick. Yes, they know this fast ocean cruiser design, and it gave them some strong competition in the 60th and 70th, it was in the Bergen-area, as far as they remember. Yes, it’s a nice boat – they nod approvingly – it reminds us a little of the old days. And my Pionier 9 – at once – seems to feel a little more at home. Remembering my dear folkboat Maritornes, named after the coarse but merciful harlot in Don Quixote, I think I'll name this new boat after the incomparable Dorotea.
Ognahamn. View towards Bokn.
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