Sailing the Fjords: The Art of Humble Exploration; West Coast of Norway

"For all my life I have made Discoveries close at hand"

Hilarie Belloc, The Cruise of the Nona.

Austøy, northwest of Kårstø

We have to wait a day or two. The weather is miserable and we pretend as if it annoys us, but it really doesn’t matter that much. You know. According to plans we should have been ready to cast off long ago, but the list of things that need to be arranged is still long. So – at least we get enough time for fitting out while the gale roars and the rain rushes along the streets. Fortunately, The West Coast will hardly move or suddenly disappear; at least this hasn’t happened in years.

Of course the weather doesn’t get any better, but at last our tasks are mostly in box, and since we don't have that much time to trifle away…..off we go. We are – as usual – an amateur crew, the two of us, Mrs. and Mr. She is both the first mate and the first steward, I’m the cabin boy and to be honest, rather inexperienced even without the pots. If she gives me titles like skipper or captain, an ironic tone immediately fills the air, and I can hear a strange whinnying from the keel bolts of our 50 year old Pionier, van de Stadt "yacht". Some years of cruising the coastal areas nearby, still cannot cover up an inherent academic approach towards sailing, a reflective attitude with only occasional traces of practical skills. Good enough I guess – up to strength 5-6.

We are residents on The West Coast, and we are departing for the same West Coast, not very far consequently, but since all the outposts of the world have since long been discovered and explored and described, what does it matter after all? Thus we go for waters close at hand, we are ready for our rather humble exploration. By the way, we still disagree about our furthermost destination. My wife thinks on principle – and to gain a certain bargaining measure – that my visions of the north-west coast are fare from humble – she makes it clear, even before I mention in a fit of mountain climbing dreams, the possibility of reaching as far to the north as Romsdalen. If I then retail away the infamous headland of Stad, I'll still be fairly happy. The negotiation stalls concerning the city of Floro, but secretly we both think: “One never knows, and besides, who can predict the weather…”? If only we reach the waters north of Sognefjorden and the magic island of Alden – "The Norwegian Horse" – where our vessel sort of belongs. I bought the boat in those waters two years before, but unfortunately I had to pass by “the Horse” on my leg towards home (although I longed to climb her impressive “back”). When seeing her dwindle away, I regretted, and for two years now I have longed to climb this strange island, rising 1575 feet above sea level, making it visible from far off. The Gods did not create Alden for it to be passed by.

Haugesund, a Viking ship, brand new.

Lykelssøya

Lysøya

Pionier 9. Van de Stadt. Towards Bergen.

This summer I bring with me Hilaire Belloc, recommended by the Norwegian “ship-journal” travelogue writer Caspar Brochmann (in his Blad fra Loggen, 1986). Belloc was one of Brochmann’s literary idols, and Brochmann’s own log entries show signs of this. But Belloc was – I soon found out – something more; a philosopher but also a grouch, an anti-modernist (as most pleasure yachters are) and a reactionary Catholic. A unique essayist and depicter of the sea, though, just an occasional writer, and just therefore a master of rather romantic, high quality sketches, collected in his On Sailing the Sea (1951), no. 18 in the Mariners Library. I was truly sick of the book piles, written by "adventurous" circumnavigators (nowadays including your neighbour and anybody). It was easier to identify our humble Cruise with a pleasure sailing man, seldom exploring waters to far from the coasts of England and Wales.

For an academic sailor the open sea is like hell on earth. In case of unexpectedly drought – say more than moderate breeze, God knows what will happen. But calm air often turns out even worse, with no headway, a grumpy wife – and the boat rolling about in case of a messy swell. The weather forecast have reported strong breeze from the south west in Boknafjorden. My idea is to run towards the north at first, under a shortened headsail, and then slip in behind the island of Bokn. But the wind is dropping and turns more westerly, while the swell is still running strong. Then the rain begins to flow, and we take shelter under the spray hood rather than toiling with the mainsail. Finally, we let go all our pride and turn on our engine: "If you have machinery aboard ....". To hell with old Belloc!

For simplicity, we go alongside a pier, in a lovely cove among heather covered crags at Austøy, to the northwest of Kårstø. All of a sudden we are just fine in the rain. We climb to the top of the island and gazes at the beautiful, barren archipelago where the landscape and the oil refinery makes a pronounced contrast. What is needed for an amateur pleasure cruise to succeed? Some not to outdated charts, a partner to go alongside and make fast to at dusk. A travelogue, somewhat old. More capable yachters may prioritise differently, but are they necessarily right? The next day we are beating close-hauled towards the north of Førdesfjorden. First we visit friends at Fosen, then we run merrily, against the current but before the wind all the way through the long and narrow Karmsundet, specially made for us I think. The guest marina in Haugesund is located just below the Risøy bridge, which is not a good idea as regards our mast, but Haugesund still is a nice place to await a fair wind before crossing the infamous “Sletta” where the Slepner shipwreck still dampens our jokes. But Sletta turns out more friendly than expected, and soon we run into Bømlafjorden faster than anyone could possibly imagination. We reach Lykelsøya (N 59.5 E 05.4) while the sun still gives off some heat, and at our nose; a pontoon for free. Lykelsøy seems to be our island of good luck. Like circumnavigators stranded at some Pacific Island, we think; - can’t we just as well stay here for a while? How on earth have this cove escaped all the upper class palaces and the middle class cabin? Now, luckily, our access is free and secured by law, and it feels good to be here, even though we are not alone. People are made for chatting, so it seems, and like this we get access to some small family dramas, seasoning the never-ending northern summer evening. A young mother wishes to stay, her husband dreams of covering 150 nautical miles – calling for Kristiansand – in one single day.

In the chart the long-winded Langenuen, east of Fitjar, looks boring, but after turning north of Nordhuglo, we are carried by a promising, southeasterly breeze, and we run before among merry waves. Our plan is to visit the many islets to the west of Fitjar, but when we approach Selbjørnsfjorden, the sea gets somewhat heavy and we bear away towards Bekkjarvik. In the mouth of this cove, though, it looks too industrial for our liking, and we proceed towards the tiny Kvalavåg (N 60.0 E 5.5). The breeze is growing strong, and our old chart plotter perforates the islets we graze by. I feel a bit nervous, and our paper charts for these waters, it turns out, we forgot to take with us. But for some inscrutable reason, it turns out well. In this gale, the narrow Kvalvåg cove is perfect, and old Sigurd, of course, soon comes shuffling, making the necessary inquiries , and showing us where to make fast to his shabby quay. The cove isn’t what it used to be, he mumbles, I guess he’s right. Old people don’t always appreciate the aesthetics of decay, and it’s long since whaling created stir in this narrow harbour. The next day we cast off and run merrily across the wide "lagoon" sheltered by the many islands of Austevoll. Under our shortened mainsail we make a great headway towards Lysøya (N 60.13 E 05.21) and the house of Ole Bull, the violinist and former world star. So we behave like tourists for a while, by chance, but the best part is just lying in the tiny Lyse cove, a wonder surrounded by beautiful paths perforating the forests. We are not far from Bergen, and yet we are all alone. That is, a big Scottish yacht with a fancy deck saloon, is swinging at anchor in the middle of the bay, but it seems to be abandoned. The whole evening and most of the next day it watches us like ghost.

Scottish friends at anchor.

Inner Steinsund

Hardbakke, Solund.

Solund

But in the afternoon the crew shows up, a retired couple of course, and we exchanged some words. For years, they have sailed this coast, now awaiting family members from Scotland. They plan to run a bit to the north, then to Bergen to fetch their guests. We weight anchor and leave the cove, tacking into Raunefjorden in a moderate breeze. Suddenly they come from astern, and it must be admitted, they are passing. At his moment we are hailed, and a landing net is stretched over our railing with two Scottish milk chocolates, a friendly greeting from across the North see.

Sailing is associated with metaphors of life as something more than the usual trot. Sailing becomes philosophy, an occasionally literature too. Therefore, the modern sailors like us, ignorant and unskilled regarding the ancient art of practical seamanship, still may experience some moment of modest spirituality. We take leave of urban life for some few weeks. We make a modest distant run, we chat for some hours, enjoy some reading if we aren’t to drowsy, or just relax, experiencing the glowing summer evenings, on deck everything is in order and silence descends. My book is my fish eye, making a glimpse of history possible. Hilaire Belloc's The Cruise of the Nona (1925) is a revelation of seagoing prose, but unfortunately the pleasure are interrupted. The sensitive depictions of cruises along Britain's coasts, alternate with reactionary political essays on the misery of contemporary society and modern life in general. By this, Belloc reveals how a wise and earnest philosophy, can slide towards reaction bordering on fascism. Perhaps a brighter philosophical brain than mine is needed to explain how this is possible, but at least I think there is a fallacy in Belloc’s reasoning, an unhealthy merging of the joy of life and a retrospective cultivation of heroism. Obviously his thinking was in accordance with the spirit of the time. The Norwegian writer Knut Hamsun has similar thoughts, or the circumnavigator Erling Tambs, for that matter, perhaps the greatest writer among the Norwegian sailors. I find the best way to read "the Nona" is piece by piece, here and there, although like this, I get a little confused regarding his different ports of call. This doesn’t matter that much, though, since the qualities of the journal lies in the isolated scenes and anecdotes. Belloc's journal is like the tides, or better, uneven like the changing wind. After a while I shift to the collection «On Sailing the Sea," small essays mostly or sketches from various cruises along the coast, thoughts regarding his boat and equipment, the wind and the weather, harbours and headlands, currents and tide. This is more suitable for my occasional reading without great intellectual ambitions: "Read less, good people, and sail more, and, above all, leave us in peace." (On Sailing the Sea, 101).

Bulandet, guest harbour

Værlandet.

Bulandet.

At a speed of nearly nine nots, we bear away, we pas Bergen and follow the “city fjord” towards the strange, low Nordhordaland Bridge. The foam splashes; we carry too much sail but haven’t the guts to take in reefs. We are constantly on the border of a jibe, but are saved by luck. At last we enjoy the evening, we have made fast to the rocks at Langaneset in Flatøyosen, while our Scottish friends are swinging at anchor, like foreigners do, north in the bay, just by the mist-filled hillsides of Håøyna. Our own anchorage turns out somewhat shallow. We are not used to the tidal range, being from the south-west, not far from one of the world's amphidromic points.

Next day we take the inner fairway, since I have sailed the outer coast before. Mother nature has made it possible for to slip through an “eye of a needle” at Alverstraumen (60.33 N 05.13 E) and then one may run through what seems like canals, rivers and lakes, about 17 nautical miles to the north-west until Kilstraumen (60.47 N 04.56 E). We pass our Scottish friends and get pictures of our boat, in exchange for homemade rhubarb jam. Unfortunately the pictures lay bare our halyard in a tangle on deck, and a bucket dangling around, well, well, I seek some comfort from my reading the night before: "I knew very well that though I had three million pounds and some odd pence over I should never have a tidy boat. I could not sleep in such a thing.” (Nona, 92). Half through the inner fairway, we find a nice place to halt, and sheltered by Rådmannsholmane we tie the boat up while studying inexplicably currents in the sound. Ones again, how should amateurs like us have managed without some literary support: "No man living can understand the tides." (Nona, 93)

In these waters we are now using a small-scale chart, more than 30 year old, and from the reality, we understand how times are changing. At dusk, we are aiming for a relaxed and peaceful out port near the strong run at Kilstraumen. Instead, at Trollholmen, we find hotels, a guest marina, a bunker station, cabins, a restaurant. It's sad, but the guest marina, with a proper toilet and a shower – for the time being, we accept it, the time they are a changing. The next day is determined by our search for bread. We run towards Mjømna quay, where there should be a general shop (according to last years "turist guide"), but it is closed. We proceed and enter Sognesjøen, passing the beautiful and desolate Skorpa and Hille, then we head for inner Steinsund – not the outer sound, as planned –we smell a chance of bread in Hardbakke, the municipality Solund. In the misty weather, the desolate sound feels magic, one of those experiences hitting us by random; a misty ridge of rocks makes the approach bewitching. The strait gets narrower, we run against the current, it's low water and the seaweed is dozing along the shores, rocks and reefs.

Hardbakke turns out a typical west-coast town, a quay, a council offices and a church. We find a cafe just by the guest harbour and more important: a supermarket nearby. Despite the unusually wet and drizzling rain, we cast of and discover the Solund islands or better, the Solund archipelago: How is it possible for such a fairyland still to be almost untouched by man? Almost no cabins, no roads or bridges as far as we can see. We run through Liasundet and Lågøysundet in silence, and later, on our way home, we remember Solund and pay this fairyland another visit before heading for the islands of Fedje, Fitjar, Bømlo, Espevær.

But for the time being, we are still running to the north, and the next day, we pass the lonely “Geita” – "the goat", an islet fare out in the wide, open Buefjorden. We get a fair wind and Bulandet, where we're heading, soon comes within sight. At first sight, from the guest harbor, Bulandet is a bit disappointing, but then, after a day or two, you get more and more fascinated. And from everywhere, the magic island of Alden is in sight, tempting and seductive. But first, the wide and flat Bulandet and Værlandet archipelago, is to be explored by bicycle. Then Alden; our most distant destination. To impress ourselves a little and the world, we enter the secluded bay of Aldenvåg with all sail set. But for safety the engine is running idle, and we hear Mr. Belloc's voice: "For it is with the headlands as with the harbours, if you have machinery aboard, your craft is gone." To Hell with old Belloc, it’s time to mount our Horse