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.

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

Alden - The Norwegian Horse

Alden.

East of Ospa, Solund.

Solund.

Boat-builder Bjørn Ådne Kvalvik, Fedje.

Krossøya, Austevoll

Bekkjarvik. Austevoll.

Fitjar.

Barmane - Bømlo

Espevær- the famous UFO-ring.

The Lobster Museum

On the Art of Sailing. Aphorisms by Hilaire Belloc

From On Sailing the Sea, p. 90.

Aphorisms from Hilaire Belloc’s, The Cruise of the Nona (1925)


 …for it is in the hours when he is alone at the helm, steering his boat along the shores, that a man broods most upon the past, and most deeply considers the nature of things. (Nona, xii)

…all that man does makes up a string of happenings and thinkings, disconnected and without shape, meaningless, and yet full; which is Life. (Nona, xii)

…I have always thought that a man does well to take every chance day he can at sea in the narrow seas. I mean, a landsman like me should do so. For he will find at sea the full model of human life: that is, if he sails on his own and in a little craft suitable to the little stature of one man. If he goes to sea in a large boat, run by other men and full of comforts, he can only do so being rich and his cruise will be the dull round of a rich man. But if he goes to sea in a small boat, dependent upon his own energy and skill, never achieving anything with that energy and skill save the perpetual repetition of calm and storm, danger undesired and somehow overcome, than he will be a poor man, and his voyage will be the parallel of the life of a poor man – discomfort, dread, strain, a life all moving. (Nona, xiii)

Indeed, I think that as we go on piling measurements upon measurements, and making one instrument after another more and more perfect to extend our knowledge of material things, the sea will always continue to escape us. For there is a Living Spirit who rules the sea and many attendant spirits about him. (Nona, 3)

For all my life I have made discoveries close at hand, and have found the Island of Britain to be infinite. But who in our times knows where to look for vision? (Nona, 30)

…I am full of nothing but the coming of the course and an eagerness for the line of the sea against the sky and the making of a further shore. (Nona, 37)

I say that the sea is in all things the teacher of men. (Nona, 47)

For time on the water is quite different from time on land. It is more continuous; it is more part of the breathing of the world; less mechanical and divided. (Nona, 56)

For it is true of the sea here as everywhere, that it is the symbol of life, and of our ceaseless duties, and of death. We must never expect long quiet in the business of our live, nor any long security in any passage of the sea. (Nona, 63)

Is all the universe to arrange itself simply to your convenience, as it does for the very rich – so long as they keep off the sea? Will you not be content with sailing unless just that wind plays which is exactly trimmed for your miserable barque, neither too strong, nor too light or too far forward so that you have to beat, nor so far aft that you fear a gybe, or pooping from a running sea? Will you never repose in the will of your Maker and take things as they come? Why, then, drift round Skomer like a fool? (Nona, 64)

And 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)

No man living can understand the tides. And the mystery of the tides is as good a corrective as one could find to our deadening pride in exact measurements, and to the folly of attempting to base real knowledge upon mere calculation: our pretence to a universal science, and to a modern omniscience upon the Nature of Things. (Nona, 93)

No one can at sea forgo the human reason or doubt that things are things, or that true ideas are true. But the sea does teach one that the human reason, working from a number of known premises, must always be on its guard, lest the conclusion be upset in practice by the irruption of other premises, unknown or not considered. In plain words, the sea makes a man practical; and the practical man is, I suppose, as much the contrary of the pragmatist as the sociable man is the contrary of the socialist, or the peaceable man the contrary of the pacifist. (Nona, 98)

Aphorisms from Hilaire Belloc’s On Sailing the Sea (1951)

Go out some day and run before it in a gale. You will talk less and think more; I dislike the memory of your faces. I have written for your correction. Read less, good people, and sail more; and, above all, leave us in peace. (On Sailing, The North Sea, 101)

The common hour is serene or dull level enough, and though it impresses less, such routine of life forms the bulk of it; and indeed much of life is sleep. So with the sea. (On Sailing, The Silence of the Sea, 133)

…the sea makes characters and men, not books. (On Sailing, The Silence of the Sea, 134)

In good time the sea will recover all its heritage of Silence: the works of Man will have ceased, and the rattle of his mental contrivances. Then the Silence of the Sea will return. (On Sailing, The Silence of the Sea, 135)

But the whole point of weighting anchor is that he has chosen his weather and his tide, and that he is setting out. The ting is done. (On Sailing, On Weighting Anchor, 151)

One might think, save for experience, that waves and the behavior of a small vessel among them, would be much the same in any one of half a dozen types of weather, or less; that one would have for such and such a weight of wind, for or against the stream, such and such a sea. / But it is not so. ( On Sailing, Armada Weather, 170)

There is in this aspect of land from the sea I know not what of continual discovery and adventure, and therefore of youth, or, if you prefer a more mystical term, of resurrection. That which you thought you knew so well is quite transformed, and as you gaze you begin to think of the people inhabiting the firm earth beyond that line of sand as some unknown and happy people; or, if you remember their arrangements of wealth and poverty and their ambitious follies, they seem not tragic but comic to you, thus isolated as you are on the waters and free for it all. You think of landsmen as on a stage. And, again, the majesty of the Land itself takes its true place and properly lessens the mere interest in one’s fellows. Nowhere does England take on personality so strongly as from the sea. (On Sailing, Off Exmouth, 201)

But of all those sacramental sights the chief is the landfall from very far away. When a man after days at sea first hesitates whether some tenuous outline or level patch barely perceived, a vast way off, is land or cloud and then comes to the moment of certitude and knows it for land, all his mind changes; the ship becomes a different thing; the world, which has been formless and simple, takes on at once name and character. He is back among human things. (On Sailing, Off Exmouth, 203)

For the tide is of that kind; and the movement of the sea four times daily back and forth is a consequence, a reflection, and a part of the ceaseless pulse and rhythm which animates all things made and which links what seems not living to what certainly lives and feels and has power over all movement of its own. (On Sailing, The Tide, 225)

For it is with the headlands as with the harbours, if you have machinery aboard, your craft is gone. (On Sailing, Headlands, 245)

The Art of Reading a Sea Voyage Journal

On Tryggve Andersen – Journal from a sea voyage (1923)

Cruising the South Coast, Sørlandet, 2011. From the island Merdø, off Arendal.

Pleasure reading doesn’t combine with pleasure sailing as smoothly as one could wish. Nor does writhing, by the way. The Norwegian author Tryggve Andersen (1866-1920) probably would have confirmed this after his sea voyage, 1902-1903, as a passenger on board the Norwegian barque "Jonas". The ship weighted anchor in Gothenburg and sailed directly to South Africa, then crossed the Atlantic to Barbados, then north to Wilmington, North Carolina, then crossed the North-Atlantic bound for London where the journal ends. My own experiences are different from this, though, and far more modest. Sailing – which for me means pleasure cruising – means to escape the city noise and the everyday duties and bustle. It means leaving the world to its own devices while cruising through fjords, straits and bays without more tasks than those strictly necessary to avoid peace of mind from turning into boredom. But little writing is done, actually. Often the crew require some attention – and at least; complete silence is too much to ask for in the long run. Or something else interferes, and at least one has to get out of berth, and this inevitably brings about all sorts of duties. And besides, the sailing takes its toll, and then, after letting go the anchor, you have to take five; you get so tired in sea ​​air, and suddenly the day is done. Reading is easier, but far-reaching studies are rare; most often reduced to a few minutes on deck if the sun shines, in the cockpit after mess, or a few minutes in the bunk before “fall of the curtain”. After a day in which many odd jobs have been done after all - like thinking life over, and ones place in universe – while the sunset glows and glows and glows in the north-western vault of heaven, a trough experience of the long-lasting northern summer evening. Many things require some time-space while we are still breathing and alive.

On board the ship, Tryggve Andersen read English novels, he tried to write a novel too, and he decided to keep a journal: "to take down in a hurry this and that". My own efforts in this genre have resulted in sadly unsystematic entries, some notes on positions and waves and wind, maybe, but only for the first couple of hours, half-hearted and really without any navigational or existential function. The explanation is technological. Today it's no longer possible to throw certainty overboard. In the sky satellites are soaring, tracking our true course on mother earth.  Our sea crossings are still linked to cosmos, but uncertainty is gone at least concerning time and space. We don’t ask anymore – like the old-timers did – where on earth we are and how on earth our port of call could possibly have moved. Tryggve Andersen was an idle passenger. Nevertheless his journal is kept in fits and starts. He had his reasons.

I didn’t have much knowledge of Tryggve Andersen – the author of I Cancelliraadens Dage (1897), but I came across his Journal from a sea voyage (1923) at some antiquarian bookshop. Later on I took the book along as maritime reading during my summer holiday coasting, 2011, from Stavanger in the southwest, towards the Norwegian South Coast, Sørlandet. The book was a forgotten work for the most part, but enticing just for that reason. At least the book followed me all the 400 nautical miles, a round-trip adventure, Jomfruland and the Kragerø archipelago being the turning point. But time passes quickly. The crew numbers three, my wife of course and two good friends. Both sailing and socialising requires some effort and attention, and reading in spare time turns out so-so. Amateurs we are, so we wind our way down the coast, without any watches set and consequently little time for me to turn in. And every night when the sea journal is opened, shutters are put up before my eyes just when I find where I left off. The real South Coast chapters; white wooden houses, islands and inlets, wee pass by with fits and starts in varying weather, but much faster than the journal are leafed trough. And actually, it doesn’t bother me much. Besides; Tryggve Andersen might be the one to blame? It becomes evident, I would say, that the journal is a kind of raw material, not completed and worked over. So, it isn’t false modesty when the author himself writes in his first notes that the journal is meant to be a rough draft for later articles, and a way to while away the time on board. It shows. The rhythm and the stile make me bored and the reading soon ends after days filled with non-literary pleasures. Even after weather-bound days with gale and deluge, in lee of the Paradise-islets west of Flekkerøya, the journal is half unread – and now with clear moisture damages, since my old vessel has some bad leaks as supplement to the overall increasing degree of humidity.

The Art of Running Aground

 

This subject isn't the most enjoyable; at least it isn't at the time of the mishap. Later on, though, the occurrence might spin some yarns. Of course one shouldn't run aground, but once the damage is done, it is important to stay calm and not sink below ones dignity (even though the ship might sink). Losing your boat isn't that serious after all. Far more disturbing is the thought of losing your face, that is - to look like a fool. Especially on a sailboat, you easily invite ridicule because of the boat's often eye-catching inclination on top of the reef. If you are alone on the fjord, you have little to fear. But the disadvantage is obvious. You have to rely on self-help. If you have an audience, your dilemma is much worse. Are you going to beg for help - even from a cabin-cruiser? - or should you pretend that everything is routine: You've just got hold of a hundred percent secure anchorage for the night, that's all. Unfortunately this last strategy might bring about some hours of waiting until the next high tide. In the meantime a recommended behaviour would be: Smoke an expensive cigar on the after-deck, read the morning newspaper or a collection of poetry (at least not an introduction to navigation or safety at sea), listen to classic music, do some odd jobs, greet all passing boats politely. If no other boat looms up on the horizon, you are lucky - and might as well while away the time with something else, e.g. make your sweetheart feel good while waiting. That is: if she hadn't turned out when it happened. If you were at the helm, on the other hand, it was one of those things that could easily happen.

The Art of Floating: The Boat who wouldn’t Float

In this interview the Canadian author Farley Mowat talkes about the southwest coast of Newfoundland where he sailed in the early 1960s. He portrays this coast both in Bay of Spirits: A Love Story (2006) and in earlier books like This Rock Within the Sea: A Heritage Lost (1968), The Boat Who Wouldn't Float (1969), and A Whale for the Killing (1972).

The literary genre of small craft voyaging has its clichés, and after a while the reader might fall into boredom despite her or his passion for sailing. After enduring innumerable narratives of dreams made true, countless trough descriptions of buying the boat, the fitting out, the brewing of the first storm, riding it out – etc. etc, one has to stifle a yawn. Unfortunately, the author’s personal adventure isn’t always converted into a thrill of reading, and after a while, even the interest in sweet – belated – South Sea dreams, slowly fades out. This is when Farley Mowat’s The Boat who wouldn’t Float (1969) has something to offer. In this book the enticing Caribbean islands are never to be reached. Instead, the Canadian author and his friend – and later on his girlfriend – are being enslaved by their old, leaking schooner – the boat who wouldn’t float. Their original dream is turned into a never-ending struggle against stinking fish entrails, currents, fog and gales on the weather-beaten south coast of Newfoundland. What makes the book worth reading is first and foremost Mowat’s charming self-irony and sense of humour. The schooner – “Happy Adventure” – more and more acts like a stubborn human being – and she refuses to leave her native coast, rather she’ll sink. With both sympathy and hilarious comedy, Mowat portrays the peculiar out port inhabitants of this coast. Another aspect is Mowat’s mixed feelings for the boat that enslaved him. The book, after all, is written “For her friends who have loved her despite her faults.”

Norwegian edition: Båten som ikke ville flyte (2009), 

Flyt forlag

Wikipedia: Farley Mowat

The Art of Teaching your Girlfriend to Love sailing too (I)

 

Will her first sailing trip turn out to be a great experience? – It partly depends on you.

In his book Sea Gipsy (1966), after crossing Biscay in heavy seas, Peter Tangvalds wife has had enough of it, and gives him an ultimatum; – the boat or me! But probably Peter already was weary of his frightened and grumpy (?) wife, and he states what every sailor knows; finding a new wife is far easier than finding a new boat. So, in the nearest port, he buys her a one-way ticket home. The fact that the same Mr. Tangvald – during his lifetime – got married no less then seven times but owned just two or three boats, proves this to be true I guess – at least for him. Though later in his life Tangvald becomes a more solemn (but maybe less ingenious) writer, and he considers himself to be a caring husband. He seems to have learned a lesson or two, maybe something like this: If a man really happens to love his girlfriend or wife, he still risk loosing her far easier then his boat, and for some odd reason it is difficult to buy or built a new wife, same label, same love. Some men think a more modern Mark II will be available at least, but sad to say, like in the yacht business, a Mark II partner still in stock, often appears to have some basic faults. What complicates this whole business is the fact that a man might risk loosing his partner precisely because of his beloved boat. In his mind his boat is a sort of lady, and he knows precisely how to care for her. His wife on the other hand…?

So, in this and possibly other postings, I am bold enough to touch upon a well known challenge, but I warn you in advance: The whole mess is seen strictly from a male point of view without any significant sidelong glance concerning post-modern-hard-core feminism. In spite of this, I hold sailing women to be first-rate, so if your partner, wife or girlfriend already loves sailing, happy you are. That is; if you don’t hate it yourself. If so, this text is for your frisky partner too. The best advice I can give the yacht-resisting husband is: Don’t fall over board! I guess your sailor-girl is fully capable of hauling you up – but I’m not sure she will. In the opposite case, if your girlfriend likes your belly but not your stupid boat; yes I know it's hard, but at least it's worth a try: Let her dreams come true – aboard.

The Art of Philosophical Sailing

Sailing books, On self-steering, Erling Tambs (No.), Peter Tangvald (No.)

Colin Archer pilot cutter - entering Nedstrandsfjorden.

Most sailors don’t see themselves as philosophers although maybe they should. At least, in the world’s most famous sea novel, Moby Dick (1851), the author Herman Melville claims water and reflection to be inseparable. And of course, after hours and hours at the helm, the helmsman easily loses himself – or herself – in thoughts not necessarily related to the main task; keeping a steady course. What kind of thoughts, the other crewmembers normally never get to know, that is; if the helmsman is not a windbag. Or maybe the helmsman doesn’t reflect upon anything at all? Maybe the steering of the boat, the gazing at the horizon, trimming the sails from time to time, makes it possible to set one's mind at rest, letting go all quotidian worries. But I suppose this is some sort of reflection too, although of a more Zen Buddhist kind.

Nowadays, unfortunately, many cruisers have their own blog (like myself!). Almost all are writers and their own publisher. This would have worked out just fine, if they (we?) just hadn’t felt obliged to fill up the whole wide world web to the brim with an endless stream of privat family trifling or idiosyncratic technical knick-knacks concerning the beloved boat. The public sphere of pleasure sailing and cruising seems to have become – more and more – a collection of rather embarrassing family albums: “My beautiful wife Ramona, our five cute children, my sweet grandma and our precious little dog (to the left), all posing, ready for our adventurous around-the-world-voyage – etc. etc.”. Luckily you don’t have to read more if grandma doesn’t happen to be your grandma too. Surely other and more interesting writers and sailors still exist on the web as well as in the bookshelves. Though my own reading, unfortunately, is not wide in this field, I suppose many are not only excellent – but a kind of practical, humble philosophers too. Several of the Norwegian old-timers would fit into this category, certainly circumnavigators like Erling Tambs with his book The Cruise of the Teddy (1933) or Peter (Per) Tangvald with both his first book, Sea Gipsy (1966) and his autobiography published after his shipwreck and death, At Any Cost: Love, Life & Death at Sea (1991). Both were readers and many books were read while they crossed the wide oceans. Tambs made this intellectual activity possible by balancing the sails of his old Colin Archer doubleender. He then lashed the tiller, letting the boat “Teddy” steer herself. Tangvald used a simple windwane, the same type used by Bernard Moitessier.

For both these adventurers, sailing and seamanship were not only a precious craft, but also a rebellion against the complicated, modern society. They were ordinary but at the same time extraordinary and courageous men, zigzaging the globe without engines in their boats and only with a minimum of navigational aids. Their tempting of fate was influence by romantic thoughts. Freedom, happiness and love could only be found at sea. Their longings for a (lost) tropic paradise among the South Sea island were mix though, not only with vitalism and heroism – at least in the case of Tambs – but with male selfishness. This led them both towards tragedy. While crossing the Atlantic Ocean, Tambs lost one young crewmember and he was blamed for it. Tambs has written about the accident in his book Hard seilas (1939). During the years, Tangvald lost two of his wives at sea. His young daughter drowned together with her father, while his son survived. One easily sympathises with their firmness, their utopian longings and their maturing capacity for conjugal love and family life aboard. In many other ways these two sailors don’t come forward as uplifting examples, but their philosophical sailing and tragic fate are still worth reflecting on, either at sea or while couch-sailing back home during dark, wintry days.

Norwegiand editions, Flyt forlag:

Tangvald: Havets vagabond, På liv og død

Tambs: Seilasen med Teddy, Hard seilas

The Art of Chaotic Sailing

When you hoist the sails on schedule – you’ll be becalmed, you bet!

One might wonder what exactly makes up the fundamental difference between sailing and running around in a powerboat. Maybe everybody understands intuitively, but nevertheless, it is a theme worth some reflections (i.e. making a mess out of what was at first clear). My first thought is that both steering a sailboat and a powerboat is related to thermodynamics in some way or the other. The powerboat is dependent on burning it's fuel, whereas the sailboat is driven forward by the energy in the wind.

In case of the powerboat, the internal-combustion engine makes it possible to depart and arrive on schedule; the boat is capable of running from one place to another relatively independent of weather conditions. And this was exactly why the great sailing vessels were outmaneuvered by steam at the end of the 19th century. In the new industrialised world, with expanding need for transportation and communication, the sail couldn’t meet the demand. I won’t expand on this. It suffices to say that the transition from sail to engine was connected to a new economic and social structure, deep down to a new philosophy and way of life in what has been called the epoch of thermodynamics.

What came with modernity was a more instrumental attitude, more focused on exploitation and control of the environment trough science and technology. Although much has changed since the 19th century, this is still the world we live in to the greatest extent. We are in the same old rut, and only our well-deserved spare time might provide some relief, dependent on how we use it. This is where the difference between sailing and motor boating becomes relevant. In the motorboat you are still steering and thinking within a sphere of modern technology aimed primarily at environment-control. If you choose to sail, but nevertheless maintain this attitude, you’ll son experience some calamities. You’ll end up trying to work against the laws of nature instead of making the most of it. Headwind will be on you – at least it seems so – wherever you are heading. When you hoist the sails on schedule – you’ll be becalmed, you bet! The elemental forces seems to work against you – letting your Penelope wait in vain though you promised her to be home from Troy before supper.

In a sailboat you’ll be better off adopting a more flexible attitude, more in accordance with the complexity of the chaotic meteorological system that you are so dependent on. Of course you’ll often need some sort of itinerary, but it could be a rather loose one. As a consequence, you’ll have to take your time, leaving the strict schedule behind; otherwise – in spite of modern weather forecast – you’ll get a daily ear-splitting massage from your engine.

Chaotic sailing. The crew waiting for the butterfly to flap its wings.

How then, should a philosophy of flexible sailing be executed? At least my personal recommendation is to sail on a broad reach or a beam reach, and to seize the opportunity when the wind is fair. Tomorrow evening you’ll probably end up anchoring, but in another bay than the one you imagined yesterday. So what? Just this anchorage might turn out to be your bay of bliss. If not, there is always another chance – that is if you still have another week off. The secret is not to work against Aeolus – the ruler of the winds. So when you open the hatch at 5 o’clock in the morning, please listen to the land-wind whispering: Sailor girl, sailor boy, hoist your sails – your breakfast (or whatever lust you might have this morning) can always wait. If your plan is to follow the fairway and do an impressive distance run, this obvious won’t work very well. On the other hand, if your port of destination is not that important, you’ll soon be confident in criss-crossing the archipelago in ways that make even a well-known anchorage into a brand new experience. Few waters fit this way of sailing better than the Norwegian skerries with its complicated web of islands, sounds and open-ended fjords.

This concept of sailing might sound like a premodern attitude, but is – I think – not far from the opposite. It reminds me of what is called, in probability theory, a stochastic or random process. More then when steering a powerboat, your open-ended sailing will be in accordance with the mysterious forces of nature surrounding you, the wind and currents, pulling your boat trough the water but also causing it’s drift. Inevitably these elemental forces – being chaotic in the scientific meaning of the word –, will soon enough give your sailing holiday a taint of chaos, but does it really matter that much? At least in some respect you might let chaos rule without damaging effect to speak of, although you may get some difficulties telling your old auntie what your position will be the day to come. Often chaos rules whether you like it or not, and whether you understand it or not. My own “scientific” understanding is like this: If a butterfly flaps on my wife’s bum early in the morning, we’ll end up sailing west towards the island Kvitsøy. If I am too sleepy to flap like the butterfly, we’ll end up in Jelsa or some distant fjord. Now, at least my wife will surely recognise the complicated laws, governing nature – and maybe, what do I know – most of our butterfly-flapping life. Is there at least a pattern or a structure, something to hang onto, at least on a larger scale? To be honest I don’t know. And I haven’t even bothered to scrutinize the pencil-lines drawn, for some long forgotten reasons, in my sea charts.
We had a great time though, flapping around.

The Art of Gardening and Sailing

In the garden with friends. Why not hire them as your crew?

Although yachters are often god at telling stories, their fibs are seldom about gardening, about growing asparagus or Indian corn. And to be honest, I’ve never heard sailors talk within other sailors’ earshot about their “green fingers”. Probably gardening is not considered to be within their department; it is women’s work and most yachtsmen still are men. The list of members in your sailing club is in most cases proof enough, although the secretary is often a yachters’ wife. This is downright shame and need to be changed. And to be honest, I thing women not only makes up the best crew, they also are the best captains, if only these low-browed men stop yelling.

Unfortunately the ship is still Adam’s world, while the garden - in spite of her lust for apples and flesh - is Eve’s place. And nowadays it is easier for a gay man to come out of the closet, than for a yachter to enter his garden – if not in secret. There are reasons for this. Sailing is associated with freedom, adventures and deeds, and even the wimpiest managing director likes to bask in the glory of this myth. He’ll sink the company’s brand new yacht while accomplishing his entertainment duties, rather than assisting his wife in her small allotment. Gardening on the other hand is associated with peace and quiescence, with immanence and seclusion. Of course sensual connotations are also attached to the garden – for instance the romantic garden, located in some archaic past or in the Orient. But in our yachtsman’s imagination, these are precisely the types of garden – in some distant waters – where his coming conquests are to take place, finding there some indigenous princess of his dreams. In mysterious ways, dreams of erotic bliss are affiliated to his imaginary explorations, and not to his beautiful wife’s communal garden patch (though maybe he should worry who else might find pleasure in visiting her? As you understand, there are good reasons for yachtsmen to take more interest in gardening, at least when not sailing. Besides, the ship and the garden are in some way connected. The philosopher Michel Foucault has called attention to certain places, marked by certain multifarious time/space-configuration, and imbued with many of the most important ideas and notions in culture. Maybe both the ship and the garden are vessels of meaning in this way, expressing important aspects of our understanding of ourselves, and the always-changing culture surrounding us. At least both are an insulated world, a world in miniature, and at the same time a stage where passion and violence are performed. Both the ship and the garden is a kind of theatrum mundi – constantly staging life’s many tragic and comic plays. There are important differences, though, between ship and garden, and most important: Although a separate space, the ship – with it's crew – is under way from ocean to ocean, from port to port, a tiny dot on the huge surface of the sea. The garden is also a separate place, it is secluded but is not under way. It is changing though, but in another sense, following the seasons. It turns green, grows and withers away – as life always does. In this way, both the ship and the garden is connected to some fundamental conditions regarding existence itself. So where should we go, to the harbour, signing on, or should we turn to the garden, making meaning by cultivating the soil and ourselves?

In Voltaire’s book Candide (1759), the parodical philosopher Pangloss lists all the adventures befalling Candide until he calmes down at his farm at last. “All that is very well, answered Candide, but let us cultivate our garden.” Only late in life Candide learns that cultivating the soil preserves us from three great evils; weariness, vice, and want. But is Candide’s voyages a precondition for his wisdom? It's always necessary to circumnavigate existence, but it might be possible to do this both by cultivating ones garden, and by sailing the seven seas. Some chosen sailors are capable of strolling to and fro, from the garden to the harbour, somtimes even hiring the gardener as the ship’s first mate.

The Art of Anchoring

At anchor. Tromlingane off Arendal, south coast.

Concerning seamanship, I should be the last person to write about the secrets of safe and proper anchoring. Therefore, if you wish to know for sure how to let go your anchor, please look elsewhere (e.g. over here or here). Normally I just throw the whole bundle of old mooring gear over board in a hurry – hoping for the best. Most often this works just fine, at least to start with. In the end it results in a naked man – running around on deck in the middle of the night, trying to tow the boat in one direction or the other. Why I always have to do this and not my wife, I don’t really know, but even in Scandinavia, women’s lib still has its limits, I guess.

Rossøysund at dusk. Ryfylke.

But there is fare more to say about anchoring than right and wrong practise in the more technical sense. First, like a whole lot of nautical operations, objects and phenomenon, the anchor has gained a strong metaphoric significance even on dry land, and is used figuratively in many situations and spheres of life. Of course this is widely known, and since I do not wish to place myself in an academic doghouse, I won’t expand on it here. Instead I wish to take a strictly personal stand. Opposed to running in a fast-moving motorboat, the joys of being under way is emphasised by many as the core of pleasure sailing. I don’t disagree in this, but all the same. After a long and maybe rough sailing leg, after hours and hours at the helm, nothing is more satisfying than coming to anchor in a safe and calm bay. In chapter IV of “The Mirror of the Sea”, the world known writer and sea captain Joseph Conrad, stresses let go the anchor to be the proper term. In spite this old master of words, I cast my old bundle over board like always. Happy I am. Here we are at last!

No hurry, no worries. The Brekkestø skerries, south coast. 

A respectable distance run has it’s own ways, values and delights, but is also a precondition for the satisfaction felt when arriving. First of course, you have to put this and that straight again on the boat. Then it’s time to calm down, to get the cooker going and, if the day isn’t over yet, mend some gear, read a book, take a stroll ashore, light a fire at the water's edge or just settle down in the cockpit, chatting little or less with your crew while the darkness slowly comes creeping under a still blushing, northern sky. No hurry, no worries or anxiety seems to be left in this part of the world, in this blessed archipelago of sounds and fjords. At last it’s time to turn in – hoping for the best.

The Art of Making Love in Small Boats (l)

What on earth goes on in that cabin? Hattavågen/Bogsfjorden.

To do it or not to do it, under these circumstances, that is one of the first questions lovers are confronted with during twosome weekend or holiday sailing. A so-called pocket-cruiser doesn’t have much space to offer, and often the cabin is especially constricted. If their answer is not to do it – well, it’s a free world. But if sailing doesn’t take away all romantic inclination and dreams about erotic delights, the next question popping up is: How on earth? The liberating answer is: Exactly – in every impossible way! Actually this is a great opportunity to refresh your tepid relationship. In a big and roomy boat (I imagine), the amorous life might go on as usual – dull or frisky, what do I know. The children – or occasional the guests – have of course their own cabin, and when it’s time to go to bed, soft “conjugal beds” are capable of coping with every possible exercises. But most often these possibilities are not fully appreciated. My bet is: The bigger the boat – the lazier the lovers, it's my hypothesis of social-economic-emotional sailing. Try a smaller boat instead. After a holiday or two, your old, secret-silly dreams of partner part exchange, might already have faded away, replaced by new, wet dreams of real sailing adventures. At last you have learnt how to do the impossible – in every impossible way!

The Art of Circumnavigation

Books on Voyages around the world

This tempting island far ahead. Lindøy, Stavanger.

I had some dreams, I admit. Already as a teenager I peeped at my brother’s travelling books, reading tales from Polynesia and other distant waters, or stories written by adventurers navigating the globe in tiny vessels. Great storytellers some of them were – like the Norwegian Carl Emil Petersen (No.), writing among others the “Rundø” - Jorden rundt på tomannshånd (1960). Later I came to read Joshua Slocum famous book Sailing Alone Around the World (1899). Not only was he the first man to circumnavigate the globe alone, he also made – like Petersen – literature out of his voyage, writing in a fine-polished but straightforward way, with a mixture of sobriety, nostalgia and humour, thus making his book the ultimate story of circumnavigation.

But all this is long past, as my green dreams are too. Nowadays, circumnavigating the globe is converted into a leisure time activity mostly for well-off men in there forties or fifties, wife and children included (more or less by their own free will, I suppose?). The whole family takes some years off – realising at least 50 years too late this somewhat faded romantic dream, onboard their brand new and comfortable yacht. Friends and family of course follow the voyage in “real time” – so to speak – reading the yacht’s own blog, and during holidays they are shuttled in, airborne, as guest on shorter sailing legs. At Christmas and otherwise from time to time, the “explorers” take the plane home, relaxing a while until boredom is upon them again and the great oceans calls. I admit my writing unveils a taint of envy – but regardless of this; circumnavigating the globe is fare from what it was when a departure meant being away for years and years.

But luckily for every disillusioned sailor, sailing around the globe is not the only and sanctified kind of circumnavigation. As my friend, the sailing junk-rig engineer, puts it –; why not circumnavigate the fjords instead? - That is the open-ended fjords criss-crossing the archipelago where he – like myself – usually knock around instead of sailing the seven seas. One great advantage is this: You don’t have to buy this huge and far to expensive sailing yacht. Actually, during several years, my fascination for sailing around something was satisfied as the proud captain of a wooden, 15 feet long rowing boat – rigged of course by my self – supervised I admit by the sailing engineer. With the boat’s moderate keel, even circumnavigating the nearest island often was a real challenge. Days with steady wind, but still only rippels on the fjord, gave the novice captain-sailor some self-confidence, but of a unsustainable kind in prospects of days to come. In light air or with bigger waves, the boat ran like a dream - when sail large. When sailing upwind on the other hand, every tack would only give an illusion of the boat gaining height. After a while the position still would be familiar. Turning this into an advantage, one might say that this tiny "ship" turned short voyages into long lasting events. For sure, a successful circumnavigation couldn’t be taken for granted.

Later I bought my If-Folkboat Maritornes – and beating towards the wind is now easier and more of an amusement. Thus, the reach of my day sailing trips is extended, but this hasn’t faded away my “sailing-around-the fjord-fascination”. Maybe the explanation is as simple as this: By circumnavigating you may return to your home harbour after both upwind and wind abeam, before (most often on your way home), your run before the wind. You have to cope with it all, and you don’t have to sail to and fro, feeling like an idiot returning from a somewhat purposeless voyage.

Most often the circumnavigation just happens. I sail away, most often I am beating towards the wind to gain some height, but sooner or later I have to mark out a course. Maybe I’ll study the chart or at least wonder where to steer. This is when the thought of circumnavigation breaks the surface. And luckily – as always – my eyes catch a glimpse of some tempting island far ahead. Circumnavigating it I must.

You have to cope with it all, and you don’t have to sail to and fro.