An article by Hannah Hoven
In mid-June, I’ll be handing in my Master’s thesis and can’t wait to set sail again. We’ll be heading from Trondheim across the Arctic Circle to Bodø. Jakob will be on board for the 300 nautical miles. During the first 60 hours, we’ll only be at anchor for a few hours. As we motor silently into the anchorage thanks to the electric motor, the puffins on the surrounding rocks remain undisturbed by our presence. After a short break, we make use of the south-westerly wind to make swift progress further north. When the wind drops, we moor at Ylvingen.
Norway in summer
Two days later, the wind returns, drawing us northwards. In the warm easterly, we sail across the smooth water between the mountains. The sun sets, lingers briefly behind the horizon, bathes everything in a lingering twilight, and rises again. The mountain silhouettes are layered in shades of blue. The easterly wind brings strong gusts and downdrafts. And suddenly they appear: the peaks of the Seven Sisters, mighty and silent.
The midnight sun over the Lofoten Islands
Another crew change: from Bodø onwards, I’ll be sailing on with Anne and Kristin. It’s midnight as we sit in the cockpit eating the fish we caught ourselves. The bucket we used to carry the fish is still dangling from the stern. We climb the hill behind the boat and squint into the midnight sun. On the horizon, we can see the Lofoten mountain range. Breathtaking. We’ll be spending ten days here. It never gets properly dark. Only the wind decides when we sail. Henningsvær is the northernmost point of our journey. From here, we sail southwards along the eastern side of the Lofoten Islands.
On 9 July at three o’clock, the alarm goes off. The westerly wind pushes ‘Lilja’ onto the guest jetty in Røst. All around us are fishing boats. I quietly crawl out of the forepeak. Just under 80 nautical miles lie between us and our next destination. Sailing close-hauled, we leave the shelter of the offshore rocks, which soon disappear in our wake. No land in sight. Grinning, I steer us towards Træna, an archipelago where a music festival is taking place over the next few days. Around 8 pm, Træna’s striking rock formation appears on the horizon. We cross the Arctic Circle once more, this time heading south.
Norway straight out of a picture book: dancing at the Arctic Circle
At the festival, we dance under the midnight sun, in the mud and with a view of the sea. To get to a concert, we climb up through a tunnel in the mountain lit only by candles. Shortly after two in the morning, I head back to the harbour. The puddles on the narrow road are tinged pink by the sunlight. Slowly, the masts come into view. In the front row lies ‘Lilja’, my little home, which has brought me to this special place. What a privilege it is to be here!
The Pleasure of Solitude
Mid-August, an island near Ålesund: I’m out sailing on my own again. Sailing solo is exhausting, yet it offers a sense of freedom that I wouldn’t want to be without. When you’re on your own, it’s easier to strike up a conversation with people in unfamiliar places.
The logbook reads: “My bunk is sandy, my hair is salty. I have completely surrendered to the flow of things.”
At the start of September, I’m in Hjellestad. Paul on ‘Blob’ is in the area again and we’re sailing together. For almost a week, we’ve had hardly any wind, but plenty of sunshine. I discover motor-sailing: the 200-watt electric motor propels ‘Lilja’ silently forward, and she makes good progress despite the light wind. My concerns about the electric motor were unfounded: I was able to charge it everywhere and usually only used a few per cent of the battery for manoeuvring in harbour.
A storm is brewing
From Røvær, it’s the other extreme: 20 to 30 knots of north-westerly wind. Breaking waves reveal rocks lying just below the surface. Just a year ago, this sight would have been nerve-wracking. I moor in Tananger and, exhausted, take off my wet oilskins. A halyard slams against the mast, a reminder that the wind hasn’t let up. Paul and I pore over the weather charts. The current conditions are set to last 20 hours, after which a storm is set to move in. Ahead of us lie 30 nautical miles of open coastline with no harbour or anchorage. Should we push on now, before the weather turns? I’ve already sailed 35 nautical miles single-handed today.
Through the night with one hand
Less than two hours later, I’m off again. It’s 9 pm, and the last orange-coloured clouds adorn the darkening sky. With the genoa reefed and under engine power, I tack between the jetty and the rocks before heading south. Now there’s only one direction to go. Ahead of me, the stern light of the ‘Blob’ bobs up and down, gradually growing smaller. The ‘Lilja’ leaves a trail of light in its wake: bioluminescence. I’m sitting in the cockpit, wrapped up warm and tucked in.
The further I get from the coast, the bigger the waves become. Nevertheless, I keep the jib in front of me. Tiredness has caught up with me. I can feel nausea rising within me. The next four hours are just a matter of hanging in there. Around half past three: just three nautical miles to Sirevåg. I urge myself to stay focused. To the south of the harbour entrance, the waves are crashing against the rocks. Once I’m safely moored at the jetty, I feel emptier than ever before, not a single thought in my head.
Goodbye Norway
I reach Mandal in mid-September. After the night off Jæren, I’m worried that the same thing might happen to me again. This time it’s 120 nautical miles. The wind forecast promises 13 to 18 knots from the WSW. Armed with a huge selection of snacks, I leave the harbour in the afternoon, heading for Skagen. The last rock is left behind me. I set my alarm for 15-minute breaks, quickly finding my rhythm and that of ‘Lilja’ as her bow gently cuts through the waves. All my worries melt away.
After three months at sea, I’ve developed a feel for her. Lying in the saloon, I can sense whether the pressure in the boat is right.
During the night, I reef the sails a couple of times and then unfurl them again. Keeping track of the traffic in the Skagerrak without AIS robs me of the breaks I’ve been longing for. At times, I count more than ten ships in every direction. As the sun rises, I think to myself: this could go on for a few more days. Twenty-four hours later, I reach Skagen. Tired but proud. Just 100 nautical miles to go to Kiel.
3,200 nautical miles in our wake – Back in home waters
It’s late September when I set sail early from Juelsminde. As the sun rises, I feel almost wistful: it’s my penultimate day at sea. But by midday, the gusts are so strong that just a small bit of jib is enough to keep me going at over five knots. From 5 pm onwards, all I want is to reach my destination. When I spot the light from the Kiel lighthouse shortly before midnight, I can’t help but laugh with joy. Fifteen months, a Norwegian winter on board, a Master’s degree – 3,200 nautical miles lie behind ‘Lilja’ and me. I am no longer the same sailor who hesitantly cast off the mooring lines. And I know: it wasn’t the last time.
See also:
Jill Grigoleit
Editor Travel