Nova Scotia

Landfall in Nova Scotia was tricky. Coming from Bay of Fundy we had patches of fog and the world's highest tides to consider. It was crucial to time it right before entering Grand Passage. But everything turned out right and we had a good rest at Brier Island.

Leafing through the guidebook I suddenly realized that Joshua Slocum had spent parts of his childhood here. I got the feeling that Brier Island was holy ground. 

There was a guy at the dock who casually informed us about his distant relative. In fact, he invited us to his old house where the documentary about Slocum had a scene or two. History came to life. Everything in the house seemed untouched for a generation or two.

We left Brier Island in dead calm, but with a 4 knot current and standing waves in the riptide. It spat us out in a grey wall of fog. It's hard to imagine a place like this without gps. Joshua Slocum had the trickiest training ground on earth.

This is the cat

We got a new cat in Canada. It disappeared after a couple of weeks. We plastered missing cat posters all over. Then I heard a woman calling out to the boat. This is the cat, she shouted.

It turned out to be a different cat. But I couldn't say for sure, since our cat had been missing for two weeks already. I thought she might have changed.

Nina found our cat the next day. Now we had two cats. They were almost identical, a siamese mix of some sort.

We entered Hudson River in the autumn. The trees were all ablaze. I had really radiant dreams. 

But the hunting season had started and we could hear what sounded like regular shootouts at dusk. These guys were serious, with camouflage painted faces.

I was about to take the cat ashore. The cat was at the bow, hesitating. From the dinghy I could see her puffy upper lip and I suddenly got a vague thought about John Malkovitch. I might have been worried about the hunting militia. We hardly saw any wildlife but I felt unsafe in the ongoing war against ducks and deers. 

So I rowed slowly ashore, kind of reluctant. I had promised to take better pictures of the cat. Just in case she disappeared again.

Searching for a boat

Last week I took a flight to London and embarked the night train to Falmouth. In that way I didn't have to pay for a hotel. I arrived early morning. There was a lot of seagulls in the harbour. I felt fine for a while.

I met the broker and had a look at the boat, a Heard 28. It's a lot of hype around British built boats in Britain. After half an hour I had enough.

I walked around in Falmouth town for the rest of the day. I felt a cold coming and the seagulls was getting on my nerves.

I took the night train back to London and again I saved money on not having a room. It was damn cold, or maybe it just felt so cold because I hadn't slept two nights in a row.

I walked around Paddington station. I kept drinking tea to keep my warmth. Later it got sunny but I was still freezing. I sent an email to Nina saying the boat was no good and that the cockpit looked like it was created by a drunk designer.

I took the tube to Victoria and walked around in the area. After an hour of this I returned to the airport. By now I was feeling really sick. I couldn't stand myself. 

Dolphins and Dreams

It's frustrating to photograph dolphins in the wild. You can never tell when and where they will jump, if they jump at all. But Nina managed to take this picture just after we anchored outside an open beach in Mexico. Maybe a hundred dolphins passed by, and one of the very last made the jump.

The dolphins returned that night. We could hear the high-pitched squeeking through Bika's hull. But we also heard a strange shuffling sound, as if the dolphins were breathing out just below the sur- face. They probably scared fish towards the beach.

I once shared a hospital room with a demented man. He was old but full of energy. He often paced restless around at night, with his slippers shuffling over the linoleum floor.

Still in a dream I heard the pod of dolphins. I thought it was the old man - an army of him. "Where am I?" he kept asking.

Scary sailing

We're off at dawn. The weather forecast predicts a light breeze offshore. They also mention a 12-14 feet swell from a distant storm. We don't pay attention to it.

It's slow going under the Golden Gate, but at least we got the tide right. We start our three hour watches, and I'm stretching out on my bunk. I fall asleep. There's no swell yet.

The wind dies. I'm half asleep. Nina is getting frustrated; I can hear it by the way she pulls the sheets. Bika is rolling more and more. After a while it's not even possible to stay in the bunk.

The predicted swell is coming in fast. We're still close enough to see buildings on land. We can see huge white breakers that slam up at Ocean Beach, but what's more serious is the towering swell at the San Francisco Bar. It breaks here too. It's unbelievable; we're ghosting along in a light breeze, with the gennaker, and the sea is breaking.

We have done a terrible mistake. This kind of swell will break in shallow water, and the scary part is that we have no idea how bad it will be. Try measuring the wave height in a small boat. It's impossible. There's only one thing to do: get out into deeper water. So we ghost along, straight out against the towering seas. My mouth is dry. This is some of the scariest sailing we've ever encountered. In the bottom of every wave we're wondering if we ever get to climb the next hill. But Bika do. And eventually we reach safety in deeper sea.

How will it end?

Non-sailors often get shocked by the fact that we cross oceans in a 26 feet sailboat. We have met people who can't even fathom that it's allowed. Then they drive away from the dock.

The list of motor vehicle deaths in the US have shown a remarkable decline the last two decades, down to 32,708 in 2010. But it's still a staggering figure. Imagine motor vehicle deaths world-wide, not to mention the number of people who get seriously injured and molested for life. It's like a trivial version of World War III.

I'm puzzled by the connection between triviality and fear. It seems like a higher risk of death reduces our fears. But this is not what's meant by safety in numbers.

Goodbye, hello, goodbye

We're about to leave San Francisco. Walking the streets, waiting for wind. It seems strange to wait for wind in a windy place like San Francisco Bay, but offshore there's none.

Then one morning we're off from the anchorage in Aquatic Park. It's 6 am and it takes forever to tack the short distance to the bridge. And when getting closer we're getting more and more to a stand- still.

We realize that one of us has read the tide table wrong. Bika starts to move backwards. We turn around to Aquatic Park and there isn't much more to say about it. Nina is giving me the look. But I'm not so sure. Besides, I'm bad with numbers.

Golden Gate

I'm back at the bridge again. It's early morning, no wind. I can hear fog horns blasting mean and hoarse from several directions.

We're about to leave San Francisco. The weather forecast isn't promising. It will blow in the Bay for sure, at least during the day, but it doesn't seem to be much wind offshore.

So we get restless, although we're pretending not to be. It's the waiting game. Some cruisers wait for calm weather, other cruisers wait for wind.

We could easily have settled down in San Francisco. I think we actually said something like that the day before. But it's time to move on. Once the decision is made the Golden Gate becomes a prison gate.

The diversity of sailors

The Coast Guard regards Morro Bay as the most dangerous harbour in the US. Tidal currents are running wild in the estuary, and a hazardous sand bar makes the entrance deadly in heavy seas. But Morro Bay gives good protection from the weather, once you're in.

The harbour is small, and often engulfed in fog. However, a harbour is not a good place if you're paranoid. People do talk. Especially in a tight place like Morro Bay, where there's a mix of fishing vessels and pleasure crafts.

I take it for granted that people working at sea have a tendency to be slightly annoyed by people who are just there to have fun. Pleasure crafts should always try to stay out of their way.

But a modern sailboat is a castle of high-tech solutions. Both boats and men are loaded with safety and information. In some cases you might argue that they not even there to have fun.

Clearly there's a cultural gap between, say, fishermen and cruisers. There's a lot of showing off. I'm thinking it might be a feeling of inferiority on both sides, mainly because the sea is as it is, i.e. unpredictable and potentially deadly.

This foggy morning, when we walked the docks, we started to talk about the US Coast Guard. They have a terrible reputation among cruisers, but our experience have been different. They did some showing off, outside Bahamas, but we haven't encountered harassment of any sorts. Quite the opposite, they've been friendly and professional.

We were standing by the Coast Guard for a while, watching the young men in snug uniforms. It's difficult to say where the knowledge is, the sea being as it is.

Red wine drowning

Feeling blue and alone I opened a bottle of red. Nina was in Boston. I read for a while, but lost my concentration somewhat and started to listen in on the radio.

I was invited to a dock party, and being at anchor I could keep an eye on people gathering on the dock. I felt uneasy and slightly nervous at the prospect of meeting lots of strangers.

It was getting dark. I could hardly see the figures ashore. If I was ever to join the party then this was the time. Besides, I was out of wine.

San Francisco had a rather cold spring in 2010, and I dressed up in a huge woolly sweater. Then I slid carefully down in our little inflatable dinghy. I rowed across the channel with my eyes on Bika.

What happened was that I rowed towards the dock and grabbed enthusiastically for a mooring that suddenly passed above me. Being slightly drunk I flipped the dinghy. Cold water rushed in. I soon realized that I was too heavy to drag myself up at the dock.

I was treading water behind an enormous motor yacht, with one hand on the slippery dinghy. But I couldn't see anyone. Being unable to get any help was a mixed blessing. At least I was spared the embarressment.

This is how I'll drown, I thought. Trivial and stupid. It even seemed vaguely funny.

But the water was damn cold and I needed to do something. I managed to ease slowly up at the dinghy's bottom, letting water pass from the heavy clothing. Then I could reach the dock. I overturned the dinghy and suddenly felt I could get away with this.

Rowing back to Bika I could see the party in the warm yellow light, moving around in the luxurious motor yacht, drinks in hand.

Nina once mentioned I'm writing a bit too much about alcohol. Unsure of the meaning I fenced it off. Later I've come to the conclusion that writing is exorcism.

The early mornings

I've always loved waking up in our little boat. There are these moments of clarity. We could sail away, but then again; we really don't need to go anywhere. It's like we're there already.

I rowed ashore and went for a walk. It was early Sunday morning. The cars kept coming towards the shore.

Sven Yrvind

We often hear that our time is the time of individualism. But somehow people seemed more individualistic in the past.

Our kind of individualism is like a mass movement. It's a promoted lifestyle, and a product. Maybe that's why it's hard to come by a true individual person, like Sven Yrvind.

The Swedish small-boat sailor just left Ireland. Born in 1939, with a self-made boat, he's on his way to Florida.

Something weird

We saw something weird on our way down the Californian coast. It was outside Point Arguello, and it was almost dusk, with a sluggish sea. Then Nina called out. There was a strange animal in front of us.

We'd been seeing the different Californian seals for weeks, but this was something else. It stood quite tall in the water, like it wanted to get an overview. It stood out like a pillar of rock. The seal was huge. It had a mean head with a powerful jaw. The throat was whitish with black spots. I thought it looked like a leopard seal. But how could that be? The leopard seal belongs to Antarctica.

We passed within a few meters. The seal didn't move. We could see it had the eyes closed. The whole scene was mystical, otherworldly. I think about it every now and then, when I need to remember that the world is a weird and wonderful place.

The humpbacks

We saw two humpbacks one evening. We'd just anchored off a beach. It was all in the open but flat calm.

It might have been a female and a calf. They both breached several times. But then the mother, or so it seemed, started to slap the dorsal fin. We could hear the fluke banging. Again and again. I thought gee, this looks pretty aggressive. And then they headed over to Bika.


Hanging on to the shrouds I suddenly remembered the night I got drunk on Grand Isle. I was just about ready to discuss anything. But the next day I heard I was just being opinionated.

The humpbacks circled our little boat. I was afraid they would snatch the anchor line, but they seemed totally in control. Nina used a cam recorder that strangely didn't record anything. No splashes, no nothing.

But the humpbacks rounded us like a buoy, all grace and beauty.

Gray Whales

Before leaving San Diego I read about Grey Whales emigrating south. Colliding with whales are one of my major fears in sailing. Especially at night, trying to sleep, I sometimes find it hard not to visualize a sudden impact.


3 am, west of Tijuana: Trying to sleep I forced my mind into something else than whales. I thought about my childhood, our new neighbors. They turned out to be vegetarians. We kids kept our distance at first, not knowing what vegetarians were, but they had a son my age who climbed into an empty trash can and got stuck. His father had to come home from work to saw him out. This happened the same winter my school dentist declared that I had eleven cavities. It was pretty much the end for me. He would be drilling my teeth until spring. I came to loath his big fat fingers in my mouth. This was before latex gloves and his nicotine stained fingers stank heavy of sour tobacco. In retrospect I would say the school dentist was bordering child molestation. His secretary was tall and skinny with ice cold hands that she seemed to put in my mouth for warmth. I was lying in that dentist chair, with tubes sucking, when a moose came into the school yard and got tangled up in the swings. Everybody expected the police to use anesthetic but they just shot it, a sharp flat crack, reverberating through windows and concrete, and later on they had to use a chain saw to cut the dead moose down, with blood squirting all over their faces.




Nina called my name. It was my watch. I dressed up in wool and rain gear, but the night was clear and still. No wind. She'd just heard some strange sounds that we soon realized was a whale breathing. But there wasn't much to do about it. We continued drifting south, deeper into Mexico.

The fear of enthusiasm

I silently dislike Nina's enthusiasm when sailing offshore. Sure, I love dolphins or a good breeze, but I would never dare to say so.

It's my belief that enthusiasm brings bad luck. Forget about umbrellas, whistling or leaving on a Friday; outspoken enthusiasm could really sink a boat.

I never had this superstition while we stayed the winter at Tapawingo. We saw a black bear not more than ten meters from our cabin door, and my enthusiasm had no limits.


But the fear of enthusiasm runs deep in the Canadian wild. Our story about the bear got played down, like "so you got to see the forest pig, aye?"

This was typical among the trappers and fishermen at Bistcho Lake; they loved wild animals, but would never dare to say so. Black bears were often called 'forest pigs', squirrels 'tree rats', and once we heard a trapper call a flock of snowy-white ptarmigans for a 'bunch of ducks'. But the lack of enthusiasm didn't seem to be for superstitious reasons.

In the wilderness you'll gain your respect through nonchalance and coolness. You have seen it all before.

The letting go

Offshore cruising is one of the few situations where the importance of letting go become crucial. If you can't let go - you're getting nowhere.

I was thinking about this when I stood on the bluff close to Golden Gate, and wondered why I kept looking towards the next bluff; the distant trees, the drifting fog.


This is all mental. We've met several cruisers, mostly elderly cruisers, who have stayed too long in a port. I guess they fell in love with a place, but it often goes together with a gathering of horror.

In most situations we can't let go at all; we cling to hopes and memories. We know the world is uncertain and that everything is in flux, but we still build our lives around these mental fixtures.

But the ability to let go is important. We have to let go of rude remarks, lousy drivers, or people we just find irritating, for whatever reason.

We have to let go of the past: ex-lovers, former spouses, or a really unfair treatment at work. We have to let go of fear: fear of getting cancer, a sudden heart attack, the fear of dying in our sleep, of crashing in cars or airplanes.

Offshore cruising take this to the very core: you start by the dock, and let go of the lines. Later on you let go of the coastline. Then you let go of your country.

A shot of Misery

I'm standing on the beach in Aquatic Park. I'm waiting for Nina to see me, to row over. I keep looking towards our boat at anchor. My mood is on an ebb. I've been on a long walk with the camera, I'm cold and tired.

I'm stirring at the boat, the grim breakwater. I'm stirring out at the wet fog, feeling low and mean. There's someone in my head who feels like having a serious shot of rum.



I'm thinking this is the downside of cruising. I'm thinking most people are indoors by now, or in their cars, with the heater on.

But then one of the Aquatic Park swimmers pass by, and I can feel my mood change for the better. These swimmers defy wind and fog.

I know that living close to the elements is a teaching in change. There's nothing personal in it, and there's no one really who deserves a drink for being miserable.