2022

With BLUEBIRD 3000 nautical miles around the Norwegian Sea...

Bluebird is an RM1200, composite built from plywood and epoxy.

Bluebird was the boat before Moon, which I owned for a fairly short time. However, it managed to sail just over 4,500 nautical miles from when it was picked up in Poole in southern England and sailed alone to its home port in Elnesvågen.

The trip around the Norwegian Sea was made the following summer with Katrine, and  was the first trip and the start of "Fjellmatrosene" (The Mountain Sailors)...

I have crossed the Atlantic, from the USA to the Azores once, as one of four crew aboard a 46-foot sailboat, and since then I have wanted to test out many days at sea in my own boat. Now that Katrine had joined as crew, the time had come to try a slightly longer trip, and the plan was to sail around the Norwegian Sea, along its outer limits.

Click on the pictures to see them larger...

Track from the Norwegian Sea, as shown on the weather map in PredictWind.

We started from Elnesvågen and headed north along the coast of Møre before turning into the archipelago on the Trøndelag coast. This was Katrine's first trip on board, so we had to take it easy at first.

Bluebird had an unusual but very practical keel design. With its two keels and reinforced rudders, it could be parked anywhere on land.

A planned stop at Hitra to replace a sail drive. It had been repaired at Tor Båtservice in Trondheim earlier in the summer, but the result was not satisfactory, so Tor and a colleague drove out with a new gearbox, which was replaced with the old one.

Many memorials have been erected after tragedies at sea. Here at Tiran.

Slettringen lighthouse, furthest west in the sea in Trøndelag

The lighthouse on Kya, not far from Sula. The island is only 6.5 meters above sea level. No wonder the breakwater that protects the harbor resembles a fort.

View from the lighthouse on Sula.

Anchored between Sørøya and Nordøya, at the outer edge of the ocean gap in Trøndelag

Halten, one of the places the captain has long wanted to visit.

Katrine also enjoyed her stay at Halten.

The Kittiwake "Hotel" on Halten as we pass out of the sound to the north and prepare for the night sail across Folla towards Yttervikna, and finally Vega.

We had a nice sail through the night with tailwinds and the use of the balloon sail.

Just before we arrived at Vega in the morning, we had to try the fish. There was clearly a high factor of luck on board, because we caught (far too) many fish in one cast. The newly caught fish made for a delicious dinner later that day.

We found a peaceful anchorage at the southern tip of the island.

The next day, we found our way to the World Heritage Center and the floating docks there. A great starting point for a bike ride out to Vegatrappa.

The bike ride out and the staircase itself were a wonderful experience in the beautiful weather. They have really created something special with the staircase. It was well constructed, and there were small places to take a breather along the way. Here and there we found larger or smaller curiosities that added an extra dimension to the trip. This country is beautiful...

The uninhabited island of Søla is located on the west side of Vega.

After three wonderful days on Vega, it was time to set course for Brønnøysund. We stopped for coffee at Ylvingen, but since Katrine had to return home for work in a few days, there was no time for further exploration there.

Once we arrived in Brønnøysund, we got back on our bikes and headed across the bridge to Trollhatten. Of course, we had to visit the hole in the hat.

The captain had no idea that he would soon be meeting up with colleagues from his old job as a rescuer in the Norwegian Air Ambulance

The beautiful weather inspired us to take the round trip through the hole and out onto the south side of the mountain. The trail down the south side was more rugged than the hike up, and the thought of the challenges our wobbly ankles would face had barely been raised when a man appeared, sitting in the ravine, moaning in pain from his ankle.

After a quick examination, it became clear that the ankle was unstable and definitely not walkable. It was then a short trip via the 113 app to the emergency medical services.

Not long after, the air ambulance arrived from its base in Brønnøysund, and the unfortunate victim was elegantly lifted out, hanging beneath the helicopter along with his second rescuer for the day.

In short, it was interesting to see it all from the patient's/relatives' perspective, and I must admit that it warmed my old rescue worker's heart to stand in the downwash from the rotor beneath the helicopter again...

With a "heavy heart" Katrine had to return home  for four weeks at the job before the long journey could begin.

The captain continued northward on his own.

The journey north continued via the Vega Islands, a incredibly beautiful landscape.

Not every day was as pleasant. Here at a refuge at Ingerøya on Vega while a northwesterly gale passes.

The wind was blowing hard and pushing Bluebird towards the pier, so all the fenders had to be put to use.

Then came a happy message and a picture of a big event telling me that Maria, my first grandchild, had been born in Stavanger.

This was celebrated in style with a toast of the ship's finest drops from the bottle of Shackleton's whiskey.

Waiting out another gale on Tjøtta in Nordland. Here I met Annika and Bjørn, a Swedish couple who have been sailing around the world for almost 20 years. The last 8 years with -MOON-, which can be seen behind Bluebird.

Soon we were back in warm weather, and all that remained was to enjoy the rest of the journey north. Here from Herøy, where the harbor was bustling with activity until late in the evening in the warm weather.

Skålvær on the Vega Islands with the mountain "The Seven Sisters" in the background.

Towards the island of Lovund, which rises monumentally from the sea.

From Lovund, you can see Træna and Trænstaven, a couple of hours' sail away when the wind is favorable.

A fresh wind from the southwest provided good sailing conditions across the open sea at the mouth of Vestfjorden on the way to Røst. I crossed directly from Træna, and since the wind was favorable, it took barely 8 hours.

Røst is different from other places, with its flat landscape between otherwise towering mountains and peaks here at the edge of the ocean. Here, most of the activity revolves around the production of dried cod, which can be both seen and smelled.

                                           View from the top of Håen on Værøy.

After Røst, it's not far to Værøy. In fantastic weather, I took advantage of the midnight sun to climb to the top of Håen.

From Håen, view towards the north with Mosken and the southern tip of Lofoten in the background.

After visiting some friends on Vestvågøy, I traveled via Sortland to see a electrician who fixed the cable to the iridiumGO antenna. This is important equipment for downloading weather reports at sea without mobile coverage.

I ended up staying a little longer in Andenes. After living here for seven years, there were some familiar faces to greet.

The voyage north, with occasionally beautiful weather conditions, had so far gone smoothly.

The distance sailed from our home port in Elnesvågen was 562 nautical miles, mainly with little use of the engine. We used 60 liters of diesel, half of which was used one night en route from Halten to Vega, where the wind died down completely.

From Andenes, the trip continued via Hamn on Senja to Sommarøy on the outer coast of Troms. Here, the weather were not on our side, with heavy rain and strong headwinds that had to be waited out. The waiting time was used for laundry before we could finally set course for Tromsø, where Katrine signed on again.

This was Katrine's first proper sailing trip on the ocean, and she was ready for the challenge. We spent three days sailing northbound from Tromsø to Skjervøy so she could awaken her sea legs.

                                                                       Leaving Skjervøy.

"Go to Lopphavet" – as Grandma from "Bodø" in an old tv series "Stompa" used to say... So that's what we did. Now our trip around the Norwegian Sea is well underway, and we have many days at sea ahead of us.

Occasionally, other vessels appear nearby. Here, a trawler is passing by in calm conditions.

Conditions can vary quite a bit, from fresh sailing to flat seas where the engine has to do the work if you don't want to just drift.

During the trip, we worked six-hour shifts, which worked very well. As a rule, the off-duty crew wakes up after three to four hours, and we usually eat a meal together, but otherwise the off-duty crew sleeps.

The person on watch goes back and forth between inside and outside the cockpit, occasionally making a cup of hot drink and having a little snack. It works wonders for the stomach, and none of us were bothered by seasickness.

When we are anchored, we fire up the diesel stove, and it is dry and warm on board, but when we are sailing, we do not have any heating. This is because the person on watch, one of us is always on watch, is fully dressed in all their sailing clothes and a life jacket. This is so that we can immediately go out on deck if something requires it.

There are powerful forces when the wind is blowing hard, so the most important thing in a small boat on the open sea is to prevent anything from going wrong or getting damaged. Being ready to deal with whatever may happen, or making regular rounds to check, is absolutely necessary, even when the wind is blowing hard. Perhaps even more so then.

After three days of sailing, 299 nautical miles further north, we arrived at Bjørnøya. Conditions along the way varied from a fresh breeze with the boat rushing forward under balloon sails, to a calm sea where the diesel engine had to work hard. Sun and fog alternated.

Once we arrived, we first anchored for a day in Kvalrossbukta, at the southernmost tip of the island, where we went ashore and spent the day enjoying nature and bird life.

The thick fog that was hanging over us when we arrived lifted, and we had a wonderful day ashore before moving up to the north side where the weather station is located. We had hoped to visit the 12 people who live there, but when we arrived, the coast guard was due to deliver fuel, so the station was closed to visitors.

After another night at anchor, this time in Kobbebukta in the north of the island, we set sail again. As we leave Bjørnøya, there is thick fog and it is quite chilly, but later in the day the fog lifts and we get a last glimpse of the island. Ahead of us lie 600 nautical miles, about five days of sailing, with a variable weather forecast for the period.

Setting sail, heading out to sea in the north, gives you butterflies in your stomach, even though there is little to remind you of summer. The sea and the enormous mass it represents keep the climate fairly constant. Almost never above +10 or below -10 throughout the year. As far north as Bjørnøya, the sea temperature is only 5 degrees, and you can really feel it on board.

The weather files we downloaded in PredictWind showed that we would sail into a large area with little or no wind (the blue areas) if we sailed directly towards Jan Mayen. Therefore, we set course from Bjørnøya almost directly south to stay in the wind belt. After just over 24 hours, we were able to turn more westward directly towards our destination.

Six hours on watch goes by pretty quickly. You have to sail, which means constantly adjusting the sails as the wind changes, navigating, and twice a day downloading weather reports from a satellite receiver (IridiumGO), which must be interpreted, and further courses planned.

Since much of the sailing takes place in fog, the radar is very important, so it is monitored constantly, along with the chart plotter and AIS (Automatic Identification System). Nowadays, all large vessels have AIS, so you get early warning if they come close, but among sailors there are still some without, or only with a receiver, so the radar is monitored closely. That said, we just encountered 4-5 trawlers and a single sailing boat, the latter did not have AIS.

The off duty crew spends most of its time in the bunk sleeping and resting.

As we approach Jan Mayen with Norway's only active volcano, Berenberg, we sail in thick fog. We can only read enviously about others' spectacular experiences when they see the snow-covered giant at 2277 metres above sea level rising up from the sea as they approach. But once again, the weather gods are with us, and suddenly the fog changes, the clouds appear, and there, in a tiny gap in the cloud cover, we can see snow and mountains, and not long after, the clouds part and the mountain comes into clear view. Wow...!

There is no harbour or proper safe anchorage on the island, so we sail to Kvalrossbukta, in the middle of the island on the west side, because the wind is coming from the east.

Here we´re rounding the "Kvalrossen", a huge rock formation that looks truly magnificent in the evening sun. The next day, the wind is blowing strongly, and it is set to get worse. We had planned to go ashore, but the waves rolling in towards the beach are far too big. We stays on board. After a tiring sail, this is actually quite welcome.

There was no visit on the station here either. The "voice on the radio" rejected all
approaches, even though we had been cleared by email before departure: "The station is closed to visitors." Period...

Visitors are generally only permitted to land at Kvalrossbukta on the west side of the island. Båtvika is currently out of bounds due to its proximity to the station and safety concerns.

All visitors must obtain advance permission from Norwegian authorities.

https://jan.mayen.no/nyheter/guidelines-for-ship-calls-and-visitors-to-jan-mayen-2023/

The wind is picking up, blowing steadily at 25-30 knots. Since we are on the leeward side of the island, there are no waves so close to land, so it is comfortable on board. We go to bed, trusting that the anchor alarm will wake us if we drift. Should that happen, we are in shallow water here, with open sea all the way to Greenland behind us.
We wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of the boat shaking and rattling, and the rigging howling and screaming. The wind gauge in the cabin shows 42 knots, storm force...! Now we are reaping the rewards of upgrading the anchor rig in the spring. We remain safely in the same place.

On the third day, the wind finally calmed down enough for us to reach land, but not before the sailor got soaked and the captain exclaimed, "Don´t you know how to row?" to someone who has not only kayaked down the Zambezi River, but is also a world champion in white water rafting. She just laughed and nearly tore the oars off the boat, which was now half full of water. It was a good thing we both had dry suits.

Not a tree, nor a bush as far as the eye can see. Here from Haugestranda on the west side of the island.

The Dutch were the first to discover the island. In 1614, explorer Joris Carolus named the island after one of his captains, Jan Jackobs Van Schellinkhout, who had arrived on the island three years earlier.

Driftwood in Kvalrossbukta

Even if it was exciting to arrive at Jan Mayen we were also very excited about the journey onward to Iceland.

We made it safely back aboard the Bluebird, and as we weighed anchor and set sail westward, the clouds parted and the volcanic mountain revealed itself in all its glory.

Just over 300 nautical miles to the west lies Iceland, our next destination. The departure was very pleasant. Berenberg was bathed in sunshine, and as Jan Mayen sank into the sea behind us, we hoisted the balloon sail and set course straight for Iceland. The wind and waves were at the comfortable end of the scale, and we quickly found our rhythm.
That was soon to change, as the wind picked up during the evening and night. We are comfortable with 15-20 knots of wind when it comes from behind. Because the boat is wide across the stern, it will turn slightly when the waves come from the side-rear, but the autopilot, which was newly installed when I bought the boat a year ago, reacted quickly to this and kept the boat on course. The autopilot on board consisted of three units working together: a NAC-3 control unit, a Precision-9 compass and a DD15 driver, all from B&G. These three worked very well together and kept the boat on a stable course. No helmsman can match this over time.

However, we noticed that the autopilot had to work harder and harder to stay on course. The wind was whipping up the sea, and the waves were steadily growing larger. We checked the weather forecast, which reported significant wave heights of 2-4 metres. Significant wave height means that, in practice, you can expect some waves to be twice as high, which in our case meant up to 8 metres.

It was quite fascinating to feel the wave pattern and how it varied in size and direction. Sometimes they increase in size before falling back a little, and occasionally a series of waves comes from a completely different direction.

It is tiring to steer a boat in rough seas, and to do so manually all the time would require a crew of at least four, so when sailing 'short-handed' (meaning that there are only two people on board, not that they have short hands), you are completely dependent on a reliable autopilot.

With winds of +20 knots, the boat maintains a steady speed of 7-8 knots. The bow is pounding, and the boat seems to be working its way in and out of the troughs of the waves, which are now becoming quite large. The balloon sail should have been taken down now that the wind had passed 20 knots, but since it is true wind, we allowed ourselves to leave it up a little longer so that we could pull away from the boat's speed. Since we are sailing with the wind, the relative wind on the sail (theoretically) becomes correspondingly lower. It's incredibly fun to rush forward like this, but it turned out to be a bad decision. The boat rushes over a wave crest, the sail catches extra wind, thus the load becomes too high and the balloon sail bursts. We ended up dejectedly, with a boat speed of 4-5 knots and the tatters of the sail fluttering in the rigging.

There was frantic work on deck to get the mess down (so no pictures), and with the seas as it were, it was important to be diligent with the use of the safety equipment and how we moved around. We were always clipped into a safety line that ran around the boat, but to prevent anyone from hanging on the outside of the rail if they were unlucky enough to fall, the sling from the life jacket is rigged so that it is short. This means that you cannot reach across the deck, but must connect via a sling attached to the mast foot or the forestay at the bow. In other words, you have to focus and be very aware of what to do, how to do it, and in what order.

A "man overboard" situation under these conditions is extremely dangerous and must not happen.

With the speed reduced, the autopilot could easily maintain a steady course, so we can work on deck to salvage the stumps. Eventually, we get the mainsail down and set the jib, so that the boat is once again racing westward.

During the night, the wind picks up, and we see longer periods of 28-30 knots on the wind gauge. The waves are getting bigger, and some of them tower behind us, as tall as houses. It is a mighty sight when they grow bigger and bigger behind the boat, lift us up, and then sweep under us to break further ahead. The speed at which the waves move forward is probably two or three times faster than we are sailing, so we feel them rushing past us.

In what is, after all, a small boat (39 feet), this is a wild experience of nature, but we never feel unsafe.

The mainsail has three reefs, and we are now down to reef two, which significantly reduces the sail area, which in turn reduces the pressure on the boat and makes it easier for the autopilot to maintain a steady course. In physics at school, we learned how the force of the wind changes with its speed. A doubling of wind speed results in a quadrupling of the force it exerts. Therefore, we find that a well-reefed boat, which has relatively little sail area, sails almost as fast as when we had too much sail up. Another factor is that in cold climates, such as here with only +6 degrees, the density of the air is greater than when the air is warmer. We must therefore also take into account that the force of the wind can be as much as 10% greater here than if we were sailing in +20 degrees.

We keep watch according to the clock, and eventually the wind calms down to a steady 20 knots. The seas settle down and the world becomes just fine. It became even more beautiful when a pod of pilot whales came rushing past. It was an amazing sight as they passed us as if we were standing still. The group consisted of several fairly small individuals, along with some really large males, so this was probably a family group out on a trip.

It is late in the evening and getting dark as we sail into the harbour at Raufarhófen. This is the northernmost harbour in Iceland, small and cramped, but sheltered from the wind and sea behind formations created by nature.

Approximately 200 inhabitants, one street with houses on both sides, a fish market (which keeps the place alive during winter time), a café, a hotel (open only in summer) and a mechanical workshop. That's it. As we stroll down the street, in strong headwinds and rain, a small car comes speeding by. We almost think she's on an emergency call, we exclaim in unison, it was a woman driving. Quite right. Not long after, the ambulance comes driving by and turns into a house just in front of us, and there we recognise the woman who sped past us earlier.

"Stone Hedge" from more recent times. There wasn't much else to see in the area other than green moors, so a local chieftain had stacked up the stones as an attraction for passing tourists.

The next day, when we are about to fill up with diesel, the ambulance driver is standing on the jetty arranging the diesel pumps. It turns out that he also ran the mechanical workshop, worked part-time on the ambulance, in the fire brigade, and on the local rescue boat. At the hotel, the manager was also the caretaker, the chef, and in winter, a fisherman. Without people like this, the community there could not function.

The weather forecast for the next few days was not particularly encouraging. The wind was set to increase to a strong gale and remain along the east coast of Iceland for several days. We either had to set sail now and hope to beat it, or stay put for the next 3-4 days.

With only a limited number of days left of our holiday, we also had to make sure we reached Elnesvågen before Katrine had to return to work, so after a brief discussion, we cast off and set a new course out to sea, now towards the Faroe Islands...

With our arrival in Iceland, the nature of the voyage has changed somewhat, in that we are now sailing from one civilised place to another, with each leg taking only two or three days. However, weather conditions are still crucial to how the voyage progresses, so we spend a lot of time looking for good weather windows.

As described, we left Iceland ahead of an approaching front with strong winds, and if the forecasts are correct, we should reach the Faroe Islands before it hits.

We sailed a good distance south along the coast of north-eastern Iceland before turning out to sea, and with the mountains behind Seidisfjordur slowly sinking into the sea behind us, we set course eastwards.

We almost made it. Last night we got going, this time with the wind and sea more against us, on a hard tack. The sails were tightened to the maximum, and we sailed as high into the wind as we could without losing too much speed.

Such crossings are exhausting, as you can really feel the boat working against the wind and sea. Fortunately, the wind changed direction slightly as we approached the north side of the Faroe Islands, and as we sail between Eysturøy and Kalsøy, the mountains on the islands completely shield us from the wind.

We had to motor south towards Torshavn, a trip that normally takes 3-4 hours, but ended up taking us 7 hours. We soon realised that we had arrived at a bad time in terms of the tidal current. The current runs against us the entire way, and it peaks at the narrowest point in the sound south of Leirvik. There, the current runs against us at a full 6 knots. It's almost like sailing in a river. We see that the current is a little weaker right by the shore, so we stay close to it.

The islands here rise straight up out of the sea, so there is good depth close to land. Even with a 15-knot tailwind, all sails up and the engine at full throttle, we are only moving forward at a couple of knots. We are so close to land that at one point we can almost spit on the rocks on the shore, and the smell of sheep is very prominent.
Quite a pleasant smell, actually. At sea, it just smells like the sea – not that there is no smell, but the smells are milder in a way, so when you finally come close to Mother Earth after a long time at sea, and the sun is warm, everyday smells become quite intense right away.

The "government building" in Torshavn with its wooden houses, located far out at sea.

The topography of the Faroe Islands is unique, and the steep, grass-covered mountainsides are incredibly beautiful,
towering green and lush, yet without a single tree or bush. We are fortunate, and the sun makes the day beautiful and warm. The guest harbour in Tórshavn is cramped, with only eight guest berths, but we were lucky and found an available spot.
We planned to take a few days' break from sailing and just stroll and bus around the city and the surrounding area.
The sun that was so present when we arrived was nowhere to be seen, but the wind and rain were...

We sailed 418 nautical miles from Iceland.

A completely random visit to the restaurant in the Od Coal Warehouse resulted in a very positive dining experience.

Once again, the weather determined our departure time. A large area with little or no wind seemed to be settling northwest of Shetland, which was our next destination, and it was set to last for many days. So after just two days in the Faroe Islands, we set sail again. The trip turned out exactly as we wanted, 187 nautical miles of uneventful sailing.

That doesn't mean it was boring, but everything went according to plan, with excellent sailing winds and no unforeseen challenges along the way.

Off duty and getting some fresh air. Normally, you always have to wear a life jacket and be clipped into the safety line, but this time the captain had given special dispensation, but only this once.

The tidal currents are also strong in Shetland, but this time we had good information
about the currents and were able to adjust our speed towards the end so that we arrived perfectly and got an excellent "ride" into the harbour in Baltasound, a small outpost in the far north of Shetland.

This bus shelter has been named Great Britain's finest. The theme changes constantly in line with current events in British society.

Here, it is connected to Queen Elizabeth's anniversary.

Baltasound consists almost entirely of pensioners, so the captain felt right at home here.

With bicycles on board, we spent the weekend exploring a landscape completely different from the one we had just left behind. Here too, the islands are covered with grass and sheep, but here the shapes are
rounder and flatter, with lots of old "ruins" and memories of times gone by. The kilometres of neatly built stone walls are incredibly fascinating.

We take the opportunity to sail past both Vidlin and eventually Scalloway, places where Shetlands-Larsen and his gang stayed during the war. They carried out a very important and risky transport of resistance fighters and saboteurs, as well as weapons and equipment, and transported refugees out of the country.

We can hardly comprehend what they experienced in terms of storms and bad weather, and the fear of being attacked by the Germans on their many voyages across the North Sea. They risked their lives for the freedom we enjoy today.

Soon we will sail home in their wake.

The Vidlin harbour

Lunna Bay, where Shetland's Larsen and his crew stayed during the first part of the WWII Church with graveyard and Lunna House in the background up on the hill.

Memorial at Prince Olav Slipway in Scalloway, where the Shetland gang carried out maintenance and repairs on their boats.

They established their headquarters here in the latter part of the war.

When we arrive in Lerwick, we meet up again with one of the boats we were moored next to in Torshavn in the Faroe Islands. They saw us leave, but waited until the next day to set sail. That proved to be a mistake, as the wind died down and they had to motor the entire way.

The weather cooperated for a few days, so we both took the bus and strolled around mainland Shetland, here in Bigton Wick.

Typical of Shetland, kilometres of neatly built stone walls.

Lerwick

Our trip had started at the beginning of June, so we were starting to feel homesick, and the meteorologist thought it was time to cast off, but first the police on board had to check whether our "colleague" DI Jimmy Perez was at home...

Disappointed, she had to accept that the detective was probably "out on a mission".

The treacherous North Sea...

The weather forecast for the crossing to Norway was good, and everything pointed to a pleasant voyage, but once again the "Meterology" lived up to its name. Admittedly, the voyage from Shetland got off to a very good start. According to our plan, we would spend about 40 hours on the crossing to Stadlandet, so to avoid arriving at the coast in the dark, we set off from Lerwick in the evening.

During the night, the wind picked up and the waves began to build. When we arrive at the oil installation in the British sector, the wind has increased to +20 knots. It is no more than about 150 metres deep here, so the waves take on a completely different character than where it is deeper. Short, sharp waves breaking mean that the autopilot has to work hard to stay on course. We are sailing with the jib and two reefs in the mainsail, and are racing forward.

It must be admitted that sailing like this is not particularly comfortable, and is actually quite tiring.

It is difficult to sleep when the boat is rocking so much. Even though we have sea berths with a sheet, which provides good support between the bulkhead/side of the boat and the stretched sheet, the body is still thrown from side to side. We don't get much sleep, but we do manage to doze a little.

A smaller platform in the British sector is passed.

The next day, we sail through the Gullfaks and Statfjord fields. The platforms towers above us like giants, making us feel small and insignificant in comparison. They are an impressive sight, and it is impressive to see these enormous structures and know that this is where Norway's wealth comes from. We are certainly fortunate to live in this country.

The platforms have a safety zone of 500 metres that we must not enter, so whoever is on watch must be alert, and at one point we are almost slaloming between the rigs.

The coastal radio regularly reports strong gales between Måløy and Frøya, so we decide to continue straight to the coast in the Florø area to avoid the strong winds reported closer to land further north.

When we need to reef the mainsail, we usually both pitch in. One of us stands by the mast on deck to handle the mainsail halyard, while the other stays in the cockpit to handle the mainsail sheet. Here, the off-duty crew was busy preparing dinner when the wind suddenly picked up and the sails had to be reefed. All we had to do was throw on our life jackets over our aprons and head out.

The wind howls in the rigging, and the waves crash against the ship's side. There are no signs of it calming down. We have been sailing at high speed, and when we now change course directly towards land, we realise that we must slow down so as not to reach the coast in the dark.
The jib is rolled in and we are now sailing only with the reefed mainsail. The speed does not decrease much, so we make a few long turns to get a little more distance to sail. We are now sailing towards the coast, and the wind is blowing from the north-east, so we are sailing close to the wind.

The danger of approaching an unfamiliar coast in the dark is not to be trifled with. One thing is all the lights from land that make navigation difficult. It can be impossible to distinguish between navigation lights and other light sources from buildings, traffic, etc., and poor visibility makes it impossible to see islets and skerries. In our case, where there is now a lot of sea and heavy rain showers, the night appears not only black, but pitch black. It is impossible to see anything. We are completely dependent on the radar.

As we approach the coast, we know that the traffic of large cargo ships will increase, and about 15 nautical miles off the coast there is a designated traffic zone where these vessels stay on their way up and down the coast. We have to cross it, and tonight there is a lot of traffic here. Once again, we have to be fully alert, but after almost two days without much sleep, it can be tough. This became clear when a slightly feverish sailor searched the radar and AIS to locate the vessel where the light from the top lights suddenly became visible, only to discover that it was the moon peeking out between the clouds.

As we approach the traffic zone, the radar shows that there are several vessels coming in succession. Now it is important to time the crossing so that we do not come into conflict with them. Normally, motorised vessels should give way to sailing vessels, but we do not intend to challenge them on that. We lock onto two vessels and aim to pass astern of the first one and cross over before the next one arrives.

Visibility is poor as we approach. To let the first ship know that we are coming close, we call it on the VHF repeatedly, but there is no response. Making a U-turn here, with these seas
and +25 knots of wind, is out of the question and potentially dangerous. We are both in the cockpit, double-checking that this can be done. We adjust our course so that we are perpendicular to the traffic zone, as required by maritime regulations.

Suddenly, the rain eases a little and we see the lights of a giant ship. The AIS tells us that the ship is 274 metres long and travelling at 18 knots. We aim for the stern of the ship and sail towards it until we are perpendicular to it, and it passes in front of us with reasonable clearance.

The next ship is small in comparison, 120 metres, but it is close and shows no sign of taking
any notice of us. The wind suddenly drops a little, and we lose some speed. Quickly start the engine, full throttle, to pick up speed again. This could be close, and still no sign of them changing course. It is as if they are not aware of us. We are carrying lanterns as required at the top of the mast, but with the poor visibility, they may not see us. Turn on the deck light. It is halfway up the mast and is a work light. Now it illuminates the jib, which suddenly becomes the largest lampshade in the North Sea. Then they change course and pass at a safe distance behind us.

Since we are now close to the coast and it is still pitch dark, we lower the sails and keep our speed just low enough that a couple of hours later, as it is getting light, we can glide into the approach to Værlandet and the guest harbour there. The treacherous North Sea once again proved the reason for its bad reputation.

The next morning, there was little to remind us of the drama of the night before. It was sunny and beautiful on Værlandet, sheltered from the sea outside.

All that remained was the charming leg home, with daily stages via Honningsvågen on Stadtlandet and Ålesund. Back home in the harbour at Elnesvågen, the log shows that the trip around the entire Norwegian Sea took just over 12 weeks, of which 5 weeks were spent travelling from Tromsø to Elnesvågen via Bjørnøya, Jan Mayen, Isand, the Faroe Islands and Shetland.

The boat and equipment withstood the trip very well, and the only things that failed during the entire trip were a short rope that held the genoa, and then the balloon sail (genoa) that split.

The total distance sailed was just over 3000 nautical miles...

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