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July 13th, 2009 – Pt. Barrow, Alaska
by Herb McCormick
(July 13): It was just after 3 a.m. this morning, local time. A half hour earlier, we’d set the anchor off the Arctic village of Barrow, the latest in our ongoing summer tour of hardscrabble Alaskan coastal towns. At what we thought was the end of one of the more exciting, harrowing, adrenaline pumping, exhausting days of our sailing lives, half of the crew had settled down in the cockpit for a drink. (I’d call it a “sundowner,” but since the sun had never gone down, that would be technically imprecise.)
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| Pack ice. |
The other half of Ocean Watch’s crew were on the bow, long lances in hand, a trio of Queequegs fighting off the Great White Beast. Only this white menace wasn’t Moby-Dick, and those weren’t harpoons. No, it was a floating iceberg, the size of a Hummer, firmly ensconced on our anchor chain. It wasn’t the first drifting floe we’d fended away. That’s when the shout came from shore, in a distinct Inuit accent. It bore a succinct message that got our full, undivided attention:
“The ice is coming in. Your boat will sink in ten hours.”
We absorbed that nugget for about a microsecond: Your boat will sink in ten hours.
But, yet again, I’m getting ahead of the story.
At the moment, after our second, rather anxious anchoring maneuver of the day, Ocean Watch is parked off a low spit of land that serves as the outer boundary of an ice-choked bay called Elson Lagoon, a few miles north of the actual burg of Barrow. There is ice off to the east of us, ice to the west of us, and ice in the lagoon directly ahead. But Ocean Watch is lying in an expanse of clear blue water, and as near as we can tell – and let me be the first to say that if we learned anything yesterday, it’s that our thoughtful, reasoned, logical assumptions regarding ice are about as solid as mist – we’re in an ideal spot for the southeasterly breezes that are forecast to roll in.
Needless to say, but I’ll say it anyway: Should the ice again start to close, we have exit strategies (we think), and
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| Murres on a bergy bit. |
we’re ready to haul anchor and haul out in a New York minute. We’re collectively hoping it doesn’t come to that.
Thirty-six hours ago, we were at anchor in the still waters of Ledyard Bay. We enjoyed a lovely sail, retrieved a sea buoy and thus accomplished our Good Deed for the Day, and were back on course for Barrow, less than 80-miles away. I’m not sure who said it, but at the time it seemed like an innocent-enough remark: “Hey, there’s our first ice!” It was a long, low expanse of pack ice, still a few miles away, and if you didn’t invest much thought into it, the stuff looked no more threatening than a tempting stretch of white-sand beach.
A NOAA plane flew overhead, and if anything, it confirmed our misguided, and soon-to-be realigned notions that the day ahead would be a stroll in the park. Yes, there is ice ahead. Sure, there are good leads through it. Here, jot down these waypoints and connect the dots. Bye, see you in Barrow.
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| Captain Mark Schrader directing traffic. |
Two hours later, we were more or less surrounded by ice. With camera and binoculars in tow, David Thoreson – who, on this third trip to the Arctic Circle, has forgotten more about ice than the rest of us may ever know – was hoisted up the rig to scout safe leads through the floes, brash and bergs. Skipper Mark Schrader was on the bow, waving his arms like a traffic cop at rush hour in a busy intersection. Dave Logan had the helm, weaving the 44-ton cutter though the frozen waters like a skier negotiating a steep pitch, always seeking the least path of resistance.
So, ice: every size, shape and description. One rather flat ice table was inhabited by a sleepy slew of walrus; others were host to a resident confab of murres, standing upright like penguins, a committee meeting, like all committee meetings, with no end in sight.
We missed most of the ice, but not all of it. That was an impossible task. Making contact with ice is an interesting experience. The first time you do it, you’re terrified. The second time, less so. The third time, it’s like, dude, whatever. (Let us take a moment here to sing the virtues of quarter-inch steel hulls.) The dangerous burgs were the ones that appeared so innocuous, a pretty, graceful blue ice sculpture above the water – hey, that looks like a rabbit! – but with a deep, ponderous keel below: an upside-down toadstool of ice.
After a while, we were out of the worst of it. Barrow was 25-miles ahead. The coastline was spectacular. Look there,
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| Hardscrabble Barrow from the sea. |
the marker showing the site where the plane bearing Will Rogers went down in 1935! And up on that ridge: a herd of caribou, and another herd! Check out the antler rack, silhouetted against that blue, blue sky.
Then: More ice. Lots more ice. Thoreson back up the rig. Schrader back on the bow. A maze of ice. A field of ice. A riddle of ice. Then: ATV’s on the shore, following our progress down the coast. Small boats, full of seal hunters. The report of a rifle. Another. Another. Barrow on the bow. The anchor down. Bizarre town. Car lights. Kids on bikes at 2 a.m. Fast current. Big berg on the anchor. Berg breaks apart, drifts away. More bergs coming. We okay? We’re okay. Right? Okay?
“Hey! Your boat will sink in ten hours!”
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| Walruses playing? |
The VHF radio crackled as we motored to safer waters near the lagoon. A very helpful woman from the National Weather Service relayed information about anchoring in the lagoon, the pros and cons of going inside or outside. A couple of less helpful characters let us know their radios were working.
At 5 a.m. the hook was again down. One more quick round of drinks before bed. I’d call them “sunrisers,” but, well, you know…
- Herb McCormick
Main Photo: Ice on the bow. Credit all photos: David Thoreson
This crew log submitted by Iridium OpenPort and Stratos
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