WAYPOINT TO ETERNITY

Denise Evans

(Dunlin of Wessex is a GRP Tradewind 33, in which Denise has cruised high latitudes both north and south. She received the Barton Cup for 1991 following a cruise to Patagonia).

In 1956 I took part in a mountaineering expedition to the Sukkertoppen region of West Greenland. We travelled from Copenhagen to Godthaab, now known by its Greenlandic name, Nuuk, on the old MV Disko, and then by police boat to Evighedsfjord (eternal fjord), for which the Greenlandic name is Kangerdlugssuatsiaq. Base Camp was set up on the southern shore of the fjord, close to the snout of the Taterat (Greenlandic for kittiwake) glacier, some twenty miles north-east of Kangamiut, the nearest settlement on the coast. We made the first ascent of Mount Atter, the highest mountain on the west coast, and climbed a number of other peaks, some of them on ski. Breath-taking views of the surrounding mountains and tantalizing glimpses of the fjord winding between great bastions of rock and ice made me long to come back and explore by boat.

It came as no surprise to learn that others also had the same idea and during the next decades Evighedsfjord was visited by a number of mountaineers and sailors, including Bill Tilman. His account of sailing there in Mischief in 1962 provided a further stimulus but it was not until summer 1994 that I was able to sail Dunlin into this lovely fjord.

By now Peter and I had gained some experience in the Chilean channels but I was apprehensive about taking a fibreglass boat into ice-encumbered seas and only partly reassured by Willy Ker's opinion that `a strong fibreglass yacht could be sailed in these waters with due seamanlike prudence and work through open pack if need be'. But when Willy very kindly lent me a complete set of Danish charts for the west coast of Greenland, from Kap Farvel to Thule, there was nothing for it but to have a go.

In view of the prevailing westerlies, Peter and I were aware that it might take a few weeks to sail to Nuuk from Holyhead, and we set about finding two likely lads to share the watch-keeping. Dave, an American climber whom we had first met at Punta Arenas, was keen to come but the fourth member of the crew let us down at the last minute, and we took on young Arran as a substitute. Neither Dave nor Arran had made an ocean passage before, which was no great disadvantage. That both were vegetarians, however, did make me uneasy as I remembered previous trips with vegetarian crews: the prolonged soaking of black-eyed beans, the hunt for an unspeakable protein substance with the consistency of marshmallow, the question of whether there was pork fat in the baked beans. Dunlin has ample stowage space and we always carry plenty of fresh fruit and vegetables, but Peter and I also enjoy meat, which meant that not all dishes could be shared.

Leaving Holyhead on 10 June in light contrary winds, we were obliged to anchor off the Mull of Kintyre to sit out one foul tide and to stem another off the Mull of Oa before we could lay a course for a waypoint some 200 miles south of Kap Farvel. We had been advised to keep this distance off both by Willy and the sea-ice officer at Bracknell. Though our watches were short and the weather generally good, beating endlessly across the cold, empty wastes of the North Atlantic was dispiriting and made us all feel seasick at times. Dave was badly affected and lived almost wholly on popcorn, of which he had fortunately brought an ample supply, along with a quantity of vegetarian pills and supplements.

Greenland was eventually sighted on 2 July, a long, low mountainous frieze to starboard, and we gradually closed the coast through shallowing seas, past grounded bergs and bergy bits. We had been in touch with OFX, the very friendly, English-speaking radio station at Qaqortoq (Julianehaab) for some days, but now there were visible signs of life as well and it was cheering to see the bright red colours of the Royal Arctic Line, and to know from one of their ships that beyond Frederikshaab the coast was clear of ice right up to Nuuk.

The entrance to Godthaabfjord is guarded by the Kukoerne, a dangerous cluster of low-lying rocks and islets, difficult but important to identify in the prevailing fog. We were extremely glad to have both radar and GPS. We entered the inner harbour in the early morning of 5 July and tied up alongside some awkwardly spaced wooden piles, astern of the only other yacht there, Back of the Moon, a French aluminium drop-keel sloop. We became very friendly with her skipper, Philippe d'Elbee, and his crew and it was not long before we were swapping stories over un coup de Scotch. Back of the Moon had sailed across from Quebec and we gathered that they were hoping to get up into Melville Bay and possibly further if conditions allowed.

Nuuk had changed out of all recognition since 1956. Instead of the one-horse town with its single store, belonging to Det Kongelike Gríspellnlandshandel, there was a flourishing modern city complete with hotels, supermarkets and apartment blocks. Instead of fish drying on lines there were nappies. There were no more Portuguese fishing schooners and certainly no kayaks; instead there were fibreglass motorboats with Yamaha engines. There was even a Spar grocery, and Dave and Arran lost no time re-provisioning. Almost anything could be obtained, at a price. Meanwhile Peter and I made friends with Erik Moeller, the harbourmaster, a keen sailor with a fund of helpful local knowledge.

On his advice we made our way north offshore as far as Tovqussaq (64ø52'.8N 52ø12'W) and anchored there on 9 July beneath a mountain of the same name in a pool reminiscent of a Scottish loch. From Tovqussaq to Sukkertoppen we followed Erik's suggested route through an intricate series of inner leads which wound between innumerable islets and skerries. The navigation required some care, but it was a pleasant contrast to the fogbound waters out to the west. It was Sunday in Sukkertoppen and nothing much doing, so after coming alongside a rather oily wharf to refuel we decided to press on. Our route now took us due north for 20 miles until we could turn west into Hamborgersund. The scenery was no longer Scottish but Alpine and the mountains of Hamborgerland and those of the mainland were attractively steep, snowy and glaciated. The weather was fine, but as we made our way westwards a sea fog crept up obscuring the approaches to the Agpamiut anchorage used by Willy Ker in 1987. It cleared later to reveal a lovely but rather eery deserted settlement.

Next morning the fog was back again, prompting us to find the easiest way into Evighedsfjord which we entered in the afternoon of 11 July. As we headed north the mists parted to reveal a spectacular view, and one which had not changed over the years. The blue waters of the fjord lay invitingly before us in brilliant sunshine; twenty miles away at its head we could see the impressive calving wall of the Taterat glacier, backed by Mount Atter, and behind that the wastes of the Sukkertoppen ice-cap. It was an exciting moment and we phoned home to share it with Charles.

As we ran gently north-east the south-westerly breeze freshened. Knowing there would be no shelter from that direction at the head of the fjord, we anchored for the night close to the south shore of a small subsidiary branch on the north side of the main fjord. Taking a line ashore and sounding from the dinghy we anchored in 60 metres and then pulled back into a depth of 30 metres, a technique which gave us at least temporary holding in these steep-sided fjords. An anchor watch was kept for we were close to another glacier and bergy bits had to be fended off. Spirits were high as we hacked off chunks of age-old ice to put in our whisky. July 12th dawned fine and sunny and we motored in a flat calm to the Taterat ice-cliff to take some photos before turning back to the site of the 1956 Base Camp. Here a small spit of land forms a slight bay on the south-west side, giving some shelter from calving bergs which drift down from the glacier on tides and currents. Sounding our way in with the dinghy we adopted the same procedure as before, taking a stern line to a boulder on the moraine, which put us less than 100 yards from the shore. A sudden wind shift would mean having to clear out in a hurry, but for the moment we could relax and turn to fishing in the silty waters beneath the keel where flatfish were plentiful. We were soon plagued by mosquitoes which were even more abundant and liberal use was made of smoke coils and repellents.

In the afternoon, while Dave and I stayed behind to mind the boat, Peter and Arran left a cache of food on shore (in case Dunlin had to be moved before their return) and set off up the Taterat glacier with a view to retracing the 1956 approach to Mount Atter. This involved climbing a tributary of the Taterat known as Survey Glacier. In 1956 it had been steep but snow-covered: by now it had become a distinctly awkward and unpleasant icefall and Peter and Arran wisely decided to retreat. The weather was on the change with clouds welling up from the south-west and Dave and I were getting apprehensive. The others came back in time, however, and we 1eft at 2300 on 13 July after hurriedly taking in shorelines and up-anchoring.

By now it was blowing hard from the south-west and we tacked down the fjord with two reefs in the main, a small amount of jib and the engine running. Though it was not dark, visibility was greatly reduced by driving rain. It was difficult, even with radar, to spot the entrance to Tasiussaq (meaning `lake-like'), a small fjord about ten miles away, branching off the south shore of Evighedsfjord, where we hoped to find shelter. Tasiussaq, which is uncharted except in the entrance, has two bays at its head, one to the north-east, which is land-locked and one to the south-east, which we favoured. Tacking was becoming increasingly difficult because of fierce gusts that came howling down from the mountains at the south-east end of the fjord. We had read Tilman's description of anchoring here in Mischief, but not carefully enough to avoid some confusion. We sailed too far into our bay and went about only just in time to avoid running into a string of submerged rocks which became visible at low tide. The anchor held at the second attempt in 8 metres with 60 metres of chain veered and a kedge out to port. We kept our eyes on a telltale snowpatch on the south shore as Dunlin, with her high freeboard, seemed to fly about like a kite. The wind backed from south-east to east and in the evening we had to move from the south side of the bay to a more central position and re-anchor in 12 metres. The holding was good and we were able to enjoy a twelve hour sleep.

In spite of this crew morale had by now reached a very low point. Some eight months previously Arran had been involved in a fatal accident in the Welsh hills and seemed unable to shake off memories of this event, which must have been harrowing. He declared that he wanted to go home now. This might have proved awkward, but we were only twelve miles or so from the fishing settlement of Kangamiut where a boat might be found to take him to the big airport in Sondrestromfjord. We decided to sail there forthwith. Dave was not happy either. He had changed from the carefree young man we had made friends with in the Magellan straits, and perhaps we had changed too. He seemed now to be in serious pursuit of some kind of Utopia which he could not find with us and he too decided to fly home.

Like Sukkertoppen but on a smaller scale, Kangamiut is attractively perched on bare glacier-worn rock. The narrow entrance was made more awkward in the prevailing onshore wind by an unpleasant scend. The harbour, a thin strip of water protected by a string of islets to the south-west, gives shelter but little room to manoeuvre. It was raining heavily as we tied up alongside a fishing boat. Arran and Dave had soon accepted the offer of a lift to Sondrestromfjord by a family who were going there to do their weekly shopping. After they had left Dunlin suddenly felt quite spacious.

It was still raining on the morning of 17 July but flat calm, and Peter and I now decided to motor to the far end of Evighedsfjord. Three miles from the Taterat glacier a branch of the fjord opens on the south-east and winds inland for a further 28 miles. It forms a canyon one to two miles wide between almost vertical walls of rock and ice which rise on either side to heights of 6000 or 7000 feet. In places the numerous hanging glaciers seem literally to overhang the fjord and periodically shed their surplus ice disconcertingly far out into its depths. In these monsoon-like conditions, with black cliffs wreathed in mists and luminous blue icefalls, it was an awesome sight. We passed Kangiussaq bay, where Tilman anchored in Mischief before climbing Agssaussat, the highest mountain on the south side of the fjord. At this point the fjord turns north-east for another eighteen miles before opening out and dividing into two short arms, north-east and south-east, both backed by glaciers. Quantities of brash ice dissuaded us from stopping here and instead we motored straight back to our previous anchorage in Tasiussaq.

By noon on 18 July the wind was picking up from the north-west and we moved into Tilman's landlocked bay to get shelter. After taking soundings from the dinghy we motored cautiously over a bar, on a rising tide, through a narrow pass between islet and promontory into a nook at the west end of the bay where we anchored in 11 metres and took lines ashore. The wind dropped and the sun came out. It was an idyllic spot and we were sleeping peacefully next morning when a slight lop alerted us both instantly to an onshore wind. Hastily retrieving the warps we raised the anchor in double quick time and re-crossed the bar before wind and sea made it impassable. In view of the unstable weather, the difficulties of anchoring and of leaving the boat now that there were only two of us, we thought it best to cut our losses in Evighedsfjord and put back to Nuuk, with a view to sailing home via Prins Christians Sund if possible.

Back in Nuuk we renewed acquaintance with Harry Jensen, whom we had last seen in 1990 in the Cape Verde islands, then set sail for Julianehaab (Qaqortoq) on 29 July. The nights were beginning to darken again and between 2300 and 0200 berg, sea and sky were indistinguishable even without fog, which soon caught up with us. We had a trying night off Cape Desolation steering between the bergs entirely by radar in a world of virtual reality. Next morning as we entered the Julianehaab `bugt' and the fog dissipated it was gratifying to see that the icy monsters were beginning to break up.

After two nights in Qaqortoq harbour we made our way south-east through a series of inner leads, hoping that they would be less fog-bound and less ice-filled than the open sea. We were almost immediately disillusioned when, peering through the murk, we saw a barrage of ice blocking the far end of our channel, except for a 30 foot gap on the south side. The rock was steep-to but what about the ram sticking out below water from the nearest berg? We squeezed through nervously, as yet unaware that this experience would be repeated many times. Passing through Sardloq harbour the channel was obstructed by another great mass of ice, but the locals on shore indicated by eloquent gestures a way through on the far side. Visibility was down to 100 metres as we approached Zachariashavn and the radar picture, which makes no distinction between rock and ice, was confused by a berg nestling close to the entrance, but all soon became clear and we were glad to get into this protected anchorage.

Our route now took us south of Sydproven, north of Sermersoq island and down through the Nanortalik narrows, which in places were alarmingly shallow. Beyond these a wind sprang up from the west and we sped south-east between gathering bergs towards the south end of the Taterakasik peninsula. As we raced along its southern shore in rising wind and sea it was difficult to spot the difference between wave crests and bergy bits. We soon spotted the very narrow gap in the cliffs for which we were looking, and with that `now or never' feeling, for it would have been impossible to turn back, we forged through to what we hoped would be a quiet lagoon, but a westerly gale was getting up and we anchored as far upwind as we dared. It blew very hard all night but next morning was still and sunny and, ever hopeful, we went on naively into the next channel. The bergs had, of course, preceded us and we soon reached a complete impasse in a narrow gut where it was difficult even to turn round. There followed an anxious hour as we crept between rocks and skerries in the unsounded waters separating us from the deep water channel of the Kitsigsut Tunua where there were few bergs to be seen. Feeling rather foolish we now made good speed. Picking up two sets of leading lights off Frederiksdal, where a lot of ice was plainly visible, we turned north into Torssukatak fjord which eventually gives access to Prins Christians Sund.

We now entered a fairytale world of sunlit, red granite spires rising sheer on both sides from the blue waters of the fjord. It looked a rockclimber's paradise but anchorages are few. Fifteen miles in we passed the attractive Stordalenshavn to port. Here a broad green valley runs down to an open shallow bay which, for the moment, was berg-free, but we were not tempted as we were only a few miles from Augpilagtoq. Inconspicuous beneath the twin rock pinnacles that tower above it, this small, picturesque settlement is almost invisible from the fjord. A 60 foot cleft in the rocks leads into a minute natural harbour which is protected from everything except bergs. These not only lingered with intent around the entrance, but drifted in and obstructed our anchor chain with their underwater rams. Undermined by the constant ravages of the sea, bergs become top-heavy and have a frightening tendency to topple over without warning amid gargantuan convulsions and obscene garglings. We could not lie alongside the jetty for there were some large, half-grounded bergs here too and the frequent comings and goings of the Klapmydsoerne, the strongly-built wooden local boat which shunted the ice away each time, made it impracticable. We settled for the middle of the pool where there was just room to swing.

Weekly ice charts produced by Ice Central at Narsassuaq, with whom we were also in radio contact, made us aware that it was probably too early in the season to get through Prins Christians Sund, but Erik Moeller's view that ice conditions could change very quickly persuaded us to try. On 5 August we put through a call direct to the weather station at the east end of the sound and were encouraged to hear that they were fairly clear of ice. Later however Ice Central spoke of 4/7 ice in the sound. Meanwhile the weather took a turn for the worse, though there was no appreciable barometric change, and we lay at anchor for the whole of 6 August under heavy rain and low cloud.

By morning it was fine and clear again and we weighed anchor before 0500, determined to go and see for ourselves. A strong westerly wind carried us through an open stretch of water known as Ilua, where several fjords converge, and from which we briefly enjoyed glorious views of jagged peaks before sweeping on past a couple of headlands into the western entrance to Prins Christians Sund. Soon our attention was drawn to an amazingly sheer red granite cliff on the north side of the fjord. At the same time we were overtaking berg after berg, some of them large and tabular, all moving eastwards down the fjord in stately procession. A few miles further on, at a place marked Qornoq on the chart, the fjord narrows to a breadth of less than half a mile and as we drew rapidly nearer we could see a barrage of ice stretching right across it. Anxiously scanning ahead for any possible leads, we knew we might soon be in danger of getting hemmed in by the bergs coming up astern. There was no sign of a way through and without more ado we went about and beat back to Augpilagtoq.

Hoping for a rest we re-anchored, but it was Sunday and throughout the afternoon the boat became a popular venue for the locals. We were on the friendliest terms but it was clear that if we stayed here waiting for the ice to disperse we should have no privacy at all. Regretfully we decided to sail home and left early on 8 August. It was fine and the wind was still in the west as we headed south to the open sea. Cape Christian and Cape Farewell were clear of pack ice, and leaving them astern we made our way south-east through widely scattered bergs. We were back in Holyhead harbour in the early hours of 22 August after a fast and trouble-free passage.