SEA SPIRIT TO NORWAY

Janet Trythall

Still boatless in July, and standing at the kitchen sink watching the dolphins in the Moray Firth below, I was wondering what I had let myself in for in order to get afloat. John had been asked to skipper the school boat for an expedition to Norway and I said I'd go as Mate. The Gordonstoun boat, Sea Spirit, is based on the west coast of Scotland, with a permanent skipper and bosun, but we'd both sailed on her as Afterguard in the 1991 Tall Ships Race. She's a 67ft steel ketch, designed by Robert Clark and a forerunner of the Ocean Youth Club ketches - several of which we beat to Holland, either thanks to aggressive use of the mizzen staysail, or a kind handicap.

We join ship

Those who know Oban North Pier on a summer weekend can imagine the pandemonium of the counterflows of crews and gear across the raft of sail training and charter boats. To someone used to husband and wife embarkations, it is an education to have to get stuck in to organising ten teenagers to stow the stores and gear for fourteen people for three weeks, including a week on an ice-cap.

Under way

On 8th August, in a fine drizzle, we motored up the Sound of Mull. Although not going all that far north we had a lot of the associated light head winds and calms, with the consequent need to motor to keep to a tight schedule. Next afternoon, on our way up the Minch, the Shiant Islands made a welcome anchorage for a break and to time the tide for rounding Cape Wrath.

It also gave the Anchormen and Dinghymen from both watches a chance to practise their tasks. Each of the crew had such a particular province, including Lamptrimmers (for the hurricane anchor light), in recognition of Prince Philip's sailing in this role on the Henrietta on a similar expedition in the early days of the school. We worked watch and watch, with dog watches, each watch consisting of John or myself with five VIth formers and one of the land base leaders - Tony and David are both teachers at the school who also sail.

The North Sea

All was auspicious for us to go through the Pentland Firth on the late afternoon tide on the Monday. One of the lads retrieved his school seamanship sweater left at the Fishermen's Mission at Scrabster when on a cruise some months before, and then we were motoring towards the North Sea in the sunshine. That night was clear with a fine display of the Perseids, but by Tuesday evening we were being headed (in terms of our originally intended gap through the Norwegian offshore islands) with rain squalls, oil rigs and lightning. We settled for Selbjornfjord, and land appeared on the port bow on the afternoon of the 12th.

Landfall

Four miles offshore, and an hour after a forecast suggesting we'd be better off securely anchored for the night, we were becalmed. The engine refused to start until comprehensively bled, so it was in the dark that we wriggled into Slottenholmen. Next morning we were definitely in Norway - surrounded by low, ice-smoothed islets, the green, red and white of painted houses, precarious pines and rowans, and a heronry.

The Folgefonn

From the coast to our first mountaineers' drop-off point in Okrafjord (via customs at Leirvik) took two days. The Folgefonn is the third largest ice-field in Europe and easily accessible from Bergen, yet rarely visited, judging from the paucity of accounts of previous crossings. Pondering possible reasons for this added spice to the venture, although it turned out to be ideal for our purpose - says the Mate who wasn't on the first ascent in zero visibility with the added confusion of an unseasonably low snowline. Starboard watch not only made it, but also acquired a small white goat that followed them for three days, refusing to take snowballs as a hint and causing havoc in the girls' tent. Through an initial misunderstanding with the Odda police, the newspaper ran the story `"Kidnappet" av turister'.

The Rescue

Meanwhile, John, myself and the remaining watch had 100 miles to cover round to Hardangerfjord and the rendezvous at Odda. I was reciting "If to your starboard red appear..." to explain why we should give a fishing boat a good berth when someone appeared on its foredeck waving oilskins. They had gone out logging, and when the head gasket blew had drifted in the rising wind across this desolate fjord and were now half a cable off the sheer side, unable even to haul their nets of logs. First step was to tow them clear without disabling ourselves. An hour or so later we had their considerable weight back at the hamlet, two miles upwind.

In the fjords

Man cannot live by scenery alone, so we made our way around in the fjords by the pilotage and deck leadership of the crew. Some had sailed only with the school, some were there primarily for the mountaineering (and there were at least two converts to sailing in this category) but four would get their RYA Watch Leader certificates after the cruise. The aim all along had been to involve everyone in the planning and execution of the expedition, so fulfilling the RYA syllabus was a handy peg for the sailing side. Everyone who had a go, both in Norway and on passage, said they enjoyed the eye-opener.

A lunch stop

The success of an expedition to the fjords is very dependent on the weather. Many of the anchorages are deep (20-30m) with poor holding, and the quays are potentially untenable, so we were lucky. Typically, after a morning of `man overboards' and first aid, piloted by Jo, we anchored in an inlet on the tiny island of Sild. The skipper of a passing boat soon came alongside for a chat - the headmaster from Mauranger, out fishing, and full of stories of his granny born on the island. Nothing would entice his crew aboard as he thought we were pirates. After they'd gone, the girls and I had a swim and a good wash in the almost salt-free water.

"We must take the current when it serves or lose our ventures"

One of my goals on this trip was to take a photo of the Bondhusbreen glacier for a lecturer at the Norskpolarinstitutt in Oslo. The second glacier party made good time and came down at the very earliest of their ETAs. After they'd been ferried off in the pitch dark, eaten a second sitting of Sally's steak and kidney pie and I'd sutured a cramponned arm, we'd still gained half a day. This gave us time to stop at Sunndal next evening, and on a high too because all the Upper VIth aboard had heard they had the right `A' levels. Tony and I trotted up through the hayfields and woods to the glacier lake for a refreshing swim as the sun left the snow.

Homeward bound

I missed the worst weather of the trip as I had to fly back from Bergen. Fortunately, Ian the Bosun was able to take my place, and by sailing just off the wind (for twelve hours down to jib and staysail alone) they came to Scrabster via Lerwick in time for me to rejoin and remove the stitches. From there it was plain sailing back round Cape Wrath, with the crew producing loaves from the non-gimballed oven whatever the angle of heel. The last night was spent anchored in Loch Aline, a peaceful respite before the packing and polishing to leave Sea Spirit in Oban the next day. I'm happy to report that the postprandial consensus seemed to be that we'd done what we'd set out to do and even enjoyed it.

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