NORTH SEA CROSSING TO NORWAY Making passage from Lerwick to Bergen
Paul Heiney reflects on a tumultuous North Sea crossing from Scotland to Norway
How do you measure sailing experience?
For most of us it will be harbours visited and miles logged. But there’s more to it than just numbers; certain stretches of water pose unique challenges and their reputations hold a strange power in the minds of all who set sail.
Completing one of these passages is an initiation, a rite of passage, that engenders the respect of others and a new selfconfidence. With a nod to the 1980s YM book, Classic Passages, the Royal Cruising Club Pilotage Foundation and Imray have collated some of the milestone passages through and around British waters that should be on every cruising sailor’s to-do list. So how many have you done?
This article is from the series Rites of Passage, commissioned by Yachting Monthly, the Royal Cruising Club Pilotage Foundation and Imray, which will be available as a book in 2020.
There’s no law that says a rite of passage has to be easy. In fact, quite the reverse. It is supposed to mark a turning point in your life where you open your eyes to new appreciations and understandings. My passage from Lerwick to Bergen certainly did that.
It was some years ago when we owned a venerable wooden yawl; graceful and speedy, but built in the early 60s when long, open water passages were less common. Consequently, she had little fuel capacity and, remarkably, no fresh water tanks at all. So, I fitted one: a huge black rubber-like bladder which lurked up the counter, flopping back and forth like a stranded whale. I little appreciated the mistake I had made, but this apparently straightforward passage was soon to point out the error of my ways.
The navigation should have been no problem. It was roughly 200 miles on a course pretty much due east. Given the prevailing weather is from the west, what could possibly go wrong? I had sailed up the east coast of England the previous summer in easy weather, overwintered at the hospitable Malakoff shipyard in Lerwick, and with a forecast that was not perfect, but do-able, we left the comforting enclosure of the small boat harbour and hoisted full sail to make our way northwards up the sound between Lerwick and Bressay. Before we were past Easter Rova Head (FL(3)WRG), and not even in the open sea, the crew was sick. This was, however, a mere rehearsal for what he was later to endure.
THE WEATHER WORSENS
Mindful that this is some years ago, I had just replaced an uncertain Decca navigator with a GPS and was still marvelling at what an aid this was. But I had no radar, and AIS was still 20 years away. However, I had a good pair of eyes, a hand-bearing compass, and a decent paper chart which showed me the positions of the oil and gas fields which were rapidly proliferating in those parts. I also carried a set of somewhat scary Norwegian charts which reminded me how intricate their coastline was, and how easy it would be to get lost: each chart showed at least a score of offshore islands, mostly unpronounceable. How would I ever know which was which?
Also lacking in those days was up-to-date weather forecasting so I was sailing on the basis of a BBC shipping forecast, glued to Fair Isle, Viking and
50 miles from Lerwick, I felt less comfortable as the seas rose
North Utsire, which were the areas we would be sailing through. They were talking of westerly Force 5 or 6 at the time we left. I felt happy with that for a downwind passage.
But 50 miles from Lerwick, I began feeling less comfortable as the wind freshened and the seas rose. I had no instruments, but it felt more than Force 6 to me and the genoa was quickly rolled to a scrap. Ear glued to a feeble transistor radio, amidst a distant, crackling cricket commentary came a warning of Force 7 possibly 8. The seas were now gathering and the crew was in a near coma.
There was no possibility of turning back, the passage had to be completed, and over the next couple of hours I hastily learnt the principles of waypoint navigation using GPS. It seemed like a blessing from heaven. For the first time in my sailing career, I actually knew where I was and what I was pointing at! I made tea and could just about keep down a ham sandwich. The crew, who could normally swallow an entire pasty in one gulp, declined.
Lack of complete darkness is one advantage of Norwegian summer sailing. The estimated time of arrival (ETA), a novel concept, turned out to be a surprise gift from that wondrous little GPS, and although all the indications were that I would be arriving in the lengthy daylight hours, I set a course for the 1.5-mile gap between the small islands of Tekslo (FL.WRG 5s 8M) and Marstein (Iso WR. 4s 11M) which light the entrance into the Korsfjorden.
I reckoned that from Tekslo I would be in the comparative shelter of the Korsfjorden, and then in total shelter on the final dog leg up to Bergen.
So I pressed on with confidence, my spirit dented only by persistent rain and the moan of a haunting wind, underscored by a groaning crew.
TOWARDS BERGEN
With about 60 miles to go, the freshwater bladder started to make its presence felt. It was a serious mistake, which any half competent boat builder would have recognised, to place so much weight so far aft in a not very buoyant counter. My boat’s rear end had grace and real beauty, a tribute to the wooden boatbuilder’s craft, but it didn’t see any reason to rise up as the waves approached, and the weight of the heavy water bladder wasn’t helping. The following seas had started to break into the cockpit from where they drained straight into the bilge, as was common in boats of that era.
I seriously believed we were going to sink and thought I ought to mention this. Like Lazarus, the
Sailing once again a pleasure, and the sight of colourful and vibrant Bergen the final tonic
ashen-faced crew rose from his bunk and started to pump with the vigour of a man living through the last day of his life – and still 40 miles to shelter.
Our landfall was shrouded by rain and wave, but the GPS had worked its miracle and the shelter of the Norwegian islands eventually wrapped themselves around us. The crew was restored to health as the sea flattened, the sailing once again a pleasure, and the sight of colourful and vibrant Bergen the final tonic. We moored alongside the picturesque Bryggen quay, on the northern side of Vågen, the old harbour, with multi-coloured warehouses now turned to shops, cafes and boutiques.
The former Hanseatic port is stuffed with history, accessed via its museums and art galleries. The city itself has a truly cosmopolitan feel and it has claimed to have more bookshops per head of population than any other city in the world, and all with an English section. Since it also seems to have a similar number of coffee shops, and if your idea of recovering from a passage is to while away the day sipping coffee while stuck into a good book, you will be well satisfied. But take a coat. It is famously the wettest place in Norway with rain reckoned to fall on 260 days of the year. I can testify to the truth of that. Vessel and crew had come through, but my rite of passage? What new understanding had I arrived at? Was it a new confidence bestowed by satellite navigation? Or that everyone should, at least once in their lives, own a beautiful old wooden boat, but not for very long.
But in case any of this puts you off, the return trip offered the lightest of breezes which enabled us to ghost across a flat sea propelled by a willing, elegant mizzen staysail. A magical trip under clear skies.