Make Way For Ducklings
Epic wet weather on Norway's west coast has turned me into a whiner. Briefly.
Today I am going to break one of my most basic life principles: “No whining about the weather.”
It is a very good principle. It does no good to whine; the weather will still be the weather. Whining betrays a lack of resilience, and since I am in Norway I should of course aspire to be as resilient as those avatars of resilience and fortitude—the Vikings. In any case, no amount of whining from someone living a ridiculously lucky life aboard a beautiful bluewater sailboat should elicit even the tiniest shred of sympathy.
Still, I will ignore all that this one time, as I hole up in Laughing Gull, nestled into the cozy little guest marina at Strusshamn, a few miles from Bergen. I am compelled to whine because I have exhausted the limits of my considerable (if I do say so myself) weather patience and fatalism, enduring day after day after day of gray, rainy, chilly abuse. I get it. The Norse gods are having their perverse fun. And no doubt the best thing is to endure in absolute silence in hopes they get bored, their attention wanders elsewhere, and they find some other game with which to torment mere mortals. But they go too far. I can no longer stay silent. Most important, I strongly suspect whining will make me feel a bit better, purging my system of the bile and resentment accumulating with every steady downpour or sudden deluge that drums down onto Laughing Gull’s deck. It is the sound of my days, the sound of my nights, the sound I wake up to.
LG does her best to protect herself, and those within. But the cataracts of rain overwhelm all normal defenses and there are little drips and dribbles into the interior that I have never previously experienced. These are reinforced by falling condensation created by the cold (low 50s) outside temps. I do my best to catch it all with strategically placed towels and rags. But these drips are crafty. They move. At night they especially like to land on the face or exposed body parts of sleeping humans. The other day, I heard a strange noise. After brief consideration I realized it was the whir of the automatic bilge pump clearing the keel sump of accumulated rainwater. Never in four years of mostly living aboard had the bilge pump float switch been activated; Laughing Gull seemed to be a remarkably dry boat. Not in Norway, apparently.
At first I was resentful, enraged by this extended trial by rain. It seemed so unrelenting, so unfair. Now I am abject in my humility and surrender, begging for it all to stop.
Throughout the deluge, my friend Keith and I made our way south from the Alesund area to Bergen. The route passes through many skerries, narrow channels and fjords, all of which are interesting to look at, even beautiful, despite the depressing gray pallor of the backdrop. Rain in fact enhances the power and grandeur of the thundering waterfalls pouring from the heights. Navigation is a full-time occupation, with no breaks. Slack off or lose concentration and it is very easy to plow your vessel onto a submerged rock. Unfortunately, because we were in and among so many channels and high cliffs, the winds were often light and fickle (or maybe the blanket of rain simply squashed them). So the ratio of motoring and motor-sailing to actual sailing was about 5 to 1.
Poor Keith was getting a pretty raw deal. Not much sailing, and lots of sh*tty weather. Keith is Irish, and very easygoing. But even he feels compelled to note how wet and rainy our little world is, and I could tell he was starting to pine for Ireland. You know you are in some bad weather when Irish weather—which is infamously wet—suddenly looks great in contrast.
Luckily, on the last two days approaching Bergen we experienced at least a few hours of sun and some sailing winds that started to redeem Keith’s experience. Unluckily, that token, almost insulting, little gift from the gods arrived after the obnoxious weather regime up to that point had inflicted on Keith the nastiest, snottiest cold I have witnessed in some time.
I have come to the realization that I am experiencing the equivalent of a second wet Irish winter, and am starting to wonder why I left behind what is turning out to be a spectacular Irish summer (the good weather in Ireland and the terrible weather in Norway are linked; it’s all about blocking highs). Keith is too polite to voice all the terrible things he must be thinking about life aboard Laughing Gull in Norway. But this morning, his last day, it is pissing even harder than previously. “This is mind-blowing,” he did allow as we ate breakfast and contemplated another morning in damp hibernation.
The only thing to be done is to continue south and hope for a change on the south coast of Norway, which is said to have a different weather pattern than the west coast. Every cruiser I meet says it is the worst summer they have ever seen in these parts. Official weather records back them up: at least three west coast weather stations recorded the lowest mean temperature ever for July, and stations from Cape Statt to Bergen recorded July rain totals up to 60% above average, with a number setting all time records for total rain in a single day. Yes, it has been cold and wet here!
The beauty of cruising is you can easily change your reality. Every cruiser grumbling on the docks confirms they are hotfooting south as fast as the winds allow (today, in addition to the rain, it is blowing 20-30 from the south so no one is going anywhere). I can’t get going quite yet. New crew arrives later this week, and I plan to take LG into the guest marina in downtown Bergen while I wait. Bergen, at least, seems charming and fun, especially if the heavens dry up even a little bit. One can hope.
Am I done? Yes, I think I am done. And, yes, I feel a bit better. Perhaps I should allow a limited strategic whining exception to the No Whining rule. Just can’t allow it to become a habit. Carry on.
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Yes, I think it is time to start sailing at lower latitudes and in more summery locations like France, Spain, and the south coast of the UK. Though I am tempted by the Shetlands and Faeroes (guess I am a hopeless case).
Correction in the subhed: "HAS" turned me into a whiner. My brain is waterlogged?