A Viking romp to the Westerly Isles on the “s/y Babette”

Last summer, 2004, we had our trial run, with a short jog into the atlantic; this is our story:

Oernulf's packed his wooly underwear away. I think it's about time we thought about going south for our next holiday.

This summer's sail stretched our westerly reaches out another two days into the Atlantic, to The Faroe Isles. On your globe just a tiny dot between Norway and Iceland. In fact it's an archipelago of 18 islands formed from the jagged tops of an old volcano. Green, steeply sloping hills are dotted with curly-horned sheep on the one side, the other, vertical cliffs that reach from sea-foam to dizzy, fog-shrouded heights. The cliffs are dotted with squawking sea birds (3.5 million!) including clownish puffins, the local variant of parrot. No trees. The sheep and the wind cooperate in forming this golf-course-set-on-edge. The ocean provides the clouds that puncture on the pointy cliffs and turns on the misty spray.

The Faroese, there are just 50,000 of these ex-Vikings, were the seasick lot left behind on a sail to Iceland, according to Icelanders. They still have their Old Norse language. Spoken, it sounds a lot like a western Norwegian dialect, both equally distant from the urban Oslo-ites. As with Shetland we like to think of the Faroes as actually Norwegian, but, through wars and marriages in The Middle Ages the Danes con­nived for control of the islands. Today, comfortably distant in Copenhagen, they provide the teaching of Danish in the schools here and a lot of the national budget.

Our port, Thorshavn, is their one proper town and the capitol. It's proud of its grass-roofed, tarred-wood houses, from yon Viking days, and an ultramodern glass and grass-roof building housing "Nordic Center". We rented a car one day and cruised the fabulous free­ways, tunnels (under the Atlantic!) and high, island-binding bridges. Few cars, a good few sheep (outnumber people two to one), great views! Back at our berth in Thorshavn we met sailors of the more adventurous type, many on their way to Iceland. For us The Faroes was far enough for this raid. Our trip back to The Orkney Islands was a great sail, but in "confused seas" I had my first real seasickness, not so great. I can understand how the first Faroese felt.

Our other ports were re-visits. The Shetlands, Orkneys and, in between, , our favorite, tiny Fair Isle. We have our favorite harbors, harbor-masters, friends we have to catch up on, "greatest fish-and-chips" places (the choices of fish are a page long!). This northern outpost of Scotland is not unlike the Faroes, with sheep and seabirds dividing the landscape between them, and the trees you can count on one hand, lovingly fenced-in and cared for. The sailors in the ports have each their unique story to tell.

The first three we met were all solo-sailors, which put us, husband-and-wife team, in our place. The smallest boat was a 22-footer. The tattooed solo-sailor, grey pony-tail, had been in the merchant marine since the age of 15. After a ten day crossing from northern Norway (ours was three, tacking against the wind) he touched land in a tiny cove and tied on to a buoy. The dollar-shop raft wasn’t to be trusted he decided, so he used a survival-suit to swim to land for a beer. We got to hear his stories over a beer or two onboard "Babette" in Whalesay where the huge fishing trawlers are “made in Flekkefjord”. Later on Fair Isle we met a retired Irish doctor, 73 years, with a crew of three friends. They were great fun. They'd sailed up the coast of Norway and were now in Shetland. We sailed parallel with them from Fair Isle to the Orkneys, in pea-soup fog and a good strong wind. A perfect opportunity to try out our new radar. Still it was like an apparition seeing their sails suddenly appear and then fade away as the fog lifted and then tightened again. "Doctor Joe's" previous merits include a sail to the Caribbean, three years ago. He didn't like the long dark nights and sailed back to the blond northern twilights. In Lerwick some good friends lent us a car and we drove all over northern Shetland. We went to Scalloway to see the museum with the Norwegian "Shetland Bus" exhibit. The "bus" was the WW2 Resistance sailing small fishing boats over the North Sea to Shetland, and, to avoid detection, only on dark, stormy, winter nights. The youngest of those who died during these missions was 19, most were in their 20's.

Our sail eastwards back over the North Sea was easy in light following winds. High points were an escort through the oil fields of a score or two of dolphins racing round and round the boat during a whole three hour watch. And suddenly having a telephone-line home in the middle of the North Sea, courtesy of a Norwegian oil rig's cell phone relay.

Hitting Norway along with the summer's first high we shredded layer after layer of wool, and saw the sun rise for the last time from the sea, now into a blue, blue sky. We made our landfall in Olav's Bay, a tiny hidden lagoon. The sagas tell us that the mountains closed behind St. Olav and his men, cutting the enemy Viking ships off. And our arrival was on “Olsok”, St. Olav's Eve, celebrated with a floating bonfire, circling boats, accordion-accompanied sang. Back in The Faroes it was their big National Holiday, with rowing races from in the harbor in the middle of the town, chain dancing to folk-ballads with hundreds of verses, a three day, and night, event. But we chose this quiet cove for our “Olsok”. Some friends had just moved into their new cabin in this perfect paradise, and provided us with a dock for our sailboat. But on this first morning back in Norway we just dropped anchor mid-fjords in the still sleeping lagoon and quietly had a fabulous breakfast on deck, Scottish oats, eggs, an aquavit. And listened to songbirds in big dark trees as the day awakened.

Distance traveled: 1,200 nautical miles, or from her, at the southern tip, up and round the top of Norway (US: from Seattle to San Diego). Average speed: 5,5 knots, an easy jog.