Armchair sailors around the globe are living vicariously these days as they watch sailing adventures unfold on YouTube. But while a handful of sailors and their channels have star power enough to earn a living, is posting videos a viable way for most of us to feed the cruising kitty? To find out, I reached out to eight video bloggers—or vloggers—and their answers were surprising. While a few report a steady, reliable income, several others were quite candid about how hard they had to work to capture what was supposed to be a laid-back lifestyle.

With 1.9 billion people tuning in to YouTube each month from 91 countries around the world, the platform reaches more viewers than any TV network. Individual channels receive a portion of their advertising revenue, so there is real potential for popular channels to earn a decent salary, but just as with music, movies or sports, the pros work seriously hard to make it look easy.

There are over 800 YouTube sailing channels now in existence, but only a handful actually draw enough attention to be called successful. Most of us are familiar with the Sailing La Vagabonde channel. With 1.5 million subscribers, it is easily the most popular sailing channel out there. Australians Riley Whitelum and Elayna Carausu have been uploading videos of their cruising adventures since November 2014, and have no doubt been an inspiration for many of the vloggers that I spoke with. While Sailing La Vagabonde’s success is difficult to match (Delos, the second-most-popular channel, has less than half the number of subscribers), there are plenty of cruisers out there dreaming about endless palm-tree-lined sandy beaches, rum punches and dreamy sunsets. Why not film what you’re doing and share your journey on YouTube? After all, how hard could it be?

Sailing SV Delos

The crew of Delos, four adventure-seeking souls sailing around the world, seem to have mastered the video platform. Their zest for life and infectious enthusiasm make you want to quit your job and buy a boat. Brothers Brian and Brady Trautman started filming in 2010 with a $200 handheld Sony “dad-cam.” They now have over $35,000 worth of equipment, including more than 10 GoPro cameras. Having almost completed their circumnavigation, their adventures have seen them experience things most people only dream about: swimming with sperm whales off the Caribbean island of Dominica, paddleboarding with seals off Namibia’s Skeleton Coast, and diving with great white sharks at Ascension Island. With engaging content and excellent cinematography, it’s little wonder they have amassed 629,000 subscribers from their 418 episodes.

Yet their success hasn’t come easy. Brady and crewmate Alex outlined just how much work goes into their channel and how long it’s taken them to reach YouTube success. The Delos crew worked consistently for three years before they finally made it to the point where they could focus all of their time on editing and filming. Working for two hours to produce just one minute of footage, each episode often takes more than 50 hours to edit, not including the time it takes to film and rewatch the footage.

With no niche market or target demographic, the Delos team naturally produces videos they enjoy and that makes them smile. For them, it’s not about pumping out 10-minute vlogs every other day; it’s about storytelling. Earning approximately $7,000 per month from YouTube alone, Brady said their bread and butter comes from their more than 2,000 patrons. That is how they are able to sustain their lifestyle and keep sharing it with others. Merchandise and the “Buy Us a Beer” component of their website are two other revenue streams, that combined, allow the crew of four to live off $10,000 per month, leaving plenty left over for a rainy day. Admirably, the team also donated $50,000 to charity in 2019 alone.

Sailing Millennial Falcon

Speaking with the crew of Millennial Falcon, a young Australian couple from Melbourne, it was interesting to hear the perspective of up-and-coming vloggers Khiara Parker and Adam Seeber. Parker, a former model, spoke of the hours they spend down below in the cabin of their 42-foot Tayana, editing their videos and working on their brand. With 50,300 subscribers, the couple’s channel is doing remarkably well considering they have been releasing videos for about two and a half years. Yet compared with the hours they are dedicating to their channel, the rewards they are reaping don’t quite make up for the time yet. Earning roughly $430 per month from YouTube, these cruisers make most of their income from their 285 patrons, bringing in an additional $2,600 per month.

However, it’s been far from smooth sailing for this fun-loving couple, with Seeber attributing their success to the numerous boat mishaps they’ve had, such as losing their propeller—twice. They’ve also had various technical difficulties, causing them to miss weeks’ worth of income because they were unable to upload episodes. Despite filming their videos on only a GoPro and iPhone, the couple has accumulated $6,000 worth of equipment, including the necessary laptops.

Sailing Ruby Rose

Terysa Vanderloo and Nick Fabbri from Sailing Ruby Rose know all too well the amount of work it takes to build a successful channel. With 124,000 subscribers and 249 episodes under their belt, the couple often works 40-plus hours a week. Between filming, editing, creating content for social media, digital marketing, communicating with followers, and working on projects such as merchandise, designing logos, website development, networking and Patreon (the platform most vloggers use for fans to support the channel), there is little time left for much else. Vanderloo spoke of the pressure she feels to “feed the beast” that is YouTube. She also pointed out the recent press about the number of YouTubers suffering from depression and anxiety. With a need to continually upload, the pressures can be too much for some.

Vanderloo said they are only just now making a meaningful income after three years of production and 249 episodes. They earn approximately $600 per month from YouTube; the majority of earnings come from their 435 patrons and related donations.

Sailing Nandji

Bonita Herewane and Jarrad “Yoshi” Laver, a young Australian couple on a tight budget, have taken their viewers on a journey through parts of the Pacific and Southeast Asia. Sailing through the Solomon Islands, Papua New Guinea and Indonesia, the uniqueness of their route may have contributed to their success. Then again, Australians love an underdog, and Sailing Nandji’s old boat and constant engine problems are not just an act for the camera. Despite having 110,000 subscribers, 214 episodes on YouTube and ranking 12th out of all YouTube sailing channels, these vloggers are earning only just enough to live frugally in Asia.

Cruising without a watermaker, chart plotter, life raft or autopilot (wow), and doing all of their own boatwork, these vloggers are not thrifty for the fun of it. With their videos scoring 17 million views over the past four years, they estimate they’ve earned about $24,000 through YouTube. Again, without sponsorships and their 312 patrons, they couldn’t live off their sailing channel alone. This poses another question: Is it OK to ask strangers for money to fund your liveaboard lifestyle?

Working harder than most cruisers, vloggers still have to maintain their boats and relationships. Not to mention the fact that they need to get out and explore the world to ensure that they have something to actually film and vlog about. They work extremely long hours creating content for others to watch and enjoy. They provide a service for thousands of people who are entertaining the idea of becoming cruisers themselves, and they are inspiring others to live life to the fullest. Many cruisers cite YouTube as an instrumental tool in their decision to untie the lines and sail away. Clearly there’s a market for their content, judging by the millions of views some videos receive.

Sailing Sophisticated Lady and Sailing A B Sea

If there is a recipe for sailing-channel success, one might argue that it includes young, attractive bikini-clad women. The crews behind Sailing Sophisticated Lady and Sailing A B Sea are happy to dispute that claim. All are in their 50s, and their channels have loyal followers and show that it is possible to succeed even if you’re not young and model material. (Nevertheless, it takes only one look at the top 10 sailing channels to see that perhaps those qualities don’t hurt.) Yet, with over 136,000 subscribers and 232 patrons, Rick Moore of Sailing Sophisticated Lady is proving that he definitely has something to offer. With years of experience in the film industry, Moore likes to think he provides viewers information and insight into all facets of the sailing life by way of his high-quality videos filmed with state-of-the-art equipment. Although, he was quick to add, “it takes dedication to have a successful channel, and there is no quick or easy solution for long-term success. It isn’t just one full-time job; it’s many. Sometimes being bikini-clad is not always the answer. If there’s no substance or personality, you will lose viewers very quickly.”

Sailing Britican and Sailing Trio Travels

Another two channels that have had reasonable success are Britican and Trio Travels. Both crews have one child aboard, and perhaps their popularity could be attributed to this. Yet vlogging hasn’t been without its drawbacks for the Brown family aboard Britican. Kim Brown suffered a heart problem that was caused by stress, something she attributes to producing YouTube videos. With 23,500 subscribers and 17 patrons, Kim has been working tirelessly on her channel and associated avenues of income for over six years. She does all of the production herself and spends up to two days editing each video. Yet, despite her tremendous efforts, her channel earns only $150 per month through YouTube and $230 per episode from Patreon. However, she added, “for me, YouTube is not the endgame. I don’t look at it as a way to make money. The benefit of YouTube is to let a potentially massive audience know how we can help them. It’s a marketing medium. Our primary business provides guides, consultancy and liveaboard experiences to help people live the sailing dream.”

Drawbacks

Besides a whole lot of hard work, what are the other downsides to running a YouTube channel? With his long hair and mustache, Seeber from Millennial Falcon is often ridiculed for trying to be the next La Vagabonde, and that’s not the worst of it. Parker also spoke of the negative comments and downright nastiness they’ve experienced, making her physically shake when uploading an episode.

Of the channel producers I interviewed, not one was free of taunts, with many citing the trolling as one of the major downfalls of running a YouTube channel. “We used to get quite upset over some of the mean, angry and hurtful comments people would say, but over time, you realize it’s mostly sour grapes,” Seeber said.

Realistically, YouTube should be viewed as a marketing tool to promote yourself for other avenues of income, whether that’s merchandise such as that sold by Delos, Ruby Rose or Nandji; liveaboard experiences offered by Trio Travels and Britican; or Patreon, which seems like a necessity for all involved. It won’t be an easy path. Still, if you’re wasting time having fun, you’re not wasting time. As Delos’ Brady Trautman so perfectly summed up: “Make videos for you. Film what you are inspired to film, and edit the way that makes you smile. If you start making content for the sole purpose of getting views and making money, it will show. Be honest, authentic, and do what makes you happy.”

Erin Carey and her family cruise aboard their Moody 47, Roam (@sailingtoroam).

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The ice is in charge up there in the arctic. It’s what we’d said from the very beginning. As we researched routes and talked to friends about the journey, our plans and dreams were based on a declared contingency: “we’ll sail to the Mediterranean, assuming we make it through the Northwest Passage”; “if we get through the ice, we might winter over in Iceland”. It was an outward reminder that underlying each assumption of what we wanted to do was the truth: the ice is in charge up there.

But in February, when a record warm front pushed across the Northwest and melted over 50% of the sea ice in the Bering Sea, and when the scientific graphs continued to state boldly that every decade we are losing 13% of the ice in the arctic, and when there was a clear route from Barrow to Cambridge Bay at the end of June (five or six weeks earlier than usual), it was hard to believe we wouldn’t be able to get through. I continued to include the contingency with my statements, but I will admit I didn’t really believe it.

I knew sailing through the Northwest Passage would be hard and cold and sometimes frustrating. But I also knew we had a rockstar crew, a stout boat and knowledgeable resources to help us. I felt confident we would persevere through the hard stuff and celebrate it all when we arrived in Greenland. This confidence was bolstered by the early predictions of warm temperatures and an “easy” ice year.

I didn’t linger on the “what ifs” of not achieving our goals. Instead I imagined watching polar bears ply the shoreline (from a safe distance). I imagined sailing past towering icebergs bigger than houses. I imagined standing on the bow, laughing in amazement at beluga whales feeding and frolicking nearby. I imagined the sweet taste of success after overcoming immense challenges and discomfort.

But reality was something quite different.

The reality was that despite record melting early in the year, the summer season found sections of the passage choked with ice driven south and stubbornly unmoving. It seems logical that the warmer temperatures and melting sea ice would reveal an easier passage, but it turns out the opposite can also be true. Instead of a single solid ice sheet that backs away from the northern shore during the summer, the warmer temperatures break up the ice sheet, spreading defiant chunks of ice across the water that range in size from a teacup to a city bus. These chunks act on the whims of invisible currents, but rarely in a predictable manner. Instead of a narrow band of navigable water between an ice sheet and the shore of northern Alaska, this year there was an unpredictable mass of swirling ice in every direction. The reality is we still don’t understand the changes that the arctic is undergoing.

We encountered these floating chunks of ice immediately upon rounding Point Barrow and entered the northwest passage. Sometimes we sailed easily among sporadic chunks dotting mostly clear water and sometimes we had to pick our way through a thick stew of churning ice. For a month, we paced from anchorage to anchorage, occasionally spending sleepless nights defending our anchor chain from ice slabs. Bundled from head to toe against the biting winds, we wandered along one sandy spit after the other, skipping rocks and watching for polar bears under heavy grey skies. We started running out of time in the season, and the ice stew in front of us refused to budge. Along with our daily ice reports, harrowing stories rolled in from other boats attempting the passage. One got caught in unexpectedly thick ice and anchored to an iceberg that broke free in 50 knots of wind. One was nearly driven up onto the rocks when a fast-moving ice slab ensnared their anchor chain, forcing them to cut away their ground tackle. Nobody was making much progress.

Finally, we made the torturous decision. We bowed in deference to the ice in front of us, tucked our tail, and rain west. It was devastating, but it was the prudent decision for us. As we retreated, the ice repots didn’t get any better and updates from other boats didn’t hold any new optimism. Just two days into our retreat, the truly terrifying news filtered in that a boat had sunk on the east side of the passage, its side hove in by ice. The crew spent 11 hours huddled on an iceberg before being rescued by a helicopter. The news sent shudders through our crew and reinforced what I had been working hard to convince myself: we made the right choice to turn back.

This was not the year for DogBark! to transit the Northwest Passage. In fact, it was not the year for most boats to transit the Northwest Passage. In the end, of the 21 boats that attempted the passage from either side, only two were able to complete the passage, and both spent weeks trapped in thick unforgiving ice.

Substantiating our weak conviction in the contingencies we had stated aloud for so long, our plans did not include options for ending the summer season on the west coast of the US. So, we had to improvise. One night, when retreat was starting to feel inevitable, we unfurled a chart across the table and focused our attention on the west side of the continent. With all of the initial options off the table (Greenland, Iceland, Nova Scotia, Portugal), we discussed new possibilities, weather and timing. After pondering a winter in Alaska or a passage strait to Hawaii or a marathon run to Mexico, there was a unanimous vote for Hawaii.

Once our decision was made, we moved fast to get out of the arctic. In three days, we had sailed south of the arctic circle, leaving the endless cold grey days and aggravating swirling ice and uncharted sandy spits behind. In those three sad days, we backtracked across four weeks of waiting and worrying and watching, past the long hours of intense navigating, through the baited anticipation and the dashed hopes. Just like that, we were out of the arctic and on our way south.

As we sailed out of Alaska and around the Pacific High, the decision felt righter and righter every day. The crew relaxed and shed layers of jackets and disappointment. Watches got immeasurably easier with the warm breezes, deep water and obvious lack of ice. Dreams of lush green hillsides and fresh coconuts soon supplanted fears of icebergs and polar bears.

The ice is in charge up there, and we know that now better than ever. Sailing in the arctic is humbling and intense and beautiful and scary and frigid and inspiring. We learned new things about each other, our own fortitude, and our planet, and it probably won’t be our last arctic adventure. It seems likely that another year will find us bundling up and sailing north to transit the northwest passage…if the ice allows it, of course.

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It was the second time we anchored at Tigvariak Island that I realized we were in a giant game of cat and mouse, a life-sized version of the matchup between a cat, fixated on its scurrying prey with quick and destructive movements, and a mouse, constantly darting this way and that to avoid the predator’s pounce. This cat had two paws; one that carried strong and unpredictable winds capable of whipping up short steep seas as it swept by, and the other that pushed beautiful, mesmerizing, menacing streaks of ice across the water.

We, of course, were the mouse.

This imbalanced contest began in the bay of Cross Island, a shallow hook-shaped cove offering protection from the ice chunks pawing at us across the sand spit. We felt confident in this hiding spot until, while we were distracted by the icy threat so close by, the other paw threw a strong southeasterly wind at us. As if on purpose, this was the only wind direction from which our bay could not shield us. Foiled! We snuck out while the cat prepared to pounce and re-anchored at Tigvariak island, another low-lying strip of land 25 nautical miles away. It offered strong protection from the southeast, but no shelter from any other direction. We weathered the first windy paw swipe easily, but later that evening, the wind shifted and came at us from the northwest.

That was uncomfortable.

We wiggled out of the grasp of the northwesterly winds and darted five miles north to the barely-protective embrace of Pole Island. The next morning, we scampered back to Tigvariak when the wind swung back around to the south. It was a frustrating kind of comedy, scurrying back and forth once or twice a day, tucking in behind tiny bits of sand for shelter from our predator’s lumbering paws of wind and ice.

It was funny until we almost got caught.

With a new prediction of strong easterly winds in the forecast, no matter how hard we stared at the bare coastline ahead of us at Tigvariak, we knew it would be uncomfortable. Cross Island was the best protection we could get from the east. So, we retraced our steps once again. But this time, the entrance to the bay was choked with ice. We couldn’t find an open lead of water in the thickening ice and dense swirling fog. What was a straightforward entrance a few days before had become a minefield. What should have been 30 minutes dragged into several tense hours as we weaved back and forth amid the silent towering ice structures.

This cat sure had us dancing.

We were about to give up and turn back for Tigvariak to get pounded by the incoming easterly when the fog lifted just enough to contract the assistance from a little birdie friend (our drone). From above it was possible to see a narrow open path, obscured in the fog from our sea level perspective. With the drone leading the way, we crept into the anchorage, sometimes with mere inches between the side of the boat and the ice on either side. The bay itself was still relatively clear of ice, so we circled around a promising spot and settled in on our anchor.

The cat, it seemed, was getting restless.

Despite glassy seas, an invisible force pressed chunks of ice into the bay all evening. They crowded our anchor chain and scraped along the hull, emitting intimidating snarls that reverberated through the boat. Several times during the night, we were compelled to haul the anchor and maneuver to clearer water, escaping the icy claws seemingly intent on ensnaring our anchor chain. We took turns standing watch through that night and all the next day, despite not being underway. Observing the almost imperceptible motion of passing ice in the eerie silence of the bay, fending off the small chunks with a long pole and moving the boat to escape slow motion collisions with the huge slabs.

That tabby may have had the upper hand but we held on to our grit and determination.

Finally, when the predicted easterly winds filled in, they drove the ice away from our anchor and out of the bay. Our perseverance had paid off; our predator lost interest in the game and wandered away, taking the strong winds and dense ice with it. At least for the time being, we could sleep soundly knowing we were sheltered from the curious destructive paws of the arctic wind and ice.

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We expected a short 3-day layover in Nome to provision, add crew and fuel up before sailing for Barrow. But as we approached Nome, strong northerly winds pressed sea ice onto the coast east of Barrow, blocking our path around the corner. After 18 days tied up to Nome’s pier, it felt like DogBark! – and the rest of us – had grown roots. Every day we studied the ice charts and weather reports, hoping for a strip of blue, indicating clear water, between the shore and the red and orange blobs representing thick ice. Several times, the forecast looked promising enough to set a tentative departure time and get ready to go, complete with provisioning, filling water tanks and stowing gear. Each time, something would hold us up – a new piece of advice, a challenging wind forecast, an unimproved ice report. But finally! The ice had retreated from Barrow (though our path was still choked up about 200 nm east of Barrow) and the weather forecast looked docile.

The day dawned (can a day dawn if it never went dark?) wet and dreary, but the excitement on DogBark! drove away the dreariness as we scurried about, stowing last minute items and untangling 18 days’ worth of dock line modifications from the pier. We waved goodbye to our newfound Nome friends that had loaded us up with homemade blueberry jam and fresh veggies from their garden as we slowly motored out of Nome’s shallow bay. As soon as we cleared the breakwater, we hoisted sails and DogBark! shook off the harbor cobwebs as she powered up and charged north.

This passage was a particularly exciting one, not only because we had felt constrained in Nome and were all eager to continue moving, but also because on this passage – in fact the very next day – we would cross the infamous arctic circle and officially be in the arctic. It was a moment we had been diligently preparing for for months. Talia and Savai had picked out and personality-matched full fleece arctic animal themed onesies for the crew in anticipation of whatever shenanigans we might find.

The arctic circle is a line drawn around the globe at approximately 66 degrees 33 minutes north. It is not static but is defined as the most southerly point at which the sun never dips below the horizon for at least one day each year. The variation in the earth’s tilt causes the exact line to wiggle from year to year. Once inside this circle, we would experience 24 hours of daylight (although just barely; our delay in Nome had pushed us well past the longest day of the year, June 21, and the sun had already begun its long journey towards winter).

The following morning was sunny and abnormally warm as DogBark! ghosted along the shore through settled seas with light puffs of breeze ushering us along. The previous evening, Talia and Savai had ensured each of us had located and set out our onesie for easy access so as the crew awoke from their various post-nightwatch naps, they emerged cuddled head to toe in fuzzy fleecey arctic creature love. Graeme, the commanding captain polar bear (with a cotton ball tail), Janna in her super soft grizzly fleece, John with his dopey walrus tusks over his face, Talia warm and toasty as a fleece-insulated seal, Savai a blur of fuzzy penguin activity (visiting from Antarctica for the occasion), and my own bright blue furry narwhal outfit, complete with a single goofy tusk.

The cockpit brimmed with laughter and singing and fuzzy fleecey excitement. Sea birds squawked and chattered as they dared each other to land on the masthead as it swayed gently in the breeze. Humpback whales surfaced in every direction, feeding and breaching and laughing along with us. Inevitably, because what else would you do if you crossed the arctic circle on a sailboat dressed like arctic creatures, we had a dance party on the bow. It was truly surreal to be barefoot and warm in the sun as we glided along in seas as flat as the Puget sound on a summer evening, dancing and giggling on the bow in celebration of entering the arctic, renowned for its tempestuous weather and intolerable cold.

I have no doubt that the arctic will exhibit its full range of attitudes and emotions in the coming months as we pick our way north to Barrow and east along the top edge of Canada. But for the moment, we are content to soak up the sun in our fleecey onesies, savor the easy sailing through tranquil seas, and relish the beauty of the arctic.

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We are playing a “hurry up and wait” game. To make it through the Northwest Passage in one season, we have 6,000 nautical miles to travel and less than four months to cover them. So, when the conditions are right, we scamper along, observing the passing landscape through binoculars and relishing our time with curious seals, sea lions and humpback whales. When the conditions aren’t right, we settle in to wait for the next window.

For the first six weeks, it was mostly “hurry,” as we sailed from Seattle, along the coast of Canada and around the southern end of Alaska. Wind and tide regulated our schedule, variables we are accustomed to navigating from our years of sailing in the Pacific Northwest. Using a few built-in buffer days, we stayed on track, moving all but 9 of those first 45 days. It was a familiar route with predictable weather patterns that didn’t slow us down much at all.

But we are no longer in familiar waters negotiating our movement with familiar variables. DogBark! currently rests against the supportive pilings in the harbor of Nome, idle and antsy. She has been stationary for over a week, by far the longest period of inactivity she has seen since leaving Seattle. We have encountered our first “wait.”

The next leg, into the arctic circle, through the Bering Strait, and around Point Barrow (the northernmost point in the USA), will bring us into contact with the unfamiliar and impulsive movements of sea ice. And the sea ice has made it clear that this is not the week to start our negotiations. Our daily ice reports, combined with the skillful analysis from several local authorities and a professional meteorologist, continue to show a coastline east of Point Barrow impeded by ice. This ice actually shrank back from Barrow early this year, yielding a clear path east as early as the beginning of July. But in the normal summer tug-of-war between cold north winds piling ice up along the shore and the warm southerlies pushing open a channel along the coast, ice re-barricaded the path as we were sailing to Nome (against that same northerly breeze) and it remains obstructed.

This area, along the Bering Strait and past Point Barrow, is the same stretch that stymied whalers in the late 1800s, sailors who literally risked their lives each summer to chase down bowhead whales for their valuable blubber and baleen. Hundreds of boats were crushed by the rapid and unpredictable movement of ice; in the 1870s, during one of the more disastrous years for the whaling fleet, 57 vessels were lost as they pushed further north and east to seek out a shrinking bowhead population. That was, of course, before the luxury of satellite ice imagery, long-range radio communication, life rafts, and diesel engines that could power into wind and push vessels out of harm’s way.

Today, we have technology to help us see weather patterns and safety equipment to deploy in case we find ourselves in a serious disagreement with the ice. These tools may improve our chances for a safe and comfortable passage, but they do not make us invincible. We cannot forget that the ice is still the one in charge. And so, we wait.

Sometimes, the waiting is just as difficult as plowing through the Bering Sea under full sail. Our sights are set on observing towering icebergs, experiencing 24 hours of full sun, and catching a glimpse of a polar bear (from afar, thank you). We have topped up the diesel tanks, refilled water jugs and bought extra provisions so that we are primed to jump the moment the ice yields a path. We spend our days ticking off boat projects, studying ice reports, catching up on internet (there’s internet!), and playing racquetball (poorly) at the local recreation center. Anything to stave off cabin fever and the itch to enter the Northwest Passage.

While we are anxious to get moving, we are also taking advantage of our compulsory respite in this intriguing little corner of Alaska. Nome is a remote and dusty town at the edge of the arctic circle with a friendly community and a fascinating history. With the discovery of gold in 1898, the town exploded to an estimated 20,000 in less than two years. The realization that Nome held gold not just in its creeks but also on its beaches, which were public land, triggered a full-blown gold digging frenzy. The gold from the beach required little equipment and no paperwork. Everyone – from waitresses to policemen – abandoned their jobs to carve out their own “stake” on the beach, an area as far as your shovel could reach from where you stood, and started digging.

The harbor is still dotted with active gold dredges, some large professional vessels and many glorified vacuums cobbled together and precariously held on floating plywood. Those that do the dredging keep their cards close on how successful their venture is, but the presence of such a large and varied fleet indicates at least some of them are still sifting out gold from the scrutinized sands of Nome’s beaches. We tried our hand at gold panning one afternoon and, with the help of some professional instruction, came away with an estimated 20 cents’ worth of gold dust! It only took about 45 minutes of back breaking sifting work to accumulate this fortune, but my quick math ($0.26 per hour, 8 hours a day, 5 days a week…) implied we should not quit our day jobs.

Nome’s other claim to fame is as the finish line for the annual Iditarod dog sled race. This race, a 1,150-mile endurance challenge, was inspired by the heroic actions of 20 dog mushers who managed to relay medicine from Anchorage to Nome to stave off a diphtheria outbreak in 1925. There are signs of Iditarod events all over town, including a hand-carved finish line proudly displayed on Front Street. Some community members have bought or inherited dog teams from the race, ensuring this historical form of travel and recreation stays central to the culture.

One of the highlights of our obligatory break was an evening spent with a local dog team and musher. While it is summer and so there is no snow, the dogs still need exercise and practice. We harnessed 20 zealous dogs to the front of a glorified ATV and took off through the mud, laughing at their antics and what the musher termed their disorderly “summer behavior.”

It is easy, in the moments spent bent over a gold pan or clinging to the back of a dog-pulled ATV, to forget how we got here or where we’re going. But at the end of the day, back on the boat, we make the plan for tomorrow and tomorrow always includes getting ready to leave. The anticipation sets in as we make new provisioning lists and envision untying our lines. We fall asleep dreaming of sailing once again, of our first visions of icebergs and sunny nights and polar bears (from afar, thank you). Perhaps tomorrow will be the day we get to stop waiting and start hurrying!

The post Journey Through the Northwest Passage: Hurry Up and Wait appeared first on Cruising World.

We have about 6,000 nautical miles to cover in something less than four months. That’s going to require sailing an average of 71 nautical miles a day, moving about as fast as a fit marathoner could run. That’s a lot of sailing. The downside of having so much ground to cover is that we don’t get to stay and relax and explore the amazing places we visit. The upside is that we get to visit A LOT of amazing places. In our first month, we have anchored or docked in 18 different places, enjoyed 5 lay days, and spent 6 nights on passages.

While we had all spent time cruising in the inside passage before, nobody on board had been to Haida Gwaii, the string of 150 rugged islands set 130 nautical miles northwest of Port Hardy (the northern corner of Vancouver Island). While it is not a particularly long passage, the waters squeezed between Haida Gwaii and the mainland are renown for unpredictable winds, washing machine seas and dense fog. It is not passage to be taken lightly. Our dream was to be able to sail to Haida Gwaii, but our schedule did not allow indefinite lingering to catch the right weather window. We were prepared to continue north along the inside route, if the forecast demanded it.

The winds were on our side this time. Bolstered by an unusually tranquil weather forecast in Queen Charlotte Sound, complete with light southwest winds accompanied by low swell, we turned the bow towards these illustrious islands instead of tucking into the protection imparted by the string of islands along mainland British Columbia.

It was a risk well worth taking. Haida Gwaii (previously known as the Queen Charlotte Islands, until 2010 the BC government agreed to rename it Haida Gwaii, which means “Islands of the People” in the Haida language) is an ecologically diverse and culturally rich area dotted with volcanic cliffs, white sand beaches, old growth forests, ancient totem poles, and some of the oldest known human remains in all of North America. The southern quarter of the island chain encompass the Gwaii Haanas National Park Reserve and Haida Heritage Site, a unique protected area co-created and cooperatively managed by the government of Canada and the Council of the Haida Nation. It is a remote and resilient part of the world; the only way to access the park is by boat or float plane.

Permits are required to enter the park, so we reached out to the main office in Skidegate once it was clear we would be able to make the passage. They sent a fairly in depth set of forms to complete, including details about our route, daily stops, passport numbers and emergency contact information. We then received the required orientation – an 80-page PDF describing the formation of the unique management partnership, the popular stops within the park, and the regulations imposed on all visitors. I read it aloud to the gathered crew as we bobbed across Queen Charlotte Sound, which was a surefire way to fortify our excitement to visit such a unique and remote place.

Our time in Gwaii Haanas began at SGang Gwaay (or Anthony Island) with a tour of the ancient village site and the totem poles still standing watch over the remains in honor of admired leaders. This village once housed some 200 Haida people but, like so many native villages around North America, contact with European traders in the late 18th and early 19th centuries brought disease and strife to the Haida people. After small pox swept through the islands, the village was abandoned in 1884. It was a compelling sight – those strong mighty totems standing guard over the crumbled remains of a once formidable village – paired with our tour guide’s captivating stories and palpable deference for his ancestors, and a powerful way to begin our tour of Haida Gwaii.

While in Gwaii Haanas, we also visited Gandll K’in Gwaay.yaay (Hot Springs Island) for a coveted soak in the naturally formed and perfectly heated springs. These springs, used for thousands of years by Haida fishermen and travelers for their healing powers, suddenly dried up in 2006 after a powerful earthquake shut off the mysterious water supply. Slowly, over the course of the following decade, trickles of hot water appeared in new places until new pools were formed, ranging from a scalding 120 degrees Fahrenheit to a perfectly revitalizing 102 degrees Fahrenheit.

With a southeast storm on our heels, we sailed north out of the park and found protection in the aptly named crescent cove for a welcome storm-induced lay day. In the evenings, we shared our cove with a family of black bears happily chomping on crustaceans along the tidal zone. Our afternoon bushwhack adventure, undertaken to stave off cabin fever, offered evidence of regularly used bear trails and long abandoned logging sites. As we scampered, we called out pleasantries to the bears to ensure they always knew where we were and that we appreciated their graciousness to share their home woods with us.

Once the southeast storm rolled by, we continued our sail north along the eastern edge of the islands, but we were soon stalled again as we looked towards the 140-mile exit from Haida Gwaii and across exposed ocean swell to Alaska. Strong northwest winds held us in Queen Charlotte city but couldn’t keep us from exploring. We launched a fishing expedition through “the gut”, the narrow and shallow channel of water separating Moresby and Graham Islands that weaves between sandbars and funnels up to 8 knots of current between tides. Emerging on the west side of the islands, we bashed against steep seas and fished through some of the best salmon fishing grounds in the world…allegedly. We didn’t get a single bite, but we did get spectacular views of the dramatic mountains and deep fjords that slash through the west coast of the islands.

We rented a car and drove the length of the single road on Graham Island, stopping at anything that looked interesting along the way. We toured a quirky old logging museum, boasting antique bread makers, VHF radios and baby carriages along with the expected logging equipment. We clamored up Tow Hill for impressive views of the winds we were avoiding in Dixon Entrance and the smudge of Alaska’s shores on the horizon. We also managed to get our laundry done, take shore showers, play games and catch up on sleep. Haida Gwaii, we decided, is not such a bad place to wait out weather.

Eventually, the northwest winds weakened long enough for us to leave Haida Gwaii and make the jump to Alaska. Despite the bonus days in Queen Charlotte city, our time in Haida Gwaii felt unsatisfyingly short. It is such a diverse and intriguing place, though, that even a month might feel too quick to see it all. As we sailed north and I looked back at the lush green hillsides, I knew that this was only an overview trip, that I would find my way back to the Islands of the People to spend more time in their rugged beauty and elaborate culture. And then I looked forward, to the 5,300 nautical miles ahead of us. We have many more places to visit.

The post Journey Through the Northwest Passage: Haida Gwaii appeared first on Cruising World.

This is my 5th trip along the inside passage, the stretch of mostly protected water that weaves and wanders along the west coast of British Columbia from Seattle to southeast Alaska. This passage is largely responsible for my sailing education, and it is not a lenient teacher. Concentrated winds, dense fog, complex currents, big logs, narrow rapids, and a thousand navigational hazards are enough to keep even the saltiest sailors on their toes.

Glaciers, on their way out a few thousand years ago, raked across this land and left behind deep fjords and narrow channels dotted with rocky islands. The moon draws in as much as 20 vertical feet of water that whirls around islands and forces itself through the narrow passages. After 6 hours of rushing and cajoling, that same volume of water is sucked out to sea, just in time to repeat the cycle. Steep mountains capture and distribute their own weather patterns, accelerating winds through narrow cuts between islands and depositing layers of pea-soup fog.

My introduction to the narrow passages, wind-whipped shorelines, and dramatic tide changes of the inside passage was from the bow of a race boat. We circumnavigated Vancouver Island, sailing 700 miles in 11 days to place first in our class. I got only a brief glimpse into the raw beauty of these cruising grounds between crowded start lines and hasty sail changes, but I was hooked.

Three months into the ownership of our boat, Halcyon, we sailed these waters again, this time on our way to a new job in Bella Bella. It was a brazen move, to uproot and take our new home to the remote coast of British Columbia knowing so little about cruising and almost nothing about boat ownership. I vividly remember falling asleep in the vee berth on our first day out of Seattle, face down in the Chapman’s guide, stuck on the page about anchoring. We had only anchored our boat a hand full of times, and I was nervous.

By the time we’d cruised these waters for the third time (coming back to Seattle after a year in Bella Bella) and fourth time (leaving Seattle to cruise fulltime, which started with a slower circumnavigation of Vancouver Island), we had more confidence in ourselves and in our boat. My anxiety about timing the rapids and navigating between islands started to melt into the pure delight of being surrounded by such rich and raw beauty.

And so here we are again. At the beginning of June, despite the long to-do lists and hard goodbye’s, DogBark! pulled away from the dock in Port Townsend and pointed her bow north. Leading up to the departure, our focus was on the unfamiliar characteristics and additional dangers of the icy waters of the northwest passage. It wasn’t until we dropped the anchor off of Cabbage Island, in the Canadian Gulf Islands, and shut off the engine, when the peaceful stillness of uninterrupted nature enveloped us, that it hit me. Before we reach the ice, before we are in unknown waters, before it is shockingly cold and light for 24 hours a day, we get to explore some of our favorite places. We get to cruise the inside passage again.

Since our last visit two years ago, my husband, John, and I have cruised from Canada to Panama. In that time, the anchorages and islands along the inside passage haven’t changed. The shoreline is still varied and dramatic. The tides are still huge. The fog still descends. What has changed is my perception of it all. Each stern tie, each hike, each chandlery visit stirs up memories of past adventures and reveals the range of experiences and breadth of knowledge I have gained since our first visit.

I find myself smiling often, lost in the memories of trying to replace our VHF antenna from a climbing harness in an island town on a Sunday; of pouring over the tide and current tables, desperate to decipher when we should transit the Dodd narrows; of discovering the notorious feral sheep on Jedidiah Island for the first time; of feeling baffled by the washing machine conditions generated from a strong current running against a formidable breeze. Oh, how much we have learned!

And how much more we have to learn. I know I will look back on this journey with the new perspective engendered by all we will learn and experience in the coming months (and years). No matter how far we roam or how many miles we sail, these familiar waters will always encompass the frustrations, the joys, the fear and the pride integral to our first years of sailing. They embody the exhilaration of beginning a new adventure and the memories of past voyages. These waters will always feel like home.

The post Journey Through the Northwest Passage: The Inside Passage appeared first on Cruising World.

I’ve seen the green flash so many times, I forget there was a time when it was a mystery to me. Before ever seeing it, I’d heard references to it and I wondered exactly what it was and whether it was real.

It is real. But it’s also a bit of a misnomer because it’s not a flash in the sense of bright light, it’s a flash in the sense that it’s over in a flash. It makes more sense to describe it as, “a green smear that you’ll miss if you blink.”

There are precise atmospheric conditions necessary to produce this phenomenon, and I’m not sure what they are, but I know that when I’m someplace with no mountains or clouds or too much haze obscuring the horizon and the setting sun, it’s likely I’ll see a green flash. To be clear, the sky can be solid overcast, but as long as there is a clear band at the horizon, conditions may be right.

Especially for folks living on the East Coast or the interior of the U.S., seeing the green flash is not easy. An ocean horizon to the west offers the best hope. Cruising in the Pacific offers plenty of open horizon opportunities. On the contrary, here in Ajo, we’ve got too much terrain to get a clear shot of the sun setting behind the horizon.

I saw a green flash soon before we left Fiji, while photographing the sunset, and decided to share exactly when it’s visible and what it looks like.

In our twenties, we traded our boat for a house and our freedom for careers. In our thirties, we lived the American dream. In our forties, we woke and traded our house for a boat and our careers for freedom. And here we are. Follow along with the Roberston’s onboard Del Viento on their blog at www.logofdelviento.blogspot.com.

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Aasiaat is far from a metropolitan city but it feels like one at this point. We have spent so much of our time in the far north that even basic luxuries seem extravagant. For instance you can do laundry, which is something we haven’t done since May. You can take a fresh water shower, it costs $6 but after 100 days of saltwater showers, who cares? Best of all you can get a draft beer along with a burger and fries; it’s not cheap but we have worked hard for it.

We made it down Baffin Bay to Upernavik without much trouble. We gave the local police the spare anchor the Danish Naval vessel had loaned us, as requested by the captain. We also bought three more large grapple anchors to add to our Bruce Claw anchor rig. That should hold us in a gale.

We needed to get back down to Arrowhead Island to retrieve RBR’s “Solo” pressure sensors but we could no longer operate 24 hours a day. By the third week of August summer ends rather abruptly with the sun beginning to set. The sun doesn’t set completely until the end of the month but once it starts dipping low in the sky at night the seasons change quickly. First off, you can say goodbye to blue skies as grey cloudy skies and near constant light rain becomes the norm. Second, the temperature starts to drop to 30-40 degrees. Last but certainly not least the weather deteriorates; although we had horrible weather in the high Arctic this summer, we haven’t seen anything nearly as bad down here in the low Arctic. The biggest problem of them all is the darkness.

From Upernavik we had to do day jumps from anchorage to anchorage. Normally sailing at night is no different than sailing in the daytime but when you have uncharted rocks and icebergs roaming around at random you really need to see what’s ahead of you. From Upernavik to Aasiaat there is a lot ice and uncharted rocks.

Arrowhead Island (it’s really called Igdluluarssuit Island) was our last hurrah with heavy ice. We were surprised to see just how much ice there was blocking the entrance to the fjord. I decided that we should drop anchor early that day and wait for the wind to die than we could slowly motor through. Luckily the wind died the next day and we were able to wind our way through the maze of ice back to Arrowhead.

Things went well for the most part. The mosquitoes were gone as it was now too cold for them. We retrieved the pressure sensors without too much fuss. Some of the sensors had disappeared, swept away by large icebergs but the rest were there. There was more brash ice and mélange near the southern glacier than before, forcing us to push through very heavy ice. At times we had to push Ault hard. I never thought we would get stuck but it was important to keep momentum in order to have steerage. There wasn’t one square inch of open water for several miles, just ice, all shapes and sizes.

Disko Bay was also quite icy with lots of larger bergs, mixed with small pieces. I steered the boat through that ice Greenlandic style, meaning at top speed. Greenlandic people fly through the ice on little open fiberglass boats at 20+ knots. If I tried to do that I would die in 5 minutes, all I can think is they must be ice ninjas. Our top speed is still very slow, but over time you get better at navigating ice.

Aasiaat was the last stop for Dana, who was the mate. He flew out this morning and I have another sailor, Mike, flying in tomorrow. Dana has type 1 diabetes, he has to shoot insulin 4 times a day or he goes into shock and dies. Alexander has something called PKU, which means he can’t eat protein. Basically protein turns into poison and eats his brain. If he ate a normal diet for two weeks he would become permanently mentally handicapped and eventually turn into a vegetable. Nikki has to inject B 12 as that’s the only way her body can absorb it. B12 is very important for memory, and of course she forgets to do it. I have a minor form of turrets called ticks, which have been bad this year. We all have our issues.

There really isn’t much of a fall season in the Arctic. There are no trees to lose their leaves, but more importantly it gets too cold too quick. We had ice on our boat this morning and before I could row Dana over to land so he could catch a taxi to the airport I had to scrape ice off the dingy. Although it was a cold night we did have one surprise, we got to watch the Northern Lights dance above our vessel.

It’s time to leave the Arctic. However beautiful the Aurora Borealis is, winter is coming in a hurry. We have to sail at least 900 miles to get to Canada, crossing the Labrador Sea. Every week that passes the weather in the Labrador gets worse. It looks like we may have a good window to start the voyage south around Sept 17th. Hopefully the passage itself will be uneventful. 900 miles south is the small town of Cartwright in southern Labrador. I hope to make it even further, maybe St Johns before we have to stop. If we are real lucky we will be able to sail all the way back to the US without stopping, but that’s unlikely. Chances are we will have to stop for fuel or to duck from a storm somewhere along the way. It’s time to begin phase 2; our journey home.

Yesterday Alexander told me he was leaving the expedition and flying home. All of us has some fear of crossing the Labrador Sea inside us, you would have to be crazy not to. But you must learn to control fear or fear will control you. Unfortunately Alexander has let his fear grow roots and consume him. I wouldn’t have been so upset about the situation had he told me he was flying back two weeks ago when he first started thinking about it but instead he told me 24 hours before we were leaving on the largest ocean passage of the expedition, sailing from Greenland to Canada. I have no time to fly in another camera man. I had to spend several hours today running all over Aasiaat trying to buy an expensive camera and audio equipment so I can finish filming the expedition. Even worse we are down one crew member. I’d much rather have a crew of four than three for the crossing, but I couldn’t talk Alex into staying. We have a good weather window, I can’t wait here another 2 weeks trying to find someone and fly them in. I don’t have the money either. So we will leave tomorrow morning and Alex will fly out later this week. It feels strange to have Dana and Alex leave and have a new crew member, Mike. Phase 2 will have a new crew dynamic.

We will all be very happy when the Labrador Sea is behind us and the crossing is over.

Fortitudine Vincinimus

–Matt Rutherford

The post Getting ready for Phase 2 appeared first on Cruising World.

Are you up for an adventure? The Norwegian sailing yacht Barba is once again getting ready to set sail, this time to spend the winter north of the Arctic Circle documenting whales.

The expedition is organized by me, Andreas B. Heide, Barba’s owner, and fellow Norwegian adventurer, Kari Scibevåg. I’m a marine biologist and ocean enthusiast who has lead numerous expeditions to the arctic, including sailing Barba to 81 degrees north, into the pack ice surrounding the North Pole. Scibevåg is second in command. She has dominated the sports of skiing and kite surfing for a decade, and is a world champion at both.

The trip will be an extended version of the previous season’s, when three weeks were spent documenting whales in Northern Norway. Barba will depart in October, transiting a greater part of the spectacular Norwegian coast. Once in Northern Norway, we plan on studying whales from November to February. March and April will be spent sailing, skiing and exploring the remote northern wilderness.

Team Barba is currently reaching out to get volunteer crew to join us for both short and longer legs of the trip. Competent sailors and videographers are of special interest. Needless to say, you’ll need to be rather adventurous to join our ranks. Additionally, any other supporters and sponsors wanting to help tell the story of the whales would be welcomed onboard. Additional information, including details on how to join us can be found at barba.no.

Check out photos from their past adventures!

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