From Iceland, we set course to Amsterdam. How does it feel to slowly get closer to home?
The video is in the making.
Reykjavik (ISL) – Amsterdam (NED)
“Look how beautiful Iceland is, even from the water,” Floris sighs as he looks over his shoulder. The evening sun bathes snow-capped mountains in a yellow glow. Why did we have to leave so soon, he can’t help thinking. Of course, he knows why. It’s the same reason as always: the weather. Ivar wanted to make the best use of the favourable forecast to make as many miles homeward as possible. Yet a mere 24 hours after leaving Reykjavik, he does not feel at ease anymore. We have not made much progress, so he worries that we will not reach the Faroe Islands before the first autumn storm. With no suitable places to seek shelter along the way, his optimistic planning may have put us in a dangerous situation, so close to the end of our trip.
It would be the first time. For the past eight years, Ivar has always chosen the safest option. He would avoid shallow or unmarked waters, always preferring to sail a few extra miles rather than taking a possible shortcut. He would stay at a safe anchorage if the swell was too high. If we had an appointment to be somewhere, he would always make sure we had double of triple the time we needed to get there. The weather always determined whether we stayed in the same place longer or left earlier. It regularly led to disagreements because Floris thought we were missing out on things. But he had to admit that Ivar always brought us safely to the next destination.
Flying Pan
To our relief, the wind increases on the second day. Luci picks up speed and we race toward the Faroe Islands. On the downside, it is anything but comfortable. The waves build up and regularly cause Luci to surf. The thermometer doesn’t reach more than nine degrees. A day later the wind shifts, so we get the waves from across. One gives us such a hard push that the pressure cooker is catapulted off the stove. Ivar rushes inside. “Why didn’t I put that pan in a safe place?” he curses. The wooden floor has a dent, but the pan is still intact, with the lid on top and the stew inside it. It could have been much worse we realise.
Sheep Islands
After a restless night, the wind drops a little and the waves lose their white caps. It finally becomes more comfortable on board. Our mood improves even more when we see steep rocks looming on the horizon: the Faroe Islands. On one side they are dark grey and rise vertically out of the water, on the other they are bright green and gently slope towards the ocean. Petrels circle around us and a grey mist hangs between the rocks. Although it’s tempting to sail to the nearest harbour, we remain vigilant. The currents between the islands are notoriously strong. We continue to sail eastward, to the north of the islands, until the current is with us. Only then do we venture between two impressive islands. Whirlpools keep Ivar in a state of utmost concentration.
“Look, sheep!” Floris points to green meadows with white dots. “Faroe Islands literally means sheep islands in Danish,” he explains. Fascinated, he follows the greedy grazers on the steep slopes before he lowers the sails and ties fenders to the railing. We moor at a brand-new pontoon in Klaksvík, glad to have made it to a safe harbour ahead of the approaching storm. A hot shower would be nice now, but the marina doesn’t have one. Instead, the harbourmaster directs us to the public swimming pool, where we find not only good showers, but also a complete wellness area. In a sauna with a view of a steep, green hill we warm up and recover from the rough trip.
In the evening the autumn storm arrives. Strong gusts push Luci against the pontoon while rain batters the deck. We hide in the cabin and spend time behind our computers writing articles and editing videos. Two days later the weather clears up, so we venture out to explore our surroundings on foot. Soon we find ourselves climbing higher and higher, surrounded by grazing sheep. From a peak we admire the colossal rocks that rise from the dark blue Atlantic Ocean. Floris glances at the neighbouring islands. He would love to hike there but concedes that a new weather window signals that it’s time to leave again.
Norwegian Summer
Our next destination is the Shetland Islands. It’s still chilly, so we are glad to reach the archipelago after two days. We drop anchor in Baltasound on the island of Unst, the northernmost island. The sun is shining, so after we quickly put on our hiking boots. We immediately recognize the rugged, rolling landscape and the characteristic ponies from our previous visit to the islands, eight years ago. Back then, we came from Scandinavia and entered a completely new environment. How different it feels now, so familiar.
“I feel like we’re almost home,” Floris comments.
“Just be patient, another depression is coming,” Ivar warns. After our hike, we cocoon in the cabin once again while the wind blows hard and it rains non-stop for a couple of days. As soon as the sun breaks through, we lift the anchor to sail to the southwest coast of Norway.
When we approach the coast after another two nights at sea, we can finally take off our thermal clothing. On our way to Farsund we pass idyllic islands with colourful red and yellow holiday homes. Children in swimming trunks play on a surfboard. What a contrast to our previous destinations! For the first time since Florida, we get a summer feeling. We moor along a wooden municipal quay and not much later we stroll through the picturesque town. The renovated white buildings, well-kept streets and friendly Norwegians bring back memories of the beginning of our journey.
“We had just left then, everything was new and exciting, do you remember?” Floris asks. “It seems like an eternity ago. Since then, we have visited so many new places, sailed so much, seen so much. Arriving somewhere feels different now than it did then,” Ivar replies.
“Still, I find it special that we’re back in Norway now. I’m slowly getting used to the idea that we’re almost back in the Netherlands.”
“That could happen soon, if the weather forecast remains like this.”
“I’m not thinking about that yet. Let’s take a walk along the fjord here,” Floris suggests.
“Lead the way!”
Brandaris in Sight
“East wind in September, we have to take advantage of that,” Ivar exclaims after a week of Norwegian bliss and so we leave for Terschelling. On the way we are stunned by all the human activity on the North Sea. It’s full of fishermen, tankers, freighters, and wind farms around which we have to slalom.
“I find it difficult,” says Ivar.
“Thanks to AIS it is still doable, isn’t it?” Floris points at our plotter, with all the obstacles digitally shown on the screen.
“I mean the energy transition. It’s good that we are replacing fossil energy with renewable energy but this large-scale infrastructure also uses a lot of raw materials. We should first and foremost reduce our energy consumption, I think.”
“And energy should be generated locally and with the community as much as possible,” Floris adds, “as we saw on Samsø and El Hierro.”
As we approach the deep-water routes with never-ending convoys of large ships along the Dutch coast, Ivar sighs again.
“How many of those cargo ships are loaded with stuff we don’t need?”
“You’re repeating yourself.”
“I know, but I have to think of our encounter with FairTransport. Transport less, produce more locally, and consume delicacies from far away in moderation.”
“That goes against the dominant ideology. Just like consuming less.”
“That’s no reason not to keep saying it.”
“True. But know what you’re up against.”
“I certainly don’t have any illusions about that, but I do see this as an essential part of the solution to the polycrisis.”
“Agreed. But now let’s pay attention to those big ships.”
Shortly after we cross the last shipping lane, it gets dark. Suddenly, a bright white light flashes on the horizon, once every five seconds.
“The Brandaris!” Ivar cheers. The lighthouse was the last sign of the Netherlands we saw in 2016. Now its light is the first sign that we are in our home waters again. Back then we were nervous about sailing through the night and letting the wind determine our pace. Now, more than 56,000 miles later, we don’t know any better. Despite that routine, Floris is delighted that the night shifts are over. Almost, because we won’t reach Terschelling before dark. We don’t dare to sail the Schuitengat without daylight and with falling water. We both stay awake to follow the long row of buoys to West-Terschelling.
“We have never seen so many buoys in a row as here in the Slenk,” Floris observes as he counts all the lights with concentration so as not to miss any. At 2:30 a.m. we arrive in the harbour, which is full of yachts. We moor as quietly as possible next to another yacht. Exhausted but satisfied we fall asleep. We’re back in the Netherlands!
Beautiful Terschelling
The next morning, we wake up early. We’re clearly still in the rhythm of keeping watch. This time it works out well because our neighbour wants to leave. Just as we are tying Luci to the pontoon, Ivar’s parents come walking towards us. His father Ad catches a mooring line and gently pulls Luci towards her spot. Ivar can’t hold back his tears. Ad once taught a young Ivar how to sail in a dinghy by commandeering it with a long line, so Ad also gets a bit emotional.
“A huge burden has been lifted off my shoulders,” he confesses. All those years, Ivar’s parents followed us closely. Out of interest, but also, we only now really realize, out of concern that we stayed healthy, made it to our next destination, and didn’t get caught in storms, ran into reefs or icebergs, or had accidents. They never expressed those concerns, undoubtedly so as not to burden us. We are overcome by a feeling of deep appreciation and gratitude.
During coffee in the cockpit, Ivar’s brother with family also join us. As soon as they knew that we had arrived on Terschelling, they jumped onto the ferry. Nephews Jule and Okke and niece Kato have grown from little rascals to big teenagers. Their voices are more mature, their appearance more self-assured, but they still hug us like little children. It is heart-warming. We have perhaps missed our nephews and nieces the most. It was hard not to see them grow up but we always kept their future in mind when we were feeling down.
The next day, the Dutch late summer shows its best side. We buy second-hand bicycles and a little later we cycle through Terschelling’s pine forests. We walk along familiar shell paths, stroll through the historic centre of West, and buy ice creams next to the Brandaris. In the afternoon we eat nachos with a view of the Groene Strand. Ivar drinks his first autumn bock beer with a big grin on his face.
“The family nearby, the dunes, terraces, drinks. No other country can compete with that,” Ivar explains.
Heart-warming Hustle and Bustle
We tie our bikes up on deck and, in day trips, make our way southward. Floris’s mother and partner arrive in Harlingen with a basket full of Dutch delicacies. Both Floris and mother shed a tear when she cuts into her home-baked, heart-shaped gingerbread. Marianne may have had it the hardest of all these years. Each time we embark on a long passage, she worried and didn’t sleep well. She sympathized when things went wrong, supported us where she could. She missed us terribly, as she let us know on every occasion. Floris sometimes had trouble dealing with it, but he knows that there was nothing but love behind it.
Via friends in Stavoren we sail on to friends in Lemmer. On the way, Ivar remarks how small and busy the IJsselmeer is, the lake on which we used to spend many hours before we left on our trip. “It’s like a supervised swimming pool,” jokes Ivar. “Huge crowds, buoys everywhere, the coast guard who announces the weather and shipping information every hour, and an emergency service on standby.”
The fun continues in Enkhuizen and Monnickendam. Every evening, we see old and new friends and are spoiled with drinks and dinners. Some have children who weren’t even born when we left.
Home Sweet Home!
Our return to Amsterdam’s Sixhaven also feels like a warm bath. Family and friends welcome us at the same place where we said goodbye. We hug and laugh with them all afternoon. We are sung to by the same occasional band as in 2016, now with their children playing their own instruments or singing along loudly. We don’t have enough time to talk to everyone and promise countless times to meet up again soon.
The next morning, we’re alone again. Ivar puts away all the courtesy banners that we had tied together for the occasion and hoisted up in the mast. Luci is now just a sailboat like all the others in the harbour.
“When I woke up, I suddenly realized that our sailing trip is really over now,” Floris says, somewhat unsettled. “For eight years, we were constantly on the move. We were everywhere only temporarily. We were constantly thinking about the next destination, the next sustainable solution to document. Do you also find it strange that that is now over?”
“Our journey around the world may be over, but our mission is not,” Ivar answers.
“Now it’s time for the next chapter: inspiring people with what we have experienced!”
Our first point of action? Writing a book!
