A Solo expedition round Iceland by Kayak

by John Burleigh

For me one journey had come to an end, but another had started as soon as I walked out of the airport. In a little over 5 weeks I was due to leave the UK once again for Iceland and attempt to sea kayak around the coastline on a solo journey of between 1200 and 1500 nautical miles

Eighteen months with the British Antarctic Survey: Two Antarctic summers and a very cold winter. It was time to go home.

 The five day trip onboard the MV “James Clark Ross”, from UK base Rothera on the Antarctic peninsula, to the Falkland Islands, was a wind down time and chance to reflect on everything I had experienced and learnt as a boatman, dive assistant and life at sub zero temperatures.

My time there, and the way of life I had been accustomed to, was coming to an end. A long haul flight took me from the Falklands to the UK, and in April 2003 I stepped off the plane and walked through ‘arrivals’, slowly coming to terms with the idea of being home. It would take a lot longer to re-adjust and feel relaxed and comfortable in normal life and my home on the North East coast of Scotland.

For me one journey had come to an end, but another had started as soon as I walked out of the airport. In a little over 5 weeks I was due to leave the UK once again for Iceland and attempt to sea kayak around the coastline on a solo journey of between 1200 and 1500 nautical miles.

Why Iceland ?

It doesn’t take eighteen months to plan an expedition, however my time in Antarctica allowed me some definite facts to work with. These dictated when I could start the journey and how much time I would have to organise the logistics and sponsors I would need, if the expedition were to happen at all.

For several years I had wanted to do a big journey and I was determined that it would be a solo endeavour, which would allow me to travel freely without too many deadlines and commitments.

As a kid the first sport that really captured and channelled my energy was paddling. Growing up by the sea and rivers allowed me to experience all the different forms of canoe sport. For many years slalom canoeing took a president, however a move to Scotland and a new job as a water rescue and boat instructor, made the move to sea kayaking an easy one. Through my work I have met lifeboatmen and watermen from all over the world. The influence of these people, and the community that is search and rescue, highlighted a need for me to learn about a place, it’s people, environment, culture and coastline. After a long summer holiday in Iceland and several memorable meetings with Icelandic folk, the choice of where to do this, for me, was obvious.

5 Manic weeks 

My home in Drumtochty Glen slowly resembled Everest base camp. For several months before my arrival in the UK, sponsors had been delivering everything from shortbread biscuits to carbon fibre paddles. A huge amount of work was required to get equipment tested, refined, reduced and packed. The postman was grateful when I finally set off, even more so when he realised he didn’t have to deliver 18ft of sea kayak as well!

My partner Joanna was not only coping with my return from Antarctica, but also accepting that in just over a month I would be off again. The rising pile of gear, food, and storage boxes made the few weeks we had together awkward, strained, fun, exciting, tiring and eventful. Put simply, it was not what was needed after 18months of separation. But we both realised that there would be few times in our lives when such an opportunity was possible. Joanna left for Greenland on an expedition with BSES Expeditions shortly after my departure to Iceland, so as well as helping me to get ready, she was also busy with her own preparations.

Press interviews, newspaper articles, talking and arranging with sponsors, all seemed to fill the day. The time was flying by and even after the dedication and hard work of my father in arranging all the logistics and sponsors, there was still much to do. Items of equipment would not arrive until the final days, and deals on essential communications equipment would only be agreed upon days before my departure.

It was almost impossible to get out on the water and just paddle. For my entire time in Antarctica I had trained for this journey. The gym facilities and cross-country skiing had helped build up a good solid base of fitness, but I was all too aware of not being paddling fit. The last time I had been in a sea kayak and gone any distance was late September, 2001!

Setting off   

I have good friends in Rif/Olafsvik, a small fishing community several hours north of Reykjavik. I had always planned to leave from this location and on the morning of 4th June, I succeeded in squeezing the last piece of gear into my boat and crossed my fingers that the thing would float. A small group of people came to see me off. Amongst them Robert Schmidt of Sportbud Titan who from the very start of my plans offered assistance, friendship and over the following months much more than I will ever be able to thank him for.

It was a terrible day to start any sea journey, let alone one in a small boat. The winds were gusting 15- 20 knots and the sea state was building by the hour. Robert and others advised on a delay but I was determined to at least start, no matter what distance I achieved. Five hours later I had managed 8 miles! Totally soaked, tired and overwhelmed by the task before me, I hauled the boat up a beach and began organising my gear, getting dry and eating some food.

It takes time to become familiar with a set of circumstances, even when they are the same set that will repeat themselves every day for some time to come. I have however been paddling and around small boats since I was ten years old. Being in, on and under the water, in my work and play, is something that my life is about. All the same, journeying with new gear, food, maps, boat and a hundred and one other items is all about learning and refining; making the first few days of an expedition a steep learning curve.

Whether you take a lifeboat coxswain in a 40ft motor life boat, or a surfer riding a wave, the common thread is that they know their environment and the tools they use to operate in that environment. I was for the first stage of the journey, unsure, uncomfortable, sometimes scared, tired and at many times feeling like I had started something I could not hope to finish. In learning from daily mistakes, creating different procedures for myself-anything from cooking, to calling up the coastguard at the end of each day- I became more comfortable by the day and relaxed in an environment which, after all, is very much part of my life.

I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself…

A small bird will drop frozen dead

from a bough

without ever having felt sorry for itself.

D.H.Lawrence

After several days of unebating strong head winds, I reached Stykkisholmur and met with a man named Porsteinn Sigurtaugsson or Steinni. Also in the sea kayaking business, Steini operates a kayak rental and tour guide business in the summer season.

Icelandic hospitality is outstanding and I found myself warm and dry in Steinni’s house eating fresh salad and chicken. After 18 months in Antarctica, fresh veg. was still very much a novelty and after several platefuls I felt like I was slowly making up for missing out

An underlying problem of painful wrists had started to fill my days and the constant worry of what this could mean for the expedition was beginning to get me down.

After advice from all quarters I forced myself to stop only a few days paddling out from Rif. The suspected tenosinavitus would only get worse if I didn’t do something about it.

Sitting in the tent for those few days was the low point of the expedition. I was aware of being very down and forced myself to be positive, but I felt the pressure of knowing people were following my progress, their commitment to the project and worried over the possible outcome of my journey this wrist pain could have.

The wind continued to remain strong and whipped up the water all along the shore where my camp was.

Moving On

The west coast of Iceland is an extraordinary place both in terms of its physical presence and the vast quantity of bird life that nests hundreds of feet up from the cliff base.

The large sea eagle had been hovering, then turning in big sweeping arcs for what seemed like hours. I felt hunted! Every time I looked up from the horizon it was there, sometimes low enough to clearly see the orange talons. On the surface puffins flew round and round looking like mechanical toys with their rapid wing beats and worried expressions. Fulmars performed aerial dances in the sky and a distance off gannets torpedoed the water incessantly; exploding back to the surface after a few seconds of in-water flight….their mouths full of fish.

I was heading for Bolungarvik a town just west of Isafjordur in the fjord of Isafjordurup. The previous day I had paddled under the immense cliffs that are Latrabjerg and for the first time in the trip I felt extremely exposed. Latrabjerg was the first major headland to tackle and on the day I rounded at the very base of these towering giants, I was blessed with light winds. The long swell picked and lifted the boat up, sending it with a shove forwards that meant my speed averaged 5 knots. My timing with the tide was good and my only major concern was the complete lack of landing spots if I needed to get off the water for some reason.

Safety First

“Kayak one! This is ICELAND MRCC……How are you today sir and where are you in position?”

The rough English of the Icelandic coastguard boomed through the VHF and I proceeded to read out a GPS Lat/Long of my camp for the evening. After a short chat about the forecast weather, I was left in peace, with a promise to contact them again at a similar time the following evening.

Before leaving Reykjavik I had agreed with ICESAR (Icelandic search & rescue organisation) and the Icelandic MRCC (Maritime Rescue Co-ordination Centre) on a series of procedures for keeping in touch so that they would be able to monitor my location and see how I was at the end of each day. Carrying a VHF radio, GSM and satellite phone I was able to make daily contact and be kept up to date with local weather information and messages passed to the MRCC from other people around the coast. Web updates and e-mails, satellite images and sea state charts were also sent and received using some of the equipment I carried with me in my boat. A small solar panel and a hand crank charger supplied all the power I needed and with 24 hour sun throughout much of the expedition, my electronic gear was always topped up during the time I rested off the water.

This arrangement was very important for me as a solo paddler. Travelling independently I wanted people to know I was OK. Given my background I had to be as professional as possible and work closely with the SAR services, initially to prove that I wasn’t a complete lunatic for attempting the circumnavigation. The support I had received for the project from Iceland authorities and individuals was such that I was determined I would not cause others worry or concern.

In Isafjordur I met Halldor Sveinbjornsson, local kayak guru and marvellous host. He provided my first warm shower and home cooked meal since starting. My time with Halldor (Dori) was anything from relaxing however and in a 24 hour period I paddled with members of the local kayak club, repaired some small damage to the kayak, and went for a canoe rolling session in the local pool during the small hours of the morning! Icelanders never seem to sleep during their summer months. The break with Halldor before heading to the Northern corner of the West Fjords was very much appreciated though.

Isafjordur was also the first place I had sent a food container to. Back in the UK I had organised my food into eight depot boxes which were sent around the coast of Iceland to people who had agreed to hold them until I arrived. Each box contained 20 day packs and in each vacuum packed pouch, the daily allowance of food for one! The diet was basic and low cost as many of the items were bought in bulk from local supermarkets at home.

So, after going to the local post depot to collect my rations for the next 10 days, I repacked the boat ready for departure the following evening when the weather offered a calm period for a big open crossing to Sletta, an abandoned settlement and lighthouse 12nm North of Bolungarvik.

By now my day had a definite order. I was quick to get going each morning and I’d shed a few items of gear, making the boat slightly lighter and easier to handle. I had been careful in planning how much food I needed for the expedition, trying to take into account bad weather days and average mileage. Initially I had been paddling 15 miles or less a day, however once my wrists recovered and the swelling went down, I was paddling over 20 miles a day, with the daily legs usually up around 28-32 miles.

HELPING OUT

Standing on top of the roof, the old men below gave Icelandic and broken English instructions as to where they wanted the solar panel and long whip aerial located. The views out to vast cliffs of Hornbjarg are magnificent. Sun warms my head and back and for the first day since I started, I feel truly relaxed in where I am and what I’m doing. The previous evening I had arrived at Hloduvik and was warmly welcomed by a man called Ludvik; .a huge Viking size Icelander who immediately offered me a beer, as soon as I had hauled the kayak up the steep boulder beach. Ludvik and his friends had just arrived at their beautiful holiday cottage for a long work weekend and short break away from home.

I had become a minor celebrity in Iceland due to the coverage that Morgunbladid (Icelandic national newspaper) had created. Ludvik and his Icelandic friends knew all about the crazy man from Scotland trying to “row around Iceland”! Ten minutes after landing I found myself sitting in front of an enormous wood burning stove sipping another beer, my feet warming and shoes steaming. After hours of broken English and my own poor efforts of communication in Icelandic, we all retired to comfortable mattresses in the loft. I was not allowed to even consider putting up the tent:

“We have seen pictures of your crazy Scottish man’s tent. Much better that you sleep in house; it has been built for many years and will be much safer!”

The following day was very breezy and I opted to wait out the day with my new friends and offered to help work with them in exchange for all the fine food they were insisting I eat. The system I found myself installing on the roof of the little wooden cottage would enable the house to have a telephone connection to the local Icelandic NMT network, which was impressive given the remoteness of the little wooden house.

During the late afternoon the sun warmed the grass and I dozed in a patch of lush green mosses, the sound of running water from a small stream tinkling by my ear. Arctic foxes cried out occasionally, but the noise was by now familiar. The evening meal of lamb and roast potatoes was much anticipated by both the work party and the foxes. The BBQ had been on all afternoon and the smells were wonderful!

For a few days now I had been working on an altered clock. Weather patterns showed a constant decrease in wind strengths and, consequently, calmer seas during the night. As the sun was always up it really made no difference as to when my day started or ended, and so just after 8pm I set off once again, waving goodbye to my new friends and making myself comfortable for the night ahead.

The sea was calm other than a long and slow swell that quickened in pace and height as I rounded the point. But it soon died away to a glassy ease as I paddled down the long stretch of coast that would take me away from the West Fjords and onto the North Coast.

WORK PHILOSOPHY

Many of the potential problem parts of the trip I had heard stories about, even been gravely warned of by fishing folk and kayakers alike, were indeed a challenge. But having no tight deadlines, alongside listening to local people, watching the weather, using technology, common sense and knowledge in my ability and decision-making, I had the freedom of time and mind to just stop and wait for better conditions. When undertaken at the right time, and after careful assessment, these tricky sections proved to be highlights of the trip, rather than critical and nerve wrenching. As I made progress around the coast, peoples’ attitudes towards me became less dismissive and more informative. In an age of adrenalin and ego chasing sports, it was initially very hard to prove that I wasn’t just another crazy, hell bent on getting around Iceland. I’d come to look and learn, to talk and share and prove to myself my own abilities as a waterman. The kayak was simply a tool for doing the job.

Be at peace with nature,

Be at peace with your tools and place of work.

Realise your capabilities,

Work to your limitations.

Hamish McDonald: Maritime Rescue Institute

I feel almost mechanical, arms turning, blades going through the water, at a pace you could check with a metronome. At 1am the water is so calm and still, I can feel the boat cutting through it. Slight changes of boat heel alters course precisely. Hours seem to fly by and whole topics of thought are considered in the most amazing detail inside my head. I know enough about my time on the water, that I now stop before I feel thirsty, and take a drink. My food for the day is all stowed in the big pocket in my buoyancy aid and I snack on beef jerky, shortbread, peanuts…anything with fat! I have a piece of bland gouda cheese, not inspiring but I know that in a few hours time it will taste wonderful so I save it and it goes back in the pouch.

As the sun drops in the sky the entire scene goes a wonderful gold colour. Everything glows: the circling fulmars, the vast cliffs. Two waterfalls visible from miles away appear as thin bands of sparkling colour, massive silks down the orange and gold coloured cliffs.

Three hours later and dew has formed on my boat, little water droplets on the map case, GPS, VHF that litter the deck, my desk, my place of work. At a low point Joanna told me to consider the journey as a job. Now later on, the job, which seemed so insurmountable then, is at 4am, one that I’m loving every second of.

I brought paddle mitts and a woolly hat with me, they have been well used these last few nights as I become nocturnal and have to deal with cooler night temperatures and less heat from the sun.

I move on through the nights, stopping at campsites during the day which are decided on by the amount of food I have available on deck, how long I’ve been paddling for and most importantly what the landing is like. I’m also having to consider VHF range, and ability to contact MRCC once on dry land. Even from a distance offshore my handheld unit does not have the range to always reach the next coastal radio station and I cannot guarantee GSM coverage on my mobile phone, even though I know the shadow areas and footprints of the different networks in this region.

On the detailed maps I’m using, I look for black crosses on the coastline. These, rather than marking treasure on a pirate’s map, denote abandoned fishing communities that once worked small boats out of tiny natural harbours or small favourable beaches, were a group of men and women could haul a boat out to safety. These settlements were always close to water and my campsites therefore normally offered a good view of the following day’s paddle, sufficient shelter from surf and a cold wash in the mornings from the nearby stream, if I wanted one. Treasure indeed!

The only thing that would make these camp areas even more perfect is a large capstan winch at the beach head. Pulling and hauling the boat up beaches at the day end is tiring and I’m already taking this into account each time I land. During the first few days of the journey I’d get out of the boat for lunch and to have a stretch. The time this takes and difficulties in finding a spot to just jump out makes this procedure pointless. Very quickly I learn to spend all day in the boat. Soft sand on a smooth hull provides a huge amount of friction and the effort expended in pulling the boat above the high water mark is way out of proportion to the distance I actually have to cover.  I celebrate a good campsite if it also has its own boulder field, complete with large lumps of tree that I can use as rollers. At well over 50kg when packed, the boat is heavy and I can only consider a straight lift when I’m walking on a smooth surface over a short distance.

A LONG OPEN PASSAGE and a LEAKING BOAT

All the big open crossings on the trip inspired a concentrated focused effort of continuous paddling. I often felt exposed during the expedition, however the long open sea crossings had me continuously checking the weather, compass bearings, transits, and calculating an ongoing plan for egress if the situation changed enough to force me to alter my final destination for the day. Fine weather or calmer seas often meant that I could take the decision to cross the mouth of a fjord, or transit directly across a bay from one headland to the next, rather than detouring inside for shelter and a greater potential for locating landing sites. The fastest lines often meant day long open crossings which carried a certain amount of exposure.  Each one of these leaps was only committed to after careful navigational planning and consultation of weather information. I always allowed the sea and the wind to make the final decision, rather than committing to something in the evening, which by morning was too risky or dangerous.

With a distance of 20nm of open sea crossing I was less than a day away from Skagastrond. As I paddled towards the town, I found myself becoming more and more tired. The boat felt like a dead weight and was slow to react. The final couple of miles into harbour, and onto the beach and slipway outside the fish market and workshops finished me off. I began to think that I wasn’t coping well with the day to day mileage.

Once ashore I emptied the boat and found to my horror the entire rear bulkhead full of water. A small hole on the keelson of the boat next to the skegbox was to blame, and although only allowing a tiny trickle of water in, over the course of 6 hours it had been enough to fill the entire rear hatch area and severely weigh the boat down. Confidence and faith in my own abilities were once again restored, but I now had some fibre-glassing to do! No time to consider the possibilities of sinking mid passage and anyway, as my Icelandic friends from Skagastrond later told me:

“it is no problem we would have come out in the lifeboat and given you a tow in!”

LANGANESS PENNINSULA

Tuesday 8th July Day 36

One night’s paddle away from Porshofn, and then the formidable Langaness peninsula headland to get round. Once more stories from locals and fisher folk fill my head with uncertainty and concern, but I’m able to lock much of these out whilst I’m on the water, so that I can just focus on “right now” and think about the problem parts of the trip when I’m resting up.

A huge pasta meal with tinned meat and melted cheese fills me up and I doze all afternoon ready for an early evening start and an open water crossing to Porshofn.

The previous night’s paddle had been a long one which took me from a small town called Kopasker round a low lying headland to Raufahofn. For a few hours I had paddled in the arctic circle and as always witnessed numerous whales and dolphins breaching and blowing in the silence of the night and calm seas.

At 1am I arrive just off the harbour to Porshofn. This is a small town but a busy fishing port and even from a half mile off there is activity on the quay and a small boat a distance behind me making its way in.

The water had been once again mirror like. An orange sun made for a very warm and still night. As I paddled on, building up the miles, I was once more joined by blowing minke whales, small dolphins and harbour porpoise. Night paddles were always very special as the distant blows added a very different background noise to the usual soundscape of shrieking arctic turns and booming swell refracting off the inside of caves or offshore skerries. It was always a pleasure to be so close, but the initial shock of seeing a fin or hearing a blow right next to the boat always set my heart racing; until I felt comfortable enough as to where the whale or dolphin was, and was certain that I wasn’t in a pod of Orca. In Antarctica I had often found myself very close to these supreme predators and I have huge respect for them. The platform of a 5m Zodiac gave me no more security then, than my present situation of sitting in a small sea kayak. However, sightings of these creatures were, so far, rare and at a distance.

My contacts all round the Icelandic coast were mainly Icelandic Search and Rescue volunteers. My background as a lifeboat coxswain and rescue instructor helped enormously in organising support, kit dumps and food caches, however it was through the hard work and numerous phone calls of Robert Schmidt that I could be sure of a contact in major towns and stops around the coast. Although I paddled unsupported, it was reassuring to know that if I had a problem there would be someone who could help me out.

I did not expect a reception party at 1am however, but several members of the rescue team were waiting on the Porshofn quay with a big truck. After warm handshakes and a quick chat the kayak and I were driven up the road to a small rescue station where I was told I could sleep, and organise my gear.

In all of the places I stayed in, I was offered warm hospitality, friendship and kind concern over how I was doing and whether I needed anything. Many people found the idea of travelling alone a terrible thought and were concerned for my sanity. However, they also recognised my commitment and I often had the most grand introductions and speeches made about me on arrival in a new place-very flattering but often highly embarrassing!

The weather over the following three days was horrendous. Some of the worse winds and seas I had seen since arriving in Iceland. The big high pressure that had stabilised the weather for so long had finally broken and each morning I awoke to the same scene of poor visibility, strong winds and lashing rain. Thankfully I was asked to stay in the rescue hut and stayed dry and warm whilst the weather beat itself against the windows and howled under the door.

Much of my information about weather and local sea conditions came from fishing skippers. A meeting with the captain of the Fossa Ph360 proved to be a very entertaining morning. It turned out 5 years previously he had sailed a small 50ft motor life boat from Holland to Iceland, delivering it to the town of Rif where I had started my journey. During the trip Porsteinn had brought the boat to Stonehaven and the SAR team had helped the crew whilst they repaired a leaking diesel pipe and taken in stores for the onward trip to Rif. I had taken the opportunity to sail with the Icelandic crew up to Wick on the North east coast of  Scotland and Porsteinn remembered the few hours we had spent together. We both had to agree it was a small world. His information on Langaness and on-the–day weather forecasts proved to be very helpful.

During my time in Porshofn I was well looked after by Siggi Steffansson and his family. Siggi is the head of the rescue station and insisted that I spend my enforced stopover with him and his friends. My days waiting are kept busy and eventful with several journeys in land, a few trips to the swimming pool and hot tubs: the weather continuing to show no real sign of improvement.  I find it hard to settle and relax now. Although I’ve been blown off the water several times before and found myself in poor sea conditions, there has never been, up until now, a period where I have been forced to stop for more than a day. It’s difficult to accept a halt to my progress, but a drive to half way along the headland of Langaness confirms I am right to wait for a change in the weather. The noise of the surf from several hundred feet below booms through my head. Glimpses of massive surf and a huge confused sea thrashing itself on the long strip of land fills me with concern. This will be a very committing paddle when I finally leave Porshofn. Previous expeditions have actually hauled boats over the thin strip of land to miss out this exposed headland which has huge tidal overfalls and denies access to landfall for more than 6 hours of paddling. It is a very exposed place.

Repeated shaking of my tent wakes me from my sleep. Seggeir and his wife have come to see me not more than 12 hours after I said goodbye and left Porshofn. They have driven on awkward roads in their truck to bring me some food and check that Im OK! Once more I am amazed by their kindness and thank them. The surf landing onto the small beach close to the tip of Langaness was interesting, however the plentiful supply of both water and firewood made my small camp for the night one of the best yet. The visit from Seggier helps calm my nerve for tomorrow’s paddle. The surf on the beach is a constant reminder of the soaking I will get first thing as I leave, but also confirms that the swell is still sizeable which will make for an entertaining ride around the point.

A large bull seal thrusts his head out of the water just a few meters away from the boat, furious snorts and much splashing follow as I paddle through his domain and on up the coast. The landscape conjures up my own images from Tolkien. I feel like Bilbo Baggins; on a quest, hood down, sheltering from the rain and fine mist. The underlying swell has eased and I have the tide. There should be a sign on the rocks “there be dragons in these parts”.  It feels like I’m paddling off the edge of the earth. Nothing in front of me, just a fine mist that soaks everything and makes me shiver even though I have the quickened pace of a traveller who must get to safety and dares not look back.

The Langaness headland looms up and the boat rapidly moves forward. This would be a terrible place to be in anything other than favourable conditions. For a time I’m doing 6-7 knots, although that’s partly my increased anxiety which often acts as a 5th gear, or rocket pack, depending on the circumstances! Bull seals follow me all the way down the coast acting as a relay escort as I pass through the patch of one to another. Ordinarily these beasts would be fearsome both to look at and in size, however I’ve spent months working close to elephant seals in Antarctica: my sense of scale is therefore somewhat warped!

5 DAYS OF FOG

My goal is Seydisfjordur, the main town on the east coast of Iceland. When I get there I will be more than half way round. My contact in town is a lovely woman called Muff Warden, an extremely gifted musical performer, bubbly soul, chief organiser of all that is culture on this part of the coast and generally to me and the expedition, extraordinarily helpful.

The coast is beautiful: huge towering cliffs, deep fjords, long low sands, river entrances, I had seen pictures in books, listened to people talk about the place and studied the maps until I knew the contours of the coast really well. This research proved to be extremely useful as for the entire time I spent in this region I saw not much more than the end of my boat and the compass. Accompanying the fog was unusually strong winds, so to add to the discomfort of staring at a compass and chart all day, a confused chop slopped water in my face. The paddling was grim and cold, every now and again, huge cliffs would loom out of the mist and act as handrails to the next destination or point where I would once more check my position, reconfirm my course and make yet another leap across a fjord mouth or open bay.

After a few days of paddling through the day and constantly slogging my way through fog and short choppy seas, I decided to become nocturnal again. The weather overnight suddenly calmed and left long slow seas and clear skies. The paddle to Seydisfjordur seemed to be endless, the long fjord has the centre of town right at the very back of the huge channel and the final paddle down to the harbour and town was far too long. After days of poor conditions and unebating fog, I was extremely tired and enjoyed several days of rest at Muff’s place before moving on.

My exploring of the coast by sea kayak seemed now to be only a part of the trip as Muff insisted on showing me the interior of the east. I consider myself extremely lucky to have seen so much in such a short space of time, and this would have only been possible for the likes of Muff and the many other supporters who helped me out so much when ever I arrived in a new place.

PHONE CALLS

My daily diary reflects just how busy I was both on and off the water. The website which had been set up during my time in Antarctica was not only a photo gallery and link to sponsors’ own websites, it also contained a day to day account of what I had seen and experienced as I went round. Consequently time off the water often meant writing e-mails, numerous phone calls for interviews with Icelandic and UK press,  and calling all the people who had helped in the locations I had already visited. The list seemed to grow by the day, but most important remained phoning home to speak to Joanna and my father. When I reached Seydisfjordur, Joanna was preparing to leave the UK for Iceland for a quick stop over before heading North to Greenland. Briefly we were at opposite ends of the country and we knew that the next time we would see each other was back in Scotland in 5 or 6 weeks!

My father who works as a teacher was ensuring that important information was passed onto me. Emails were replied to and weather updates relayed. The phone often became a huge bind but was also essential to ensure that I kept in touch with all my supporters and sponsors, the Icelandic MRCC, family and friends. The expedition could easily have been done with out all the technology I carried with me, however it was better for it. At times when I needed a quick chat, or to organise something for a few days ahead, anything from a change in food depot location, to mending the kayak, it meant I could be pro-active and ultimately save time. Messages of support, and SMS TXT’s were often one of the first things I received after landing at the end of the day and setting up camp.

HOFN & THE SOUTH COAST

Another 4 days of high mileage paddling brought me to Hofn and the start of the south coast. The weather changed from one day to the next, once leaving me stranded on a small island in dense thick fog, and on another occasion blown off the water with a wind that just appeared from nowhere and disappeared just as quickly.

Once more the journey down the coast was spectacular; looming sea cliffs with massive boulder fields littering their bases, the colours changing from lush green and browns, to light greys of rock and darker areas where scouring landslides had swept the mountainside. Mountains were jagged and torn, spearing small clouds on their tops. At times I was more than a mile offshore. The fastest line often pushed me further away from the beach, but with a big underlying swell and rapidly shallowing ground, getting too close to the beach could be a real hazard.

The final long day of paddling to Hofn gave me a taste of what was to come on the south coast. One long, constantly shallow, shelving beach, as far as the eye could see. Black sand and white surf, occasional items of driftwood or plastic strewn about. Now and again remains of a wheelhouse from a small boat, drowning in the sand, a skeleton frame. This would be my picture, my main view on my starboard side for over 200nm. The south coast is abandoned, empty and uniquely challenging in its constant surf and dark, black sands.

The sun was intense. I had managed so far to stay fairly well protected but after 53 days of paddling, I had started to look rather weathered and scorched. With sunglasses on and baseball cap pulled down low I paddled on in a t-shirt, enjoying the heat but wary of the rapidly diminishing water supply. The mileage for the day was 27nm with yesterday being a 24mile day and the day before being 22nm. I was tired and the entrance to Hofn and the final leg into the harbour seemed very welcoming.

Once round the spit of land and past the lighthouse I had been told to follow the numbers on large boards, which acted as navigational markers (lateral buoyage). This was fair enough, however the large expanse of water between the little harbour and me was still over a mile away and the entire area was flowing like a river in spate. The mighty glacier of Vatnajokull, feeds melt water streams and rivers that run directly out of the narrow inlet that is the entrance to Hofn. Combined with incoming flow and movement of water from the sea, the entire area is alive at any time of the day or night. Eddy hopping from one area of slack water to the next provided a half hour of furious paddling and excitement. Large vortices of water spun the bow and stern, the boat was lifted and suddenly dropped as it was sucked down into boils easily as big as the boat. Wave trains, reversed currents, increasing and suddenly decreasing flows, eddy lines and calm water, finally, as I paddled down past the line of lobster boats drove the boat up a small beach by a car park. The afternoon was hot with a strong breeze. I drank the cold and refreshing litre of Coke I’d bought from the shop nearby almost instantly.

Once again I had run before the weather. The following day was very windy, gusts were gale force by the evening. I wasn’t going anywhere for the next few days and made the most of my break before the south coast leg began.

My days in town were spent talking to the fishermen. My apprenticeship was well and truly over, the mileage covered so far spoke for itself and they willingly offered their advice, sharing knowledge of the local area and the south coast in general. The general consensus was that I would be mad to attempt the south coast!

“You have done well crazy man from Scotland, now go home while you are still alive!”

My contacts in town were with the head of the rescue services and the local pharmacists. Along with offers of any assistance I should need from the major (who was the first person to meet me as I arrived in Hofn) and rapidly increasing group of locals who I came to knew….Hofn seemed like a very friendly place. I soaked in hot tubs at the local swimming pool, took a trip up to a low finger of ice on the Vatnajokull glacier, sorted and prepared my gear, ate lots of fresh food, and generally worried about the next stage of the trip. Even whilst I was in Antarctica, I had heard stories about this section of the coast. I’d read articles about sandstorms, huge surf, and relentless winds.

Because the town of Hofn is a distance away from the entrance to the harbour, it is not possible to see the surf and sea conditions. After several days waiting for a break in the weather I decided that I needed to stay at the rescue shelter near the lighthouse, to more closely study the surf and be in a better position to make a start from Hofn.

My first attempt out of Hofn lasted not more than 2 hours. In some of the biggest seas I had paddled in during the trip the boat was thrown about all over the place. The scale was all wrong. The size of the waves and the water they were drawing was just more than I could work with. Surf on the beach was upwards of 6 to 8ft and in one constant line all down the coast. The time afloat had been an education, and something which I needed to experience, however the images stayed with me during the following two evenings as I waited for the surf to go down and make a dash for the glacier lake and river Jokulsarlon.

After a full day at sea and 28 miles of paddling down a long thin strip of sand I knew that coming ashore safely would all rely on what I did in the last 50 meters off the beach. I had been through the same process so many times before, however the surf was still big and I was tired. A slide and broach, roll and recovery, frantic ripping of the spraydeck and sprint up the beach with the boat, resulted in me being completely soaked, the boat filled with sand and the paddle leash ripped apart taking with it a deck fitting from the boat! Tourists who had watched the whole landing sequence applauded, and came down to speak to me whilst I shed the wet kit.

Glacier lagoon is a magical place, one of Iceland’s smallest rivers; “from the river to the sea” in under a quarter mile. Large calved icebergs float in the lake, thawing and dropping smaller pieces, which float down the river and out, to the sea. The long black sand of the beach is a stark contrast to the even smaller pieces of ice that are washed ashore, littering the beach only temporarily before they finally melt and disappear.

THE DECISION    

My gut feeling the following morning was to stay where I was. The weather was marginal, though slowly improving. My main concern however was how I felt. I did not want to continue, I felt uneasy and concerned and deeply unhappy as to what I was about to commit myself to.

You only discover your limits when you take yourself to a place that forces you to make a decision. Throughout the whole trip, I had made decisions about whether to make an open crossing, when not to paddle and just wait, when to go and be quick in my progress…pushing the limits but always being aware of having something to fall back on….a point to get to, a PNR (point of no return). Right now this decision was something that would change the entire nature of the trip. Sitting on the beach considering all of this was one of the worst experiences of the entire journey.

Nobody had paddled the entire coast of Iceland solo, and maybe there was a reason for that. My head and my heart baulked at the idea of pushing on and committing myself to a further 150nm of exposed coastline. If the physical pressures of high mileage days weren’t demanding enough, the draining mental concern over how the fatigued landing would go in the last 50m, also had to be considered. I spent an entire day thinking through my options. To make matters worse, the sea calmed and died away, surf softened to a workable height and the sun continued to shine. Several days later the scene on the south coast would be quite different but right then the favourable conditions taunted and questioned me as to why I was even sitting here considering abandoning the south coast.

MOVING ON

Road markers flashed by as I sat gazing out of the window of the car. The sea was miles away. Iceland’s circumference road runs at times some 15 miles distance from the beach. There’s nothing on the south coast, no reason to be close to it. I had managed to organise a lift and we were heading from Jokulsarlon to Stokkesseyri another 150 miles further along the coast. From here I would continue my journey back to Rif, still several weeks of paddling away.

Over the following few days I came to terms with my decision and also began to recognise my achievement in the last couple of months of paddling. It had been a disappointing few days, but the return to daily paddling, racking up the miles and traversing the stunning coastline of the west coast made me focus on what I had still left to do.

My good friend Robert Schmidt made a special effort to come and see me whilst I was blown off the water for a day or so. It had been the beginning of June when I last saw him. Although we had spoken many times on the phone, it was fine to catch up with him and share a meal together before moving on the following day. Acts of kindness such as these helped put the south coast into perspective and made me feel more and more positive about the decision I had taken a few days previously.

The south may be one of the most hazardous part of Iceland’s coast, however before Grindavik I encountered a long committing paddle from my position east of the small fishing town, and an hour of big wave paddling before entering the safety of the harbour. Advice from local skippers and the contact I had in town held me off making the long transit for two days due to poor sea conditions. Their advice was very useful as entering the harbour proved to be one of the most difficult passages I had made on the trip. Crazy clapotis and counter swell threw the boat all over the place and as I saw later in the local pub, this was only a mild lift in comparison to some of the photographs that portrayed large 60-80 ft fishing boats standing on their rear ends whilst attempting to run into harbour.

As I made my way around the remainder of the coast back to Rif I was continually well received in all of the places I stopped in during the evening. The 24hour sun had disappeared and by 2200hrs it was getting dark. My days were still long and most achieved good high mileage. In Reykjavik I was looked after by Snorri, a work colleague of Robert’s. A day was spent organising equipment and repacking the boat for the final few days of paddling to Rif / Olafsvik. As I set out from Reykjavik, Minke whales followed me from a distance, their blows and puffs the only noise above the slap of water on the hull and the paddle pulling through the sea. The skyline of the city faded as I headed north and onto the finish of my journey.

THE FINAL DAY

Once more Iceland allows me to pass. My final day was 32nautical miles. Strong winds only assisted my progress towards the end of the day. At around about lunchtime I stop at a small place called Hellnar, near Arnastapi. A beautiful waterfront café and small tearoom is doing a fine trade to tourists and Icelanders on holiday. I make best efforts to tidy myself up and strip to a t-shirt that looks half decent. I plan to continue on to Rif this afternoon and finish by late evening. However, I will celebrate the final day in style and buy myself lunch! Big chunks of bread, large pieces of salmon, cheese, pie and two pots of tea, the sun warms my face and the congealed salt stings my eyes. I pay the bill and make the most of a small loo close to the café. My appearance in the mirror is nothing like respectable; unshaved, covered in salt, peeling skin, lips and chapped hands. The smile is my consolation- and it’s a big one!

Asbjorn is a good friend and kind man, however after arriving 3 hours later than I said I would, and not even in the right place, he threatens to go home before coming to the harbour at Rif, so he can get his gun to shoot me. With three sons of his own, lifetime fisherman and man of the sea, he knows inside that I’ve decided to paddle all the way to the finish although his concern does not disappear until we shake hands some at the pier end. The meeting point we agreed upon earlier in the day fell just too short of where I wanted to be and so with failing light and building winds I pushed the final miles to Rif and arrived on the slipway just after 2200hrs.

The following morning’s weather proved to be a strong southerly with winds 20-30 knots and stronger gusts throughout the rest of the day. My weather gate had closed but the journey for me is complete.

End note

I would like to thank all of the sponsors and supporters of Iceland 2003, most especially Peter Orton of P&H sea kayaks, Robert Schmidt of Sportbud Titan. I would also like to thank all of the Icelandic SAR coxswains, fishermen, wives, and family members of the individuals who helped support me throughout the trip. Their concern, kindness and goodwill helped fire my spirit on difficult days and in testing times.

To my father; for all of his hard work, determination, and dedication to the project. His persistence and motivation moved mountains.

Lastly Joanna, who’s love and grace helped me focus on who I am and what I was there to do.