No sailing heroics
For 22 June, Koster to Fuglevik on Norway’s Oslofjord coast, about thirty miles direct. Diesel and water there to replenish supplies.
The forecast offered little clarity: wind adverse, easing, briefly useful. So leave in the morning, main up, motor into it.
About 3–3.5 knots. Tacking without engine was possible, but substantially longer in distance and time. I saw no benefit.
The ferry
Before the fjord, AIS warned of a close approach by a large ferry. I considered altering to clarify our intentions, but she changed course early and passed astern.
With the engine running, we were a power-driven vessel despite the main. No expectation of being given way to as a sailing yacht. Why she altered, I don’t know; perhaps simply the clearest option.
Inside, waves vanished and speed rose to 4.5 knots. Blue mountain ridges along the west coast caught my eye at every turn.
Hard to see
Fishing gear caused the tension. Markers every half-mile, not all bright: dark-blue cans, little flags.
Find one, search for its partner, mentally draw the gear between. Two or three pairs nearby turned peaceful motoring into concentration practice.
Visible by day, perhaps; a blue can at night on an unfamiliar route, less so. My desire to sail here after dark diminished.
Fuglevik
Thirty-four miles, eight and a half hours. Finger berth, twenty litres of diesel immediately.
Then payment for berth, shower, power: no clear instructions, nobody to pay. Unlimited facilities in the end. Guilty, slightly pleased.
Another mismatch ashore: no shops, parks or museums. A small campsite settlement, Moss just two miles farther. Some regret.
In the evening, I stood on the slope above the sea. Towns lit up opposite: dark water, thousands of lights, the blue ridges that had followed us all day.
Still a remote marina. Just not necessarily a disadvantage.
