In this publication10 photos
A voyage through the Skagerrak. Part 9. Leaving Oslo, finding unexpected shelter
Why at night
I felt calm about leaving Oslo after a hard day. Several reasons.
The previous night, reading until three, I went out to brush my teeth: night hadn’t arrived. Orange twilight one side, pale blue the other, no stars. Late June at sixty north, darkness was a formality.
Two people meant watches and short sleeps. Calm fjord overnight, southerly headwind in the morning. Better smooth-water motoring than fighting both wind and short chop.
Fishing gear also mattered less inside the fjord, after the blue cans on our northward route.
25 June, ten at night, Oslo towards Horten. An easy night indeed. Arrived at five.
Three thousand miles
Horten grew around Karljohansvern, once Norway’s main naval base. Now naval museum, submarine, ships, turrets, marine equipment.
But the museum wasn’t the memorable event.
In Oslo, I’d jokingly boasted of three thousand logbook miles. A pleasant number to say. Nastya remembered.
In Horten, she went shopping alone for candles and a small Napoleon cake, then surprised me with a three-thousand-mile celebration aboard.
Completely unprepared. Laughed, then almost cried. After watches, repairs, forecasts, distance calculations, someone saw what the number meant and made an event of it.
Small cake, small candles. Enough.
Football silence
26 June evening, Norway–France. Locals gathered at the marina bar with horns, drums and optimism.
Loud first, then deathly quiet, almost a cemetery. Unusual football crowd.
Phone out: 1–4 to France.
A funeral indeed. Felt sorry for Norway. Slept beautifully.
A town from yacht adverts
27 June, eight, towards Fredrikstad by two.
I’d seen its name repeatedly in Norwegian yacht adverts. Curious about this sailing centre near Sweden. At the Glomma mouth, with a long river approach.
Expectations differed: one central visitors’ marina, no facilities. Bought stove alcohol, searched elsewhere.
Across the river, no visitors’ berths in one marina, no-visitor sign in the next.
Already turning away when an older gentleman approached by dinghy. What were we seeking? Berth beside them, facilities code available, no charge.
Three refusals in an hour, then someone came over by dinghy to offer free shelter and codes.
I hadn’t expected miracles still, or that they might arrive by dinghy.
#passage
Why at night
I felt calm about leaving Oslo after a hard day. Several reasons.
The previous night, reading until three, I went out to brush my teeth: night hadn’t arrived. Orange twilight one side, pale blue the other, no stars. Late June at sixty north, darkness was a formality.
Two people meant watches and short sleeps. Calm fjord overnight, southerly headwind in the morning. Better smooth-water motoring than fighting both wind and short chop.
Fishing gear also mattered less inside the fjord, after the blue cans on our northward route.
25 June, ten at night, Oslo towards Horten. An easy night indeed. Arrived at five.
Three thousand miles
Horten grew around Karljohansvern, once Norway’s main naval base. Now naval museum, submarine, ships, turrets, marine equipment.
But the museum wasn’t the memorable event.
In Oslo, I’d jokingly boasted of three thousand logbook miles. A pleasant number to say. Nastya remembered.
In Horten, she went shopping alone for candles and a small Napoleon cake, then surprised me with a three-thousand-mile celebration aboard.
Completely unprepared. Laughed, then almost cried. After watches, repairs, forecasts, distance calculations, someone saw what the number meant and made an event of it.
Small cake, small candles. Enough.
Football silence
26 June evening, Norway–France. Locals gathered at the marina bar with horns, drums and optimism.
Loud first, then deathly quiet, almost a cemetery. Unusual football crowd.
Phone out: 1–4 to France.
A funeral indeed. Felt sorry for Norway. Slept beautifully.
A town from yacht adverts
27 June, eight, towards Fredrikstad by two.
I’d seen its name repeatedly in Norwegian yacht adverts. Curious about this sailing centre near Sweden. At the Glomma mouth, with a long river approach.
Expectations differed: one central visitors’ marina, no facilities. Bought stove alcohol, searched elsewhere.
Across the river, no visitors’ berths in one marina, no-visitor sign in the next.
Already turning away when an older gentleman approached by dinghy. What were we seeking? Berth beside them, facilities code available, no charge.
Three refusals in an hour, then someone came over by dinghy to offer free shelter and codes.
I hadn’t expected miracles still, or that they might arrive by dinghy.
#passage
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