“What’s in the box?”

Owning a boat is an unrivalled way of experiencing Greenland’s natural beauty. It’s also an effective and efficient way of getting into a great deal of trouble, as learned by our friends.

What’s in the box?” J asked, heaving it onto Ane, the 18 foot Hansvik the three men shared. She was a nice little boat with an open cabin, good for day-fishing, or a base for hiking and camping, but too small for anything but mild weather. The three had been looking forward to their hunting trip – their first since we had bought a share in the boat the other two had owned for the last year.

“Just the normal stuff I take sailing” my husband replied.

T chuckled, “Do you really need all that? We’re just going for the day?”

“Are you sure you guys want to go out? The forecast isn’t great. We’d be heading back into the weather”.

“It’ll be fine.”

My husband frowned into the darkening distance, and relented.

In Greenland there are more boats than cars. It’s not surprising, given there are no roads between towns. If you want to get out, your options are by water or air. So for many moving to Greenland, buying a boat is high on the wish list, as it was for us, with years of sailing experience behind us. It’s also easy to arrange. Boats are cheap, relatively. You don’t need a skipper’s certificate – only a radio licence, though hardly anyone has one, and it isn’t policed. So new boat owners in Nuuk, in particular, often have little, or no, knowledge or experience of boats before they set sail.

The three set sail. The journey into the fjord was uneventful, as was the hunting. After walking all day, heavy rifles slung over their shoulders, seeing not one reindeer, and already exhausted, they resolved to sail home.

Returning to the coast, they quickly realised they were in trouble. The water was too rough for the three of them in the dinghy, so they fought the waves in two trips of two, taking on water and struggling to climb aboard. Turning south for home, they were immediately head-to-head with a rough, and growing, sea. Battling wind and weather, they made almost no headway, the tiny Ane lurching frighteningly. Crouched over his wooden box in the cabin, my husband struggled to hold down the gear as it, and he, were thrown bodily side to side. The two others, drenched by every breaking wave, fought to keep Ane into the wind, trying to avoid the worst of the seas. They were terrified. Realising it was pointless, perhaps not yet that it was also impossible given their fuel and headway, they turned east toward a settlement in the fjord. As they rounded a large island, the settlement coming into view, the weather and water suddenly calmed, bizarrely almost mirror-like.

Exhausted, physically battered, soaked with freezing water, they sought shelter for the night, three listless figures lumbering toward a small abandoned house, one carrying a heavy wooden box. Inside, the darkened, ramshackle house was closed to the weather, but with no heating or supplies.

The box hit the floor with a thud.

Two sat silently on bed frames cloaked in thin, worn mattresses, watching. He flipped the latch open with a click. First, he removed a set of dry clothes and changed into them. Next, a sleeping bag, laying it on his bed. Then a small snack. The flares, handheld radio, gas burner, and other emergency items, he left inside and closed the lid. With just the hint of a smile, saying nothing, he settled in to sleep. The two others huddled in their wet clothes.

The next day they returned home in calm seas, egos heavily adjusted, glad to be returning at all. Lessons were fervently learned. Don’t sail with a bad forecast. And bring a box.