Bika

Death and Desire

2011-12-22T07:53:00.008+01:00

Photography has been associated with death by Roland Barthes; we look into the past when we look at photographs. These trivial photos will lie around for decades, long after we're gone.

Our lives are about action and movements. But a photograph can stop a fork that's on its way to the mouth: the fork will stay like that forever.

But we're not at ease with having our moments slipping into eternity. I realize this every time I try to photograph people. I guess we all just want to look good. Even though we're rotting in our graves we want to look good.

I'm thinking about this as I'm driving slowly and hungry through the dark. Photographs may be creepy, but I'm aware that most people would consider me creepy as well.

The creepiness of a photographer lies in his eyes; he's watching without taking part. He's both restless and persistent. He's full of unknown desire.

And I have no idea what I desire as I drive through these silent streets. Being this far north the gardens are desolated and barren, but shouldn't there be tracks in the snow? Shouldn't there be kids playing? Then I realize that a lot of the houses are empty. No curtains, no nothing.

I'm driving down Fairview Loop. I still can't see any people. The whole neighborhood appears eerily lifeless.

I pull into an empty street and stop the car in front of a big house. The Christmas decoration has been blown out of all proportions. It's hard not to think that all these lights must be compensating for something.

Roaming

2011-12-19T08:21:00.002+01:00

I'm roaming in the dark. I'm just driving. I'll get lost but I'm alone and it doesn't matter. I never really blame myself for anything.

It's the second night I'm out. I'll get antsy and say that I'll go for a drive. I'm better off in a car when I'm anxious.

Dolphins and Dreams

2011-12-03T15:44:00.004+01:00

It's frustrating to photograph dolphins in the wild. You can never tell when and where they will jump, if they jump at all. But Nina managed to take this picture just after we anchored outside an open beach in Mexico. Maybe a hundred dolphins passed by, and one of the very last made the jump.

The dolphins returned that night. We could hear the high-pitched squeeking through Bika's hull. But we also heard a strange shuffling sound, as if the dolphins were breathing out just below the sur- face. They probably scared fish towards the beach.

I once shared a hospital room with a demented man. He was old but full of energy. He often paced restless around at night, with his slippers shuffling over the linoleum floor.

Still in a dream I heard the pod of dolphins. I thought it was the old man - an army of him. "Where am I?" he kept asking.

Not dark yet

2011-11-23T16:20:00.002+01:00

We're on our way to get a turkey for Thanksgiving. I suggest waiting until Thanksgiving, but now Nina has the turkey on her mind and it won't let go. Besides, it's not dark yet.

Then she declares she has to buy Christmas cards. I suggest waiting. Instead I get the shopping list with turkey and gravy and whatnot.

I also get the bright red shopping bag. Don't get me wrong: plastic bags should be banned world wide. Those bags wreaks havoc in the sea.

But as I walk towards the store I'm thinking the red shopping bag doesn't feel right. Quite frankly; it feels a bit gay.* A shopping bag of cotton may be fine in California, but this is Alaska.

I get the turkey and the rest and get in line. The cashier is good-looking but I'm about to jeopardize my manhood. I guess I'll just have to brave it out.

* I'm all for gay rights, gay marriage, etc.

In the Ditch

2011-11-21T21:50:00.004+01:00

It's early Sunday morning. My face is stiff and strangely hot. I rub the cold gloves hard over my face.

But I can't help noticing the number of cars that have ended up in the ditch. Even on the short trip I'm taking.

There's an elderly couple who has plunged straight into the snow for no apparent reason. I watch as a trooper enters the scene. The couple just sit put. They won't budge. It's like they can't believe this is happening to them.

Then there's a brown pickup close to Knik Bar. I think we passed that one yesterday. He's probably still sleeping it off.

Soon after I pass a red sedan that seemed to have taken a spin. I walk back with my camera and start taking pictures.

I feel slightly uncomfortable when a dark van slows down behind me. Is it offending to take pictures of a ditched car? Maybe. I'm not sure.

There're two men in the front seat. A dog is barking in the back of the van and I hear someone shouting shut the fuck up. So they are three, I gather.
- Is it your car? I ask.
- It's my wife's car.
- Is she okay?
We pause for a moment. My concern may have sounded a bit false. I also realize that his eyes keeps shifting down to my camera.
- Who want's to know?
- I just passed the car.
- Are you from Germany?
- No.
- She's fine. She dodged a moose and got ditched instead.
- The Saturday night moose?
- Whatever.

Suffering, or just snow

2011-11-18T09:04:00.006+01:00

I'm walking the dog when it starts to snow. The wind picks up and heavy snow is making it hard to see. Everything changes. People are lurking forward, their faces turned away from the wind.

What I like about heavy weather is the way it breaks down barriers. Strangers talk to each other. You may suffer, but it's easy to see the suffering in others too.

A special feat about Alaska is the way many people dress. They seem to prolong the summer by holding on to shorts and flip-flops. They may have heated cars in heated garages, but even so.

People with kids are also an interesting theme. They seem to suffer the most. I guess the snow comes on top on everything else.

The latecomers

2011-11-15T02:17:00.004+01:00

"We got this place between Palmer and Wasilla because it was cheap. There's no work and my wife hates it here. The kids are still young. They don't know anything else. Anyways, the con- struction has started. I'll guess we just have to see how it goes."

Burned house

2011-11-12T18:50:00.005+01:00

He slowed down the car to a crawl. This was the house where he grew up in Wasilla. His parents stayed on to the end, but he eventually lost contact with them.

He kept talking while driving. His childhood seemed strangely distant, as if without any real emotional impact. "Then there was a fire. God knows what happened."

The art of restoration

2011-11-09T22:10:00.004+01:00

We met an elderly woman on our drive from Fairbanks. She told us about her deceased husband. He wanted fancy cars, but could only afford wrecks. It was the art of restoration that he played out in his head.

But he never got around to do any restoration. Through their forty odd years of marriage the cars piled up in the woods behind the house. They detoriated in the rain, in the snow. Then he got cancer. It all went very quick.

Palmer Bar

2011-11-06T05:23:00.002+01:00

Nobody says much in Palmer Bar. Whatever you talked about when entering, you'll end up silent. It's a place to study the full effect of alcohol.

I'm sort of waiting for the bar to fill up, but the clientele is already there. Most are heavy set men with baseball caps and bewildered gazes. They're all sitting along the bar, wearing shirts and jackets of thick flannel. There's a pool table, but nobody's playing.

Around midnight it seems like some of the men are trying hard to be cheerful, but you can tell by their faces that loneliness and desire is a bottomless pit.

I look at Nina and wonder why it's always impossible for us to hold a conversation in a bar. Is it because we met in one?

First snow, Wasilla

2011-11-03T18:30:00.002+01:00

It's still dark when I leave the house. I brush off a thin layer of snow and sit down in the painfully cold car.

I can taste the reflux of acid as I drive the empty streets through Wasilla. This is way too early for me. But it's the first snow of the season and it had gotten into my head that I wanted to see what the Alaskans were up to.

I drive into an empty Shell station. It's Sunday, and I sit for a while and just watch. Everything is silence and neon.

I follow a couple of cars that eventually ends up in front of an enormous bowling hall. It's like a hangar. I suddenly find everything perplexing. The parking lot alone is absolutely enormous.

I turn the engine off and sits quietly in the car. I'm really trying to contemplate why anybody would want to go bowling at 9 am on a Sunday morning. It just doesn't make sense.

I'm about to pull out of the parking lot when I notice a high-heeled woman who leans conspicuously into a car. It's not a prostitute, I gather, not 9 o'clock on a Sunday morning and certainly not in a small town like Wasilla. But now she's got my attention and I'm lingering in the parking lot to see in which direction this is heading.

Then I slowly start to feel old and ridiculous. I reason with myself, and quickly butt out of the place.

Hangover

2011-11-01T12:04:00.006+01:00

I decided to take a walk to clear my head. There's a path that leads deep into the forest. I was okay for awhile, but then felt more nervous. I suddenly started to think about the devil.

I really don't believe in the existence of any kind of manifested evil. Still, what's nonexistent has a major part in anxiety. It might even be the main ingredient.

So I thought a lot about the devil and met this black dog, with his head enclouded in heavy breat- hing. This may be the place to mention that I'm more of a cat person.

Sunday morning

2011-10-30T12:24:00.002+01:00

I was taking pictures of the power plant in Morro Bay, when a drunk man came up to me and said: "She's got kids with hooves instead of hands. What we should love is love itself."

Puppies for Peace

2011-10-27T18:52:00.007+02:00

A homeless is watching as a peace demonstration starts to pick up momentum. It's not much of a momentum, though. 40 persons, at the most, has gathered downtown San Francisco to protest USA's wars in dirt poor countries. So the homeless watch for awhile, then drift off. He probably couldn't care less.

What's interesting about this demonstration is that it demonstrates how little people care. It also demonstrates that there ain't no bite in the message given. In fact, it's hard to imagine a more pathetic protest against American imperialism.

Then it suddenly strikes me that the American diversity may be a bit superficial. The core values are dished out on an even scale. The American war machine has made people believe in an eternal war. An eternal war for peace, that is. So it's easy to sit back and shrug it off. Unless you're in the country where the bombs drop.

"It's hard to see the truth when it's the lie that feeds you." Ooops, who said that?

Scary sailing

2011-10-05T19:19:00.000+02:00

We're off at dawn. The weather forecast predicts a light breeze offshore. They also mention a 12-14 feet swell from a distant storm. We don't pay attention to it.

It's slow going under the Golden Gate, but at least we got the tide right. We start our three hour watches, and I'm stretching out on my bunk. I fall asleep. There's no swell yet.

The wind dies. I'm half asleep. Nina is getting frustrated; I can hear it by the way she pulls the sheets. Bika is rolling more and more. After a while it's not even possible to stay in the bunk.

The predicted swell is coming in fast. We're still close enough to see buildings on land. We can see huge white breakers that slam up at Ocean Beach, but what's more serious is the towering swell at the San Francisco Bar. It breaks here too. It's unbelievable; we're ghosting along in a light breeze, with the gennaker, and the sea is breaking.

We have done a terrible mistake. This kind of swell will break in shallow water, and the scary part is that we have no idea how bad it will be. Try measuring the wave height in a small boat. It's impossible. There's only one thing to do: get out into deeper water. So we ghost along, straight out against the towering seas. My mouth is dry. This is some of the scariest sailing we've ever encountered. In the bottom of every wave we're wondering if we ever get to climb the next hill. But Bika do. And eventually we reach safety in deeper sea.

How will it end?

2011-10-01T12:42:00.008+02:00

Non-sailors often get shocked by the fact that we cross oceans in a 26 feet sailboat. We have met people who can't even fathom that it's allowed. Then they drive away from the dock.

The list of motor vehicle deaths in the US have shown a remarkable decline the last two decades, down to 32,708 in 2010. But it's still a staggering figure. Imagine motor vehicle deaths world-wide, not to mention the number of people who get seriously injured and molested for life. It's like a trivial version of World War III.

I'm puzzled by the connection between triviality and fear. It seems like a higher risk of death reduces our fears. But this is not what's meant by safety in numbers.

Goodbye, hello, goodbye

2011-09-26T12:30:00.001+02:00

We're about to leave San Francisco. Walking the streets, waiting for wind. It seems strange to wait for wind in a windy place like San Francisco Bay, but offshore there's none.

Then one morning we're off from the anchorage in Aquatic Park. It's 6 am and it takes forever to tack the short distance to the bridge. And when getting closer we're getting more and more to a stand- still.

We realize that one of us has read the tide table wrong. Bika starts to move backwards. We turn around to Aquatic Park and there isn't much more to say about it. Nina is giving me the look. But I'm not so sure. Besides, I'm bad with numbers.

Golden Gate

2011-09-19T15:05:00.001+02:00

I'm back at the bridge again. It's early morning, no wind. I can hear fog horns blasting mean and hoarse from several directions.

We're about to leave San Francisco. The weather forecast isn't promising. It will blow in the Bay for sure, at least during the day, but it doesn't seem to be much wind offshore.

So we get restless, although we're pretending not to be. It's the waiting game. Some cruisers wait for calm weather, other cruisers wait for wind.

We could easily have settled down in San Francisco. I think we actually said something like that the day before. But it's time to move on. Once the decision is made the Golden Gate becomes a prison gate.

The diversity of sailors

2011-09-13T08:14:00.002+02:00

The Coast Guard regards Morro Bay as the most dangerous harbour in the US. Tidal currents are running wild in the estuary, and a hazardous sand bar makes the entrance deadly in heavy seas. But Morro Bay gives good protection from the weather, once you're in.

The harbour is small, and often engulfed in fog. However, a harbour is not a good place if you're paranoid. People do talk. Especially in a tight place like Morro Bay, where there's a mix of fishing vessels and pleasure crafts.

I take it for granted that people working at sea have a tendency to be slightly annoyed by people who are just there to have fun. Pleasure crafts should always try to stay out of their way.

But a modern sailboat is a castle of high-tech solutions. Both boats and men are loaded with safety and information. In some cases you might argue that they not even there to have fun.

Clearly there's a cultural gap between, say, fishermen and cruisers. There's a lot of showing off. I'm thinking it might be a feeling of inferiority on both sides, mainly because the sea is as it is, i.e. unpredictable and potentially deadly.

This foggy morning, when we walked the docks, we started to talk about the US Coast Guard. They have a terrible reputation among cruisers, but our experience have been different. They did some showing off, outside Bahamas, but we haven't encountered harassment of any sorts. Quite the opposite, they've been friendly and professional.

We were standing by the Coast Guard for a while, watching the young men in snug uniforms. It's difficult to say where the knowledge is, the sea being as it is.

Stillness

2011-09-09T10:38:00.004+02:00

Most people send out signals of stress, tiredness and even aggression; their whole being says "leave me alone." But some people radiate stillness. They tap into something bigger than them- selves. Their faces are introvert but at the same time open to everyone and everything.

Stillness is a quality that's pretty easy to spot in a crowd. People with stillness will stand out right away. There's something holy about them.

Chinatown

2011-09-05T12:44:00.000+02:00

The Chinatown in San Francisco is the largest Chinese community outside Asia, according to Wikipedia. This city-within-a-city was established in the 1840s. Chinatown is now a major tourist attraction, but somehow it doesn't seem to rub off on the locals. Or maybe it does.

Chinatown is like a cultural labyrinth-within-a-labyrinth, and it's downright impossible to understand anything as a tourist. However, life among the numerous shop attendants seems a bit harder than San Francisco at large.

Of course, Chinatown has a history of gang violence and shoot-outs. It also has the meat on display (which never fails to surprise me in poor countries, as if we Westerners were all vegetarians).

I've been intimidated by shop attendants for years. It's their passive-aggressive undertow of not getting a sale that somehow gets me, since I never really buy anything.

But I'm fascinated by the vacant look in some shop attendant's eyes, when they're unaware of customers watching.

I started this project of taking pictures of bored shop attendants in Chinatown, but soon had to abort the idea. I felt bad about it, for several reasons. Mainly because they were so service-minded that just a hint of a customer was enough to wake them up from the trance. I'll have to pursue this theme somewhere else.

Red wine drowning

2011-09-02T19:54:00.004+02:00

Feeling blue and alone I opened a bottle of red. Nina was in Boston. I read for a while, but lost my concentration somewhat and started to listen in on the radio.

I was invited to a dock party, and being at anchor I could keep an eye on people gathering on the dock. I felt uneasy and slightly nervous at the prospect of meeting lots of strangers.

It was getting dark. I could hardly see the figures ashore. If I was ever to join the party then this was the time. Besides, I was out of wine.

San Francisco had a rather cold spring in 2010, and I dressed up in a huge woolly sweater. Then I slid carefully down in our little inflatable dinghy. I rowed across the channel with my eyes on Bika.

What happened was that I rowed towards the dock and grabbed enthusiastically for a mooring that suddenly passed above me. Being slightly drunk I flipped the dinghy. Cold water rushed in. I soon realized that I was too heavy to drag myself up at the dock.

I was treading water behind an enormous motor yacht, with one hand on the slippery dinghy. But I couldn't see anyone. Being unable to get any help was a mixed blessing. At least I was spared the embarressment.

This is how I'll drown, I thought. Trivial and stupid. It even seemed vaguely funny.

But the water was damn cold and I needed to do something. I managed to ease slowly up at the dinghy's bottom, letting water pass from the heavy clothing. Then I could reach the dock. I overturned the dinghy and suddenly felt I could get away with this.

Rowing back to Bika I could see the party in the warm yellow light, moving around in the luxurious motor yacht, drinks in hand.

Nina once mentioned I'm writing a bit too much about alcohol. Unsure of the meaning I fenced it off. Later I've come to the conclusion that writing is exorcism.

The early mornings

2011-08-31T13:32:00.001+02:00

I've always loved waking up in our little boat. There are these moments of clarity. We could sail away, but then again; we really don't need to go anywhere. It's like we're there already.

I rowed ashore and went for a walk. It was early Sunday morning. The cars kept coming towards the shore.

A homage to Susan Sontag

2011-08-28T18:55:00.001+02:00

Susan Sontag, On Photograpy: "Most tourists feel compelled to put the camera between themselves and whatever is remarkable that they encounter. Unsure of other responses, they take a picture. This gives shape to experience: stop, take a photograph, and move on. The method especially appeals to people handicapped by ruthless work ethic - Germans, Japanese, and Americans."

And Norwegians too, I suppose. But don't let the quotation fool you; she wasn't as negative as she sounds.

Sontag continues: "Using a camera appeases the anxiety which the work-driven feel about not working when they are on vacation and supposed to have fun."

Sven Yrvind

2011-08-25T21:31:00.013+02:00

We often hear that our time is the time of individualism. But somehow people seemed more individualistic in the past.

Our kind of individualism is like a mass movement. It's a promoted lifestyle, and a product. Maybe that's why it's hard to come by a true individual person, like Sven Yrvind.

The Swedish small-boat sailor just left Ireland. Born in 1939, with a self-made boat, he's on his way to Florida.

I had no idea

2011-08-23T07:05:00.001+02:00

After two shots of rum I grabbed my camera and rowed ashore. It might have seemed like I had no idea how to enjoy myself.

But people in California were irresistibly photogenic. Besides, they had fast-paced lives and had to be freeze-framed to be fully understood.

People

2011-08-20T01:59:00.002+02:00

I think it's strange the way we all see 'people'. And the way we change our opinions about 'them'. Of course, it's a question whether we connect or not. But how do we connect, and why aren't we always connected?

I guess it only takes one stranger to turn us around, in one way or another; a stranger that's held responsible for a sea of strangers.

There's a mystical quality in this. Imagine walking in a crowd that fill you with stress and disgust, versus walking among strangers you love and respect.

But then again, it might be that Charles M. Schulz was right on: "I love mankind; it's people I can't stand."

No one is going nowhere

2011-08-17T10:18:00.013+02:00

Modern society has turned choices into a time-consuming chore. We're spending time in stores, choosing between different brands of cookies and cameras. Different brands of water. Different brands of toothpaste and cars.

And then we go online to seek out more alternatives. But why do we spend time choosing when the difference doesn't matter?

On the other hand; we do have important choices in our lives. Things like who we're going to marry, where to live, what kind of work we'll do, if we're going to have kids and if so how many. Strangely, these decisions seems less based on a choice.

In a hundred years

2011-08-14T16:11:00.015+02:00

I used to avoid cars when taking pictures of landscapes. I guess they were too trivial, or too ugly, to fit into what we call 'scenic'.

We step out of our cars and direct our cameras towards mountains, beaches and lakes. No cars, no roads. Of course: nature should be pristine, and we are willing to lie about it.

But cars and roads are almost always present. And in a hundred years, who knows, our kind of traffic may even be scenic.

Something weird

2011-08-12T10:48:00.008+02:00

We saw something weird on our way down the Californian coast. It was outside Point Arguello, and it was almost dusk, with a sluggish sea. Then Nina called out. There was a strange animal in front of us.

We'd been seeing the different Californian seals for weeks, but this was something else. It stood quite tall in the water, like it wanted to get an overview. It stood out like a pillar of rock. The seal was huge. It had a mean head with a powerful jaw. The throat was whitish with black spots. I thought it looked like a leopard seal. But how could that be? The leopard seal belongs to Antarctica.

We passed within a few meters. The seal didn't move. We could see it had the eyes closed. The whole scene was mystical, otherworldly. I think about it every now and then, when I need to remember that the world is a weird and wonderful place.

The Silence

2011-08-09T10:45:00.006+02:00

It's early Saturday morning in Monterey. Fog and silence. The harbour is serene. But we all have to say something, and sooner or later we'll start talking.

Susan Sontag wrote in her essay The aesthetics of silence: "One recognizes the imperative of silence, but goes on speaking anyway. Discovering that one has nothing to say, one seeks a way to say that."

The humpbacks

2011-07-14T21:47:00.004+02:00

We saw two humpbacks one evening. We'd just anchored off a beach. It was all in the open but flat calm.

It might have been a female and a calf. They both breached several times. But then the mother, or so it seemed, started to slap the dorsal fin. We could hear the fluke banging. Again and again. I thought gee, this looks pretty aggressive. And then they headed over to Bika.

Hanging on to the shrouds I suddenly remembered the night I got drunk on Grand Isle. I was just about ready to discuss anything. But the next day I heard I was just being opinionated.

The humpbacks circled our little boat. I was afraid they would snatch the anchor line, but they seemed totally in control. Nina used a cam recorder that strangely didn't record anything. No splashes, no nothing.

But the humpbacks rounded us like a buoy, all grace and beauty.

An end to it

2011-06-24T13:17:00.016+02:00

The traffic is backing up. It's almost rush hour, but strangely silent. It's a weak breeze. The fog is hardly moving.

I walk among huge clusters of tourists. I'm also a tourist, but I walk alone. And now I sense the geared-up atmosphere of getting close to a hot spot. There's also something else. It's like an awareness in some people's eyes, the way they look at me. It comes up every now and then. Is it the look of anticipation?

Then I realize what it is. It's the bridge. The Golden Gate is a symbol of architectural genius, it really has an air of grandeur, but it's also a symbol of our failures. More people have committed suicide at the Golden Gate Bridge than at any other site in the world.

I walk underneath the bridge and listen to rushing cars and dripping water. I once considered suicide, or at least I feared that my life was sliding in that direction. I was young, and didn't have any experience with everything that comes to a pass; depressions, ambitions, love, anger, etc. It has all come to a pass. And then trouble reappears, and passes again.

What got me though was the notion that suicide is murder. It would have killed my parents. And that realization put an end to it.

I walk away. I'm trying to photograph the bridge as something else than a bridge. But it's just a bridge.

The buzz from cars and tourists are getting softer. I'm walking among the dripping wet foliage. Closer to sea level I hear the slushing of waves. I can see the Asians fishing. I can smell the lovely smell of water.

I'm starting to remember The Bridge, a documentary about the jumpers. I'm remembering that elderly guy with a red cap, who flung himself from the railing, no-nonsense style. It chills me to the bone.

Mongering

2011-05-09T18:48:00.018+02:00

I started to work on Mongering when we were in Cartagena. It was a campaign there, addressing sex tourism as a major problem. I went on the web and stole this material from worldsexguide.com and worldsexarchives.com

Mongering is based on the anonymous postings of more than a hundred men on the web. This is their own words in describing 'the scene' of third world countries. I have edited several hundred pages, only tracking down the (neutral) sentences (kept unaltered) in between the numerous accounts.

I wanted to strip down these postings until the language in-between became apparent.

A lot of these postings were written in an all-American consensus of no-nonsense, as if their consumer rights were taken to prostitutes in third world countries.

Some of the sentences follow each other as fragments of a long story cut short. I didn't really want to cut their postings to bits and pieces in order to shuffle them around and create a new (funny) meaning.

How can we stop meaning from arising when there is none?

During the editing the sentences were sort of floating around me, bobbing up and floating away. I couldn't drag them under.

Their obsessiveness and fixation also seemed strangely mixed up with fear and paranoia. The text (texture) soon began to churn and grind in a rather annoying way.

One hundred men started to speak with one voluminous voice. But the silence (that crept in-between these sentences) was haunting me.

Can the meaning of fragments only be fully understood by a fragmented mind?

I got the eerie feeling that something ghostlike was arising from the language.

These men (who seem to be living their lives to the limit) have words and appearances as dead men. Sometimes I felt that nobody was there; it was nothing behind the language, no one who could truly see and experience the world.

The texture of language seems to be entering something endless.

If the void could speak, would it be silent?

Okay, here it comes. It's poetry unless poetry will be read with less care than prose, then its prose.

MONGERING

I spent a week in Singapore last month. I walked out of my hotel, turned left and hit the beach.

I walked out of my hotel, turned right and reached some open-air beer bars (just like those in Pattaya and Phuket).

We went upstairs and found the fishbowl empty (literally not a person there). This was not my only worry. The next two weeks were total paranoia.

I have just spent a week in Istanbul, it's not that great you know.

The outside actually looked like a regular restaurant. Around 2:00am (I think) the bar closed and we all had to leave. As far as I could tell, everyone walked out alone. I'd never imagined a place like this before.

I walked until I got blisters, and was sweating from the heat, and went back to a few places a second time.

The whole thing left me very hungry and anxious to go back.

By 11:00pm we were fed up and left. There is absolutely nothing to do in the evening. It looks like it might be closed for good, since it's been closed for over two months. This is only if you make the mistake of telling the house of your intention.

I can't remember the exact street. Either the place has changed, the rules are changed or I was in the wrong place.

Instead, I found a way to take them outside and access the hotel from another entrance and didn’t have any problems. The other beaches are wonderful but, at night, there is nothing.

I wasn't too much into it and didn't believe it would be worth it.

They converted several dollars into seemingly worthless small coins. I didn't pay them extra for the rooms and cups, because this is supposed to be included. Then it was closed for a while for some mysterious reasons. It has finally reopened but it’s a totally different place.

I went to Hat Yai in July 2004. I stayed there for a while and was disappointed. I stayed in Nana Hotel and checked Nana Entertainment Plaza and some places in Shukumvit area. All were rubbish.

I just returned from a week vacation in Rio. They've managed to spoil the fun and the whole scene is disgusting.

All of the smaller hotels are certified dumps each having its unique mix of problems. There were pickpockets everywhere and fights and chaos.

First, the idea of going there for the Carnival experience is a waste of time if you’re not into going to parades at home. Secondly, if you're not into crowds, stay at home.

Later I visited Iquitos and must admit that I was rather disappointed.

Eventually we turned left and headed up into the hills where the narrow roads immediately turn to dirt.

No one knew where it was, maybe it doesn’t exist anymore now, or it was not in that area. They never even asked what I wanted.

I guess I looked desperate. I went behind the curtain to the hall where two mattresses were laid on the ground.

This is the place. It's an old house with a family living there. We eventually made our way to a simple but acceptable room in the back.

After a few minutes we arrived at a large wooden door in a small side street and she knocked, somebody answered, they exchanged some words I didn't understand and then we were let inside.

After paying at the reception area, I was assigned a locker key. They then show me to the locker room for me to change out of my clothes into a robe and sandals.

They actually are afraid of foreigners not because of crime but they don't want uncomfortable situations.

It looks like a regular bar. I don't know if I paid many times more than the locals, but it was still reasonable.

I don't know how exactly the system works but ended up sitting down at a table.

I had to repeat it like ten times before he understood. Skinny dirty dogs were skulking around. Old cars parked every which way.

I stayed at the one of the former communist state hotels since the new western hotels were full. I think something like that is difficult to fake.

I answered in English and it was impossible to talk to her. I got up and left. If I stayed any longer I was going to be sick.

The only contents in these stalls were some very cold plastic lawn chairs. I had already started getting nauseous just from looking at them.

I was for ten days in Baku and this situation never happened again.

Suddenly I felt very nervous being all alone with an old woman in an empty house. It was cold and drafty but the experience seemed so animalistic.

What I'm looking for now is a bit of information.

During the day there is little to do unless you are a surfer. I have been crossing over the border into Mexico for years. The Pizza restaurant is reasonably priced but the pizza sucked.

It was so hot and steamy in there that my glasses were fogging. There was not a hint of breeze.

It was in a strange degraded place. I was a bit afraid of the situation.

The rooms are a bit shabby and the bathroom/shower is down the hall.

Next day: As I was coming back from visiting my relatives, I decided that I should give another try.

The food was nothing special, very comparable to Cuba.

I am afraid a cockroach is going to crawl on the bed, not that I had seen any but that is how dirty it seemed.

Nothing big though, just lunch and some chit-chat. Tuesday: We went back to Pizza Alley, and across the street is a very well-lit park.

I wouldn't want to be there when it's out of season. The place looked like it was closed up but apparently not.

Immediately followed three bottles of champagne without our consent. We started to feel a bit uncomfortable and said to the waiter to bring the bill.

Without us even complaining we were told "if there is a problem come to the Managers office".

I insisted on the chosen one and he hung up. End of story and the money gone.

I don't know if it would have been different if I had tipped the guy. Somehow I don't think so.

It just raises the bar that much higher for the rest of us.

The 'Russians' (or thereabouts) are around.

There seems to be some pretty inaccurate stuff here. First night: I figured that jet leg was not an excuse.

They always expect to come to your room and raid the mini-bar.

For San Jose, that's a pretty good deal, for the rest of the country it's pretty shitty.

Some roads are dirt through little dirt poor towns. I found the ability to choose empowering and absolutely opposite to the experience that I had dealt with my entire life.

Buenos Aires was worthwhile. There is not much conversation here. Even the beaches are perfect hunting places.

Campinas compares in size and feel to Sacramento. I first started out in the previously reported area near the Sheraton Retiro. I don't recommend this area. The area I recommend is in Recoleta.

I visited a few places here. Last year was a trip to remember, specifically my trip with my friends to Mar del Plata. I hardly ever ate at the same place twice. Prices are less but you get what you pay for.

This time I got brave, rented a car and started driving there. Best time for dinner and people watching in the plaza with minimal traffic noise is after 8pm.

I love discos and I love to dance. But a lot of the time, I’d be the only guy dancing. The ground floor was icy cold and completely deserted.

I remembered reading that gems could be found in that area but I never did partake.

Navigando sucked, Manilla house was not too bad. There was never any mention of money or any other kind of negotiations.

I just shouted at them to get them "the fuck away from me".

Upstairs, it was extremely crowded. There wasn’t even enough space to dance. And having some people to talk to certainly helps relieve the boredom if you’re travelling alone.

After one cold shower, I decided I had enough.

One day, I notice my toothpaste is missing. I look all over the bathroom, but can’t find it.

The master bedroom had an attached bathroom (cold water). Furthermore, everybody looks so bloody serious. Most of them don’t speak English anyway.

Cartagena isn’t really a party town. Hardly any guys are dancing in the discos.

I had a very difficult time finding an apartment with hot water.

And the atmosphere is really subdued.

On another occasion, my deodorant and cologne are missing from the bathroom. They were definitely stolen. After this incident, I believe my toothpaste was stolen as well.

As I have said before, I travel. If they ask for more, tell them to fuck off.

I ordered a beer and made my way to the dance floor. From about midnight to somewhere between 4am - 6am, when the discos were open, I was happy.

Until somewhere between noon and 2pm, I was asleep.

I suppose there needs to be a guy in the scene for me to be able to project myself into the movie.

I love to dance and live in discos while I’m on holiday. Beaches aren’t really me. I feel a lot more comfortable in a disco than on a beach.

The rest of the time (10-12 hours a day), I was mainly bored.

They have two small rooms, each with a hard couch. God help anyone out of season.

I broke out one of the larger perfumes for them to sample. I did buy them a crate of beer on the first night, and drank most of it myself.

I booked the day for a tourist excursion into the rainforest. This was useful for me, as I was travelling with friends and didn't want them to know what I was up to at night.

After a while I took all the pillows and blanket so she wouldn’t go to sleep so easily.

The mind set you bring to this country when you arrive on the plane will kind of be the outcome of your trip.

I went back down to the bar and ordered another drink. Just to test, I went for a chicken and left the safe keys (with only cash in the safe) and they were still there when I got back.

I took my third shower of the day and headed back down to the bar. I intended to do a lot of partying that night.

I didn’t want to miss the one chance I had in my schedule of concluding some unfinished business, but I was dog tired through lack of sleep.

We sat on the bed for like one minute without talking. I broke loose and kept going.

I was totally hooked and decided to bring my company and all of my belongings to the Dominican Republic.

It's almost real and if you treat them right they will be nice to you too.

At the end of the evening, I asked where I could find something to eat. My favourite spot was Kapital Disco and all the bars around.

They enjoyed cheering each other on as they took turns. I consoled myself with the fact that the band weren’t bad and I could somehow justify the expense of this trip.

At the end they would ask for money for the taxi. One of them asked for a gift. They looked at me and I stopped the car, walked out and talked to them. I could have spent the whole night, but time is money.

I had a taxi driver who didn't know where it was and we drove around the whole city. I took a look inside and decided not to stay.

I had to tell many that is was time for them to go so I could go get another.

During the day the club is fairly deserted (if open at all which seemed random as well). I did my best to convince them that I have very little money or else the rip off is inevitable.

During the day you may want a rental car to drive to the beach etc. You can rent beach buggys and drive over dunes.

I just breezed through here on a jaunt through South America. By late night most of the guys are drunk or sleepy and have drifted off.

At the top of the stairs is an informal reception area. The one thinking that Paraguay is behind and a no fun country is totally wrong. We had some drinks on the balcony and a chat. I was treated like a king, especially as Irish tourists are virtually unknown and it made them proud to show me their country.

There are many slot machine joints, as well as a few casinos on the way. They line up and wait for their victim to sit down before trying to work them.

It was one of the most fearful experiences I have ever had. I thought every cab ride to the next club would be our last, and I felt like I was about to be robbed at every turn.

Late night is not the time to be alone waiting for a cab that might not come in those hardcore poorer areas.

Take advantage of their slower economy and exchange rate, and have fun.

In Lima no one speaks English and you'll be hard pressed to find anyone who will try. You can just point and beacon or just get up and grab one.

They brought drinks up to the bedroom, no problem. I do not know if there was anything in it, but I found the behaviour of the bartender unusual.

Cruising the streets was the only thing I could do to relieve the boredom in the evening (or in the daytime).

We went to file a report with the tourist police who took too long and it was a major waste of time.

But I like doing the party shit, this was a lot of fun and for me better for the price.

After a long flight from the US, I went straight to the beach.

Just shoo them away with a hand signal.

Then I accused her of being a guy and asked to see her penis.

This doesn't work on me but the rest of mongering nation has gone mad for fuck sake! The next thing that happened was one of the waiters brought me a piece of paper. Here is where it would be nice to know some Portuguese.

There's a bar in the lobby and one on the roof with a pool four feet deep. Istanbul is like every other big city.

When you get into a taxi, ask them to turn on the meter.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I'm not anti-Arab, but these idiots have no idea what's going on.

The driver also made a huge detour to make us think the casa was a lot further away than it actually was. So after going around the target block a few times I finally found the place. I stopped and pretended to ask for the time.

Never had any problems with them trying to steal my shit. Also, the guys look equally tired, fat, bald or 'regular' bar guys and it was embarrassing to be there.

I took a taxi from Abu Dhabi but couldn't sleep. I am not good at haggling, but understand that all prices are negotiable.

I didn't want to waste anymore time so I agreed and asked for the check. It looks to me that the host is making up the number of the bill as he goes, seeing that I am a foreigner.

I am very wary about leaving my passport for fear of what they can do with it.

I told her I was American and she got interested quite fast. Two big men led me to an ATM machine and demanded I withdraw the money.

As we left we tried to flag police cars several times but they did not even stop. At the club don't drink too much and don't look at other people directly in the eyes.

Beware of men who approach you asking for the time or a lighter and “do you speak English”.

While I was walking down in Rabat a woman begged me for money. Higher price doesn't mean better service, often it's the opposite.

Since they had not searched me or even asked for ID, I assumed they were looking for a bribe.

It's in a main road near the Pacific Hotel and Super Burger shop, wherever that is.

The first thing that came to mind was the cash that I had stashed in my backpack. I turn more pages and realize these ladies are all wearing wedding gowns.

In the small room, the service provided was totally worthless.

Shootings are common between drunken locals.

It's worth getting there early to get the pick of the best. Since I was alone there I was searching and roaming.

He replied: Sahiba will be released after her hair was chopped off as she has long hair. I asked how two people staying in a hotel room could disturb peace and order.

Getting them to let go of me proved difficult, but I find that kind of thing helps me as a kind of warm up routine.

Having heard so much about the place, I wanted to have some action without fussing or wasting time.

I’ve been to over a hundred countries and this is it.

Upon my arrival, I wandered outside the airport. I was counting the colones and it didn't look right.

After being bored out of my skull all evening, I was glad to see some girls making their way to the disco.

My Portuguese is terrible. But being a foreigner is a plus.

Nothing wrong with that but in general you won't get great service and they will feel superior.

It wasn't hard to figure out what happened. I went back to her and accused her of taking my money.

She had a deep voice, heavy make up, large hands and stood quite tall.

I've been twice in Argentina. I'm Dutch.

Just in case I forget: I'm the one that's holding the money.

What’s more it gets bloody cold at night here, and now it's the middle of summer.

Nobody on the streets (when I asked a taxi driver he suggested the local shopping mall).

Rooms are always readily available in the location. I told them either they take the money I offer or go home poor.

Once I dawned my robe, I went upstairs to the disco.

It’s hard work, especially if you’re being assaulted by gusting winds.

If you can’t get a room with a balcony and view then there is not really much reason to stay there.

The thing to do is just register as one person and take your chances.

I got the impression that the hotel was more than half empty.

But it felt a lot colder than that because of the wind.

I talked quite a bit about what I was down there for and they had no problem with it.

What's the point of flying halfway around the world to overpay? Suriname is a very poor country.

At one check point we were patted down and then I had all my bags searched.

The hotel and rooms are kind of run down and basic. No cable.

I'm American, travelled to Uruguay on a family vacation. I was in Venezuela on business recently. Right now for me, Costa Rica is the place to be.

I just came back from my yearly trip to Bolivia. I went into the one next door because they had a better neon sign and I always go for that.

I spent half a day looking at apartment options as well.

It was especially bad on the beach, where sand was blowing in my face the whole time.

But there isn’t much else you can do in the daytime.

All room numbers ending in 04 and 05 have balconies facing the ocean.

I’m not talking about a light breeze here. I’m talking about gusting winds that assault me everywhere I go, day and night.

I was sitting in a taxi in front of the Atlantis Casino in Boca Grande (because of the wind).

I explained that wasn’t what I was looking for.

I absolutely hated the fucking wind!

I really regret not having checked them all out.

Only after I got back on the main road did my breathing slow down to normal.

I was tempted but decided to walk on and see more.

At night I could hear the waves crashing against the rocks as I was falling asleep.

Nihilism and Photography

2010-12-24T01:50:00.000+01:00

Most places aren't really that interesting. I'm stating this as a fact: it's mainstream living and nothing more.

But here's where photography makes a twist: it opens up a place. What used to be boring could suddenly become the only thing worth shooting.

I guess this is the main reason why photography has taken such a hold on me, although I sense something way darker underneath this enthusiasm, a kind of sadness, or nihilism, when an idea empties out and the photographs stops radiating.

Susan Sontag writes: "[...] essentially the camera makes everyone a tourist in other people's reality, and eventually in one's own." (On Photography, 1977)

Gray Whales

2010-12-20T16:47:00.003+01:00

Before leaving San Diego I read about Grey Whales emigrating south. Colliding with whales are one of my major fears in sailing. Especially at night, trying to sleep, I sometimes find it hard not to visualize a sudden impact.

3 am, west of Tijuana: Trying to sleep I forced my mind into something else than whales. I thought about my childhood, our new neighbors. They turned out to be vegetarians. We kids kept our distance at first, not knowing what vegetarians were, but they had a son my age who climbed into an empty trash can and got stuck. His father had to come home from work to saw him out. This happened the same winter my school dentist declared that I had eleven cavities. It was pretty much the end for me. He would be drilling my teeth until spring. I came to loath his big fat fingers in my mouth. This was before latex gloves and his nicotine stained fingers stank heavy of sour tobacco. In retrospect I would say the school dentist was bordering child molestation. His secretary was tall and skinny with ice cold hands that she seemed to put in my mouth for warmth. I was lying in that dentist chair, with tubes sucking, when a moose came into the school yard and got tangled up in the swings. Everybody expected the police to use anesthetic but they just shot it, a sharp flat crack, reverberating through windows and concrete, and later on they had to use a chain saw to cut the dead moose down, with blood squirting all over their faces.

Nina called my name. It was my watch. I dressed up in wool and rain gear, but the night was clear and still. No wind. She'd just heard some strange sounds that we soon realized was a whale breathing. But there wasn't much to do about it. We continued drifting south, deeper into Mexico.

Modern traveling

2010-11-21T13:12:00.010+01:00

Internet has changed the concept of sailing around the world. Actually, we have seen the change in all kinds of traveling. We go further, to more remote and exotic places, but at the same time we keep our friends and family updated. We keep in touch with the place we left. This has again changed the concept of leaving; there's really no point in crying.

But there's a serious downside to this. Emails, Facebook, Twitter, etc; it all means that the modern traveler brings along friends and family, in what is called 'hyperreality'. The traveler never really leaves his own bubble. And then the significance of a new place is never seen, never felt and never understood.

I'm pulling ahead

2010-11-02T22:33:00.006+01:00

I'd already been up for two hours, editing a difficult line in a poem, when the nearby military base sounded the reveille. I paused and looked at the clock, wondering if the American war machine was getting lax.

I'm pulling ahead, I thought, feeling suddenly uplifted. It might be a chance that poetry will win after all.

Along the Breakwater

2010-10-28T17:44:00.001+02:00

I rowed our little inflatable dinghy along the breakwater. A huge sea lion got interested, and followed suit. I felt a bit uneasy by the thought of an attack. I had no idea what these kinds of animals were up to.

I started to think about Jean Baudrillard, the French philosopher. Watching tourists in Monterey had somewhat made me understand what Jean Baudrillard meant by 'hyperreality'. The fishing industry was replaced by the tourist industry, which simulated the fishing industry through toys and replicas; people took images that had already been taken from the past.

I scanned the concrete wall for a ladder but there were none. I kept rowing, thinking about Jean Baudrillard.

The fear of enthusiasm

2010-10-23T13:03:00.003+02:00

I silently dislike Nina's enthusiasm when sailing offshore. Sure, I love dolphins or a good breeze, but I would never dare to say so.

It's my belief that enthusiasm brings bad luck. Forget about umbrellas, whistling or leaving on a Friday; outspoken enthusiasm could really sink a boat.

I never had this superstition while we stayed the winter at Tapawingo. We saw a black bear not more than ten meters from our cabin door, and my enthusiasm had no limits.

But the fear of enthusiasm runs deep in the Canadian wild. Our story about the bear got played down, like "so you got to see the forest pig, aye?"

This was typical among the trappers and fishermen at Bistcho Lake; they loved wild animals, but would never dare to say so. Black bears were often called 'forest pigs', squirrels 'tree rats', and once we heard a trapper call a flock of snowy-white ptarmigans for a 'bunch of ducks'. But the lack of enthusiasm didn't seem to be for superstitious reasons.

In the wilderness you'll gain your respect through nonchalance and coolness. You have seen it all before.

Monterey

2010-10-18T21:30:00.004+02:00

I'm rowing in the fog. I have my camera in a watertight bag. I'm empty and ready and I'm turning around to find a landing on the beach. The swell breaks slow and heavy.

I'm carrying my shoes while walking barefooted towards the pier. The sand is cold and moist. The overhanging trees are dark and inflamed.

I'm thinking about the Norwegian photographer Kåre Kivijärvi. I'm thinking about his pictures, and nothing about his alcoholism, his troubled life.

The pier is almost empty. Whatever goes on here has almost come to a stand still. I can see a few dark shapes of fishing boats. Single cars and men are creeping around in the gray light.

Jellyfish

2010-10-15T21:28:00.004+02:00

It's semi dark in the two rooms with jellyfish. The glassy creatures are dancing in slow motion. It's meditation just to watch.

There's grace in the aquariums, something strangely serene that make most people silent. It's a miniature drama that unfolds slowly in front of us. Poisonous tentacles are arching like long distant missiles, and there's a texture to some of them, like thick orange smoke.

Then I'm watching silhouettes of people watching jellyfish. They're standing still in front of the illusion of a deep blue ocean.

I suddenly recognize the silhouette of Thomas Quick, the famous Swedish serial killer. But then again; it can't be. He's in psychiatric confinement, convicted for 7 murders (although he confessed more than 30).

I watch him from behind. I can see the jellyfish angled through his glasses, the baseball cap as he slowly pans the aquarium. It's a silhouette look-alike; the tall figure, the way he straighten himself but still hunch forward.

He leaves the room and walks slowly towards the balcony. He opens the door and heads for the railing.

But when the weird excitment is gone, I don't know, it's like I feel sorry for us all. Especially the lone man at the balcony.

Moss in the morning

2010-10-12T21:27:00.003+02:00

I'm reading about Moss Landing in the Wikipedia: "Prior to 1981, the community suffered from grave water contamination, severe septic tank failures, and public health problems."

I'm troubled by this as we leave in the morning. I'm also troubled by the fact that Moss Landing is one of those places without a face; one of those places that 'failed to make an impression'. This is, of course, not true.

Truth is; sailing around the world means a lot of skipping and cutting short. We can't see it all. And some places are left behind: without impressions, without stories, without friends.

But I tried to compensate in the blue morning light. Patches of fog were lingering around houses and structures. Moss Landing has its own beauty. Not to behold.

Moss in the evening

2010-10-09T12:39:00.005+02:00

The only thing we'd heard about Moss Landing was that "there's really nothing there." It sounded appealing to me. It sounded exotic, even.

Maybe the incitement for stopping at Moss Landing was the possibility to experience something authentic: the only thing that the tourist industry can't sell on a big scale.

'Come to Moss Landing - we have absolutely nothing for you to see or do.'

We landed at the guest dock and had a look at the abundance of harbor seals and sea otters. An elderly man seemed slightly provoked by our enthusiasm. "It's like an infestation," he stated. "They stink."

We went for a walk. The main road was right there. I could see cars, the power plant.

Nina came back to where I was standing next to the road. I was thinking about the way certain memories get stuck while traveling; it's never really the big things, like mausoleums or grand waterfalls. She shouted something through the deafening traffic. It was dark by then. Her face lit up by passing cars. Her face lit up in intervals, all white and twisted in dust and light.

Alcatraz

2010-10-01T16:17:00.009+02:00

We never did take a tour to Alcatraz. I guess we've sort of been there already. Through fiction, that is.

We sailed past the prison Sing Sing three years ago, in a nice breeze. And this summer we've passed San Quentin several times. I don't know the full meaning of this, but it somehow feels significant.

Is it fair to say that sailing around the world is a direct opposite to spending years in jail? Maybe, but there's also something in common; in our kind of pocket-cruising we're living most of our time with less space than in a cell.

But the argument is halting. We're moving. We're moving in the extreme. And the whole point of doing time is to stay put; the inmates are only moving through time.

I read Edward Bunkers 'Education of a Felon' some years ago. This is the only biography I've finished. I kept visualizing Alcatraz while reading, although Edward Bunker did most of his time in San Quentin, further down the bay, as the youngest inmate ever. Later he wrote several books, and appeared in numerous movies, such as Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs.

What does all this mean? Nothing, I guess. But I kept taking pictures of Alcatraz when we left some days ago. I suddenly felt overwhelmed by this place.

The letting go

2010-09-27T19:25:00.003+02:00

Offshore cruising is one of the few situations where the importance of letting go become crucial. If you can't let go - you're getting nowhere.

I was thinking about this when I stood on the bluff close to Golden Gate, and wondered why I kept looking towards the next bluff; the distant trees, the drifting fog.

This is all mental. We've met several cruisers, mostly elderly cruisers, who have stayed too long in a port. I guess they fell in love with a place, but it often goes together with a gathering of horror.

In most situations we can't let go at all; we cling to hopes and memories. We know the world is uncertain and that everything is in flux, but we still build our lives around these mental fixtures.

But the ability to let go is important. We have to let go of rude remarks, lousy drivers, or people we just find irritating, for whatever reason.

We have to let go of the past: ex-lovers, former spouses, or a really unfair treatment at work. We have to let go of fear: fear of getting cancer, a sudden heart attack, the fear of dying in our sleep, of crashing in cars or airplanes.

Offshore cruising take this to the very core: you start by the dock, and let go of the lines. Later on you let go of the coastline. Then you let go of your country.

A shot of Misery

2010-09-24T10:17:00.002+02:00

I'm standing on the beach in Aquatic Park. I'm waiting for Nina to see me, to row over. I keep looking towards our boat at anchor. My mood is on an ebb. I've been on a long walk with the camera, I'm cold and tired.

I'm stirring at the boat, the grim breakwater. I'm stirring out at the wet fog, feeling low and mean. There's someone in my head who feels like having a serious shot of rum.

I'm thinking this is the downside of cruising. I'm thinking most people are indoors by now, or in their cars, with the heater on.

But then one of the Aquatic Park swimmers pass by, and I can feel my mood change for the better. These swimmers defy wind and fog.

I know that living close to the elements is a teaching in change. There's nothing personal in it, and there's no one really who deserves a drink for being miserable.

City of steel and fog

2010-09-20T10:56:00.002+02:00

I've always found it kind of strange that cities, and even whole countries, can be reduced to simple psychological terms. As if we're talking about a single human being.

Say, a person could be suffering from paranoia, a delusion which often comes with hubris, and I sometimes find this a perfect match for a certain superpower, namely USA.

But San Francisco will not be pinned down as easily. It has a beaming smile for the tourist, but this will start to weaver if anybody are in for a prolonged stay. In fact, San Francisco seems have some serious mood swings. There's a distinct gloomy side. And this could very well be the reason for why I find the town so interesting.

I left Nina on Market Street. We had a transfer ticket, but I wanted to walk. I had been waiting for the town to change.

It was late in the evening. Fog rolled in and obscured the sun, the tall buildings. Fog drifted like smoke through the structures. The last bit of sun set a facade of glass and steel on fire.

Architecture may be the language of economical and political power, but buildings often grow into something unforeseen. I was wondering about this as I walked. How could downtown San Francisco be so powerful and yet so transient?

Clerks and executives crowded the sidewalks. Cars where backed up in Sutter Street. But I kept looking up at those tall buildings. The upper floors seemed peculiarly lofty. Like dreams. Like something that's not really there. I had never seen steel and concrete like this before.

I often have this vague feeling while dreaming; like a neutral surrounding that's about to change for the worse.

It was getting darker. People had cleared the street as I walked up Mason. A cold, moist wind was blowing.

I passed a corner shop with three Chinese men standing in the doorway, smoking. They seemed somewhat depressed. Most windows where dark and empty.

The lights were on in a yellow kitchen. I spotted a little boy drumming with chopsticks. It was like a racket in total silence.

And on the next block, in a bleak and desolated window on third floor, was it an old, Chinese woman grinning? Did she really hunch closer to the window frame? Was she grinning down at me?

Cartoon Life

2010-09-13T13:09:00.006+02:00

I know that some of my photos are kitsch, and I'm trying hard to subdue this unworthy bend towards sunsets. However, the evenings in San Francisco sometimes have a cartoon-like quality. How can I resist a sunset like this?

But what's beautiful is also generally inclined to be poisenous, or at least bad for us. Its striving towards perfection will make it un-natural.

There seems to be a vague connection between tasteless art and modern, tasteless groceries. It is mass-production for the mainstream public. We should know by now that cakes and tomatoes looks perfect but taste nothing.

The conclusion of all this should be an end to further photos of sunsets. Unless it's ironic, of course. Am I ironic? I don't think so, but I could fake it.

Dark Surf

2010-09-10T06:50:00.013+02:00

The surfers are still out. Everybody seems to be fixated on something larger than themselves. They are here as a group, but they're all alone, standing far apart and engulfed in a quest for the perfect wave.

I find it interesting when people are obsessed by certain activities. You can see it in the way surfers stare out at the incoming waves. It's a focus that rules out all the trivial clutter in the brain.

But isn't it kind of ironic that surfers search for the perfect wave? I mean, if anything is in a constant flux it must be the sea. Waves comes and goes, it's the medium for impermanence. The perfect wave is never there. Or it's there, but the ride is off. So the surfing continues.

Twin Peaks

2010-09-07T06:38:00.000+02:00

It's still dark when we dinghy ashore. We have a rental car that's supposed to be delivered at noon, and we want to make the most of it.

We drive to the vista point above Golden Gate, but the fog is thick and we can't see neither the brigde nor anything else. Time is of an essence and we decide to drive on.

We end up at the vista point on Twin Peaks. We've been bickering about where to drive, and this is it. It's still foggy, though.

There's a parking lot and some trees. It's hard to figure out what the rest is about. I'm walking restlessly along the rim of what's suppose to be one of the major views of San Francisco. There are several mounted binoculars that gives a hint of what to expect. Is the town down there? How high up are we? Can we see Golden Gate? I have no idea. We just have to wait until the sun burns through.

There's a woman on a bycycle. She's sifting through the garbage. Did she came all the way up here for that? That's amazingly hard work for a few plastic bottle cents.

I'm walking back to Nina. Another car pulls up besides us. I see two guys, and they are not here for the view. They're sharing a pipe. The smoke turns the frontscreen to a whiteout. We can hear bass rytms pounding through the metal frame of the car.

There's no one else up here but us. I feel it's wise to leave, though I'm not saying that to Nina. Fear is a strange thing. I'm anxious not to give myself away as squeemish.

Finally they lower their windows and the rap music come blasting out. There's a poignat smell of marihuana. It smells like rubber, like condoms. The driver is coughing badly. He bends forward in the convulsions.

The passenger steps out of the car and gives the wall of fog a lot of attention. I can see the driver laughing by himself. There's nothing stopping him. He's red-eyed, his face all twisted. I'm telling Nina that this is it, and starts the car.

Sea of Change

2010-09-04T19:24:00.004+02:00

We've just returned from a walk on Ocean Beach. The waves broke sluggishly towards the shore. It didn't blow much, but I suddenly felt a kind of menance. I could sense the two-faced personality of the sea. The way it changes.

Then I realized it's been awhile since we've done some serious crossings. On Ocean Beach I didn't really experience anything else than the human concepts of the sea. Thoughts and fear, and how it arises. The way it comes and goes in our minds.

Sailing the Bay

2010-08-30T13:33:00.002+02:00

We're anchored outside Sausalito, which is one of the world's sailing hotspots. The docks are interesting, with few powerboats and a lot of rare and well-designed sailboats. I've even felt my fascination for sailboats renewed, so this entry is just mainstream boat porn.

San Francisco Bay is also very windy in the sailing season. A typical day would start grey or foggy, with little or no wind, but it will all change when the sun burns through around noon. You should expect 25-35 knots on a daily basis.

We took the rest of these pictures on a Sunday, from our anchorage. The boats kept coming in, and the gusts gave a lot of speed and action.

The Bay Area also has an active class of Folkboats, and this is the well proven design that predates the Contessa 26. This wooden specimen is a gem.

Go simple, go now

2010-08-27T16:40:00.003+02:00

Last week we woke up to a strange silhuette. We couldn't figure out what kind of boat this was.

Later, as the sun rose above the San Francisco Bay, it seemed clear that it was some kind of super-yacht. In fact, it turned out that 'super-yacht' is a term of the past. It has been replaced with 'mega-yacht', and later 'giga-yacht', as this silhuette turned out to be.

The rich is getting richer, and the yachts are getting bigger. The silhuette was the giga-yacht "A", owned by the russian billionaire Andrey Melnichenko.

I know that we advocate the saying 'go simple, go now'. However, it's possible to go in other fashions too. And quite frankly: this enormous yacht was impressive. The design seemed modern and stylish in every way.

We just had to jog Bika over for some pictures. Of course, we could have invited the billionaires for tea, as the only two foreign boats in Sausalito at that time. But it seemed rather unlikely to come true.

People often behave like kids around the billionaires expensive toys. But then it wears out. I can feel it now, looking at these pictures. The fascination for the absurdly rich is also a travel back to our own lives. It's a good feeling. I'm looking more and more on our own little boat. The pocket-cruiser Bika. Isn't she a piece of art? And what's that ugly thing in the background?

Soft City

2010-08-22T14:59:00.001+02:00

It's getting darker. The fog rolls in and everything seems softer. Buildings and cars, people who walk at the far end of the street. The whole financal district appears strangely vague. The upper floors are transparent, almost ghost-like. God knows what kinds of transactions they're dealing up there.

It's getting lighter. We're anchored somewhere in San Francisco, but I'm half asleep and half dead. There's music in the fog horns. The deep basses work their way through the sea and the city. Single, unadorned notes. A mystical minimalism. It's serene, and it reminds me more and more about the composer Arvo Pärt. There's a meditative quality that sinks in, somehow religious.

It makes me think about a church consert back in Norway. How the conductor held the silence in one of Pärt's compositions for maybe a minute after the last note. The audience fell apart in total silence. Our minds fell apart. The church fell apart.

Yes, we're anchored in Aquatic Park. The morning mist is dense and blue. We can hear the distorted echoing from sea lions barking underneath the breakwater. It's like iron clangs.

And there are other sounds around. We hear the soft splashes from people swimming. The morning is very cold, still there are swimmers everywhere. They are strangely low in the water. These are long distance swimmers, and we once met a couple all the way down at Coyote Point. It was a six hours swim.

The killing of wolves

2010-05-25T14:12:00.001+02:00

There're few animals as mythical as wolves. They're the top predator in the boreal forest: intelligent, strong, fast and even organized. A pack of wolves are an efficient killing machine. That's what they do for a living. This means they compete with humans, who kill for fun -mostly- and who have to go further and further before seeing an elk, a moose or a dear.

But also wolves can kill for fun. It's been known that they sometimes go on a killing spree among sheep. There's been offered a biological explanation for this behavior: the killing of sheep doesn't wear out the wolves. A modern sheep is so cross-bred that it can't run fast. It's just meat and wool. This kind of live-stock is a piece of cake for the wolves, and there's probably nothing to the kill that trigger the wolves to stop. This makes the farmers bring out their guns.

The wolves always seem to stirr up emotions and controversy. At least in those countries where they're still around. What we often see is a polarized discussion between rural and urban areas; between the working class and the middle class; between those who see the wolves and those who wish to see them.

It's a discussion that goes way back. The wolves even play the role as a scapegoat in a much deeper conflict -i.e. the centralization of power and the historical mischief of rural areas.

But in Norway the farmers have won (joined by the hunters). The last two-three decades we've had one pack of wolves in Norway. That was the compromise with the government. Around six wolves, that is. Apparently this number was too high; not one wolf will be allowed in Norway anymore, not on a permanent basis.

In Canada they still have some understanding of the wilderness. There is no lack of wolves either. The province of Alberta -almost twice as big as Norway- has around 3500-4000 wolves. When we stayed at Tapawingo, in the NW corner of Alberta, we often saw fresh wolf tracks in the snow. Occasionally we heard them howl. But we hardly ever saw them. The wolves were extremely shy. They avoided humans as the plague.

To actually see a wolf, in the wild, is a privilege that keeps lingering in your brain, in your very soul, for a long time. In that respect I would claim that wolves not only kill, they also gives our lives depth and meaning; they give life, so to speak.

Everything is alive

2010-05-21T11:42:00.002+02:00

I consider myself an atheist. I didn't even believe in God as a child. Actually, I'm a bit proud of this. The religious atrocities, in the name of God, are simply the way these monotheistic systems work out.

This morning I looked at the pictures from Bistcho Lake. None of the desert religions fit well with the boreal forest in the dead of winter. In 50 degrees below zero it's sort of hard to imagine, say, Jesus dressed in robe and sandals.

Still, this was the place where religious thoughts came into head.

I went for a walk twice a day. I always walked alone. After seven or eight months it seemed rather obvious: everything was alive. Everything was somehow charged.

But I never did cross that line. I never really came into the cabin and started to talk metaphysical gibberish to Nina. I held on to our notion of a rational world, though the feeling of being seen really made me wonder.

I guess the natives got it right in the first place.

In the centre of meth-heads

2010-05-19T18:30:00.002+02:00

I'm getting tossed around at a buoy in Sausalito. It's a very nice place, but windy.

I've noticed a ghost of man who takes his little dog ashore every so often. The outboard makes a dark crunching sound. I will turn my head and see this man who sits perfectly still in his dingy; a white silky hair, a thin white face. The dog is in front of him, with its doggy affection. It seems like they're looking deep into each other’s eyes. Like lovers, I would say, or maybe as the two only sane creatures left on earth.

Yesterday I waved my hand as they passed. The ghost turned around for some chitchat. It's the kind of lone rider who you might think has an interesting story to tell. A life full of twist and turns. But then he starts to speak and everybody loose interest. He can't relate to other people in any meaningful way.

There's more to it, though. The man spoke about our neighbors in the anchorage. It's bitterness in his voice. "You’re dead in the centre of meth-heads", he said. True, I've noticed some characters around. But I'm a bit naive when it comes to drugs and addicts. "You better lock up your dingy, the oars. They'll steal everything." I had a feeling that he spoke partly of himself, given the ghostly face.

Kids on drugs are in for an early death, but the thing is; these addicts are way older than me. They're survivors from the sixties. Sausalito is one of the few places where the legacy from the hippies is still around.

He changed subject to the weather. Not in a trivial way, but as a threat. He started to speak at length about the El Nino weather system. "It messes up my work," he concluded. I guess this is the place where a normal following-up question would be something like 'what do you do', but I held my tongue.

Later I've come to regret this. I'm still pondering about it.

Back in San Francisco

2010-05-17T00:33:00.013+02:00

We´re back in the Bay area, after two months boat work in Madera (a three hours drive up in Central Valley). The transport was arranged by the industrious Jean Mondeau.

He also showed us how to raise the mast with an additional rope and a tree. Me and Nina agreed upon all this on the notion that we never knew when it could be the only way to do it. The next time we may be depending on a palm tree in the Pacific.

It wasn´t easy to get pictures while we actually lifted the mast, since we were only three people, and we all had a crucial task in the process.

The tide forced us to launch Bika in the dark, American-style, with the heavy truck backing slowly down the sloop, like they do in the lakes all over the USA.

Anyway, I´m planning to continue the blog. There´re still some things to do, mainly some problems with the electronics. But Bika sure looks good. I´m going to post something at length about the boat work on our website. I´ll just end this little entry with some boat porn.

We'll be back

2010-02-09T18:06:00.000+01:00

We're delayed, and will return to San Francisco March 1.

Nina has almost finished the gennaker. It came in 27 readymade panels (from Sailrite), and the sewing was pretty straight forward. It's a lot of work, though. I'm not looking forward to the day when it gets ripped apart. I have a strong feeling it's going to be my fault.

The bald eagle

2009-10-07T11:12:00.004+02:00

The bald eagle is not bald at all. I wonder how they came up with this misnomer. A better name would be “whitehead eagle”, but I guess it’s too late now.

We saw these immense birds in the fall. They seemed unapproachable then, and always kept their distance.

They returned early in the spring, before the ice was gone. Food was scarce and the bald eagles started to circle over Tapawingo Lodge. Their calls were a long thin shriek that sounded desperate. It’s not easy on an empty belly.

We once counted eleven bald eagles at the same time. The ice was still thick on Bistcho Lake, no open water for the eagles to catch fish. It was a bit strange. Why did they return to the Canadian north so early?

The ice melted in May, almost two months after the first bald eagles arrived. The bald eagles once again kept their distance, and regained their pride and posture.

Along the coast of Morocco

2009-10-02T09:30:00.011+02:00

It was getting dark. I turned on the running lights but soon realized that the battery was low. We had to sail without them. The moon wasn’t up yet, it was pitching black. I couldn’t see any other boats in the area.

The coastline seemed deserted except for several vehicles with strong searchlights, driving back and forth. I could tell by the wobbly light that the terrain were rough. They kept climbing up and down, searching the area.

There was almost no wind. I could hear an engine crank up somewhere in the dark. The sound resonated under the cliffs and narrowed in as they came straight for us. The motor boat didn’t have any lights. I guessed it was the coast guard, or some sort of military, and turned on our lights. Nina came up to have a look.

We could barely make out the black shape of the boat as they turned slowly around in a big circle. Okay. Back to sleep. Back to nothing.

The fishermen in Morocco had the most gallant salute I’ve ever seen; they would put their hand on their heart and give us a short bow with their head. It was a custom we quickly picked up. I simply loved to do that salute, and could hardly wait for another boat to pass.

It was still Ramadan. No eating, drinking or smoking between sunrise and sunset. Otherwise it seemed to be business as usual, except people were a bit edgy around their daily chores. It could easily flare up an argument in the crowd at the fish marked.

After sunset we often got visited by an old man who used to sit in silence and smile, and later on he would climb out in the cockpit for a joint. We couldn’t communicate, but we understood he’d been a sailor of some sort. He always sat back and smoked the joint down to his fingernails. Then he would lean forward and turn his head like a heavy crane towards me and Nina in the cabin. He would say something in French and beam another smile.

Walking

2009-09-30T11:20:00.002+02:00

Most writers like to walk. They can continue writing while walking. It gives great agitation, as in the novella Walking (1971), by the Austrian writer Thomas Bernhard, where the actual walk is more abstract than the thoughts while walking.

Henry David Thoreau’s Walking (1861), is an essay that probes deep in the art of walking. It’s a kind of knowledge that doesn’t change much, but still, it's uncanny the way he anticipates our modern life. Thoreau’s walking is the opposite of Bernhard’s; the walk overtakes the thoughts; the walk in nature puts the walker straight.

Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote about Thoreau: The length of his walk uniformly made the length of his writing. If shut up in the house, he did not write at all.

When we stayed the winter at Tapawingo, in Alberta, Canada, the wilderness demanded solitude and silence, if we wanted to see any wildlife. But me and Nina also preferred to walk alone for another reason; the thoughts got cleansed by nature, because the mind got distracted by something bigger than itself. Talking would destroy all this.

Annie Dillard wrote, in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, that walking in nature is not so much about seeing, as being seen. We're not really thinking either, it's nature thinking through us.

The black-capped chickadee

2009-09-28T12:50:00.004+02:00

We had another cold front before Easter ─ windy for a change ─ and the wind chill went to the bones. The wind churned up particles and made the snow drift like smoke over Bistcho Lake.

It felt like razor blades against our eyes. I was driving the snowmobile from Indian Cabins and back to Tapawingo. I was driving without goggles and my eyes hurt like hell. They turned red and painful.

Towards the evening the row of pines shook wild and dark. We could hear branches break and fall.

The next day the wind had calmed, but it was even colder. We’d noticed the black-capped chickadee before, even down to ÷50˚C, but this morning was different. I kept staring at this little bird, this tiny little ball of feathers. I kept staring. I kept seeing.

The theft in Cape Verde

2009-09-25T12:19:00.005+02:00

The capital Praia is nothing but a small town, and the Cape Verde islands are far out in the ocean; it’s a place where you would expect shy fishermen, timid kids, etc. Instead you’ll find the complex and tightly woven net of poverty-related misery, with drugs and crimes all over the place. Even locals at the neighbouring islands will think twice before taking a trip to Praia.

All the Cape Verde islands are beautiful, though, and we couldn’t resist checking out the capital. And besides, we were low in cat food.

We paid our own guardsman; he was recommended by the pilot book (for whatever reason I never fully understood) and the guardsman even recommended himself, but even so we got theft from Bika.

Let me tell you about the cat food first: there was none. Cruisers with cat should bring plenty of cat food before coming to Cape Verde. Nina explained what kind of food she meant, and the shop assistants went to great lengths to understand the whole concept of cats having their own food. They seemed really puzzled by this (I once read that most Africans would consider white Europeans as slightly insane, an opinion that’s probably well-founded).

While at the store, looking for cat food, we had teenagers swimming out to Bika. They unscrewed most of the steelwork around the washboard, (a painful work, I guess, using a knife from our bucket of unfinished dishes) before one of the brighter kids realized that the fore hatch was wide open.

They didn’t take much. Among the items was a futuristic solar and hand-driven radio, which could prove itself worthy in a post-apocalyptic place like Praia, although I doubt the kids managed to keep the radio dry, swimming back to shore.

Our cat was still sleeping on the berth. She couldn’t care less about items missing. We contemplated the corrupt police for a minute or so, and decided to let the cat set the standard for how to react.

Thunder Knoll

2009-09-23T17:40:00.001+02:00

En route from Providencia Island to Cayman Island there’s an enormous stretch of reefs and shallow water. It lies outside the coastlines of Honduras and Nicaragua, and stretches half the way to Jamaica. There are some serious considerations to be made before crossing this area. It’s dangerous in heavy weather, with strong currents and wildly breaking waves. The best thing would be to sail around it.

But most cruisers seem to wait for the right weather window, in order to take a short cut; the narrow passage that exits close to Thunder Knoll.

It’s tricky sailing. We left Providencia Island in force 6, beating against the prevailing trades. But the wind calmed as we entered the passage.

In the early morning we saw a fishing boat hovering around Thunder Knoll. We started to think about two American boats that were robbed a week earlier, adding more horror to the area.

We changed course, but didn’t want to venture too far out in the shallows. There was a swell, and hidden obstructions 7 meter underneath. 7 meter feels really shallow when crossing an ocean, without any land in sight. We couldn’t trust the chart either, as all the hurricanes had stirred up the reefs.

The fishing boat changed course, too. They seemed to be blocking our way. We changed course again, and they followed.

Nina prepared a bag of money, booze, canned food and various valuables, ready for a handover. The main thing would be to avoid pirates entering Bika, and I told Nina to put clothes on and stay bellow.

It was an old rusty vessel. At least twenty mean-looking men were hanging in the rigging or standing by the gunwale, staring, and none of them waved back when I saluted in my friendliest way. Please excuse that I didn’t take pictures of this. The camera was in the bag at my side, ready to be given away.

Then the kayaks started to pop up from the troughs of the swell. I'd guess maybe ten kayaks, with men holding lobsters and shouting “Whiskey! Whiskey!” I would love to trade, but I would not risk the men coming close. “No whiskey,” I shouted, smiling.

The wind died out almost completely, and Bika crept slowly through the bizarre scene. Of course, fishermen are lonely out there, and it’s normal to be friendly with other people on a waste ocean, but I stood tall in the cockpit, hoping that they wouldn’t cross the line and lay their hands on Bika.

The kayaks started to fall behind, but everybody were still staring. The chimney belched out black smoke when the fishing vessel showed some muscles and took a half-turn.

I was a bit shaken. We got more wind, though, and I gradually started to relax.

Suddenly they called us up on the VHF. “Bika, Bika,” a man said in a teasing voice, “were are you going?” We didn’t answer. They may have had a good laugh at the white man, with all his fear and belongings. I was more than happy to provide them with laughter.

We passed the confused sea and wild currents at Thunder Knoll. Around midnight we had a gale, but the worst was over.

Life on land

2009-09-21T10:30:00.000+02:00

In the beginning, when we moved aboard Bika and sailed to the north of Norway, we both had a lot of nightmares about security offshore. We’d sleep in the forepeak and then suddenly bolt up for a quick look-out through the forehatch. We both did this at least once. It’s the kind of thing that makes you feel stupid in a marina.

We had some similar problems with transition when we returned onshore this summer. I got disturbing dreams about ghosts, or black birds; the house felt like an unsafe place to be.

I was also the only one getting obsessively drunk at a family party. “What kind of person are you?” Nina asked. I honestly didn’t know. It didn’t strike me as anything odd.

I dreamt that I had this huge black bird in the house. I would chase it outside, through the open door, but then it would be another one waiting inside.

In July we were back at my sister’s place. I’d already said that I was more of a tea-person, when asked if I wanted coffee, and then, half a minute later, I reported that I was more of a cat-person, when asked if I liked dogs.

She wanted us to take care of their dog for a couple of weeks. It was a nice dog, but it seemed a bit sad. I’d walk into the woods. The dog kept looking down at the ground, towards the grass, at the tiny sticks.

I later dreamt about a dog we saw at Yale University (or in one of the surrounding buildings). I sat next to a stuffed dog in a display case, and because of all the people, neither me nor Nina noticed the dog at first. I felt bad about this in my dream. I bent down on my knees and tried to feed the dog through the glass. It was futile. I wanted to break the glass but was afraid of making a scene, although I felt certain the poor dog would die of hunger.

Cruising with a cat

2009-09-18T14:31:00.013+02:00

We had two cats in Bika while living a year in Norway, before leaving for the circumnavigation. It was okay while being moored at the jetty, where the cats could come and go as they pleased. One of them even managed to catch fish and brought them proudly back to Bika. But these cats were too old to understand the concept of sailing. We had to find them another home, before leaving Norway.

We missed the cats. We started to think about a new one when passing the animal shelter in La Coruna, Spain. The vets didn’t help the cats before a new owner came along. Our coming cat, which Nina had already named Luna (even though I was still only considering a cat), was suffering from flees and worms. I better do my considering a little bit faster. I guess cats and women know their way around men.

Luna started off great, she was healthy and happy, but after some months she got moody. She seemed bored. She loved to come along in the dingy and visit other boats, but it was difficult to find a good spot to land her, and then suddenly it was too late; Luna developed a fear of being ashore.

Flying fish was her favourite food and leisure. They landed on the boat in great numbers, especially among the Cape Verde islands and across the Atlantic. Luna would hear the fish flapping, and rush to the spot.

One night in the Atlantic, it was windy and no moon, an irregular wave suddenly heeled Bika over, while Luna was on her way forward. She slipped. Luna had the harness on, as always, and we dragged her in. But the harness failed just the second before Nina was about to grab the drenched little cat. We could hear Luna meow in the dark, the sound disappeared rapidly in Bika’s wake.

We had to take down the spinnaker pole and the boom preventer, and bring Bika around to start tacking back, counting seconds on every leg. We brought out our strong halogen lamp, hoping for a reflection of Luna's eyes.

After a couple of hours we gave up. The sea was rough, and it wouldn’t really take more than one breaking wave to swallow the cat. The Atlantic suddenly seemed cold and careless. It’s not a good place to search for anything in the dark.

A year later the cat issue was up again, this time in Erie Canal, in the state of New York, where they had an animal shelter full of cats needing a new home. To make a long story short I just agreed right away, to get it over with. “Look, she got six toes!” Yeah, sure.

Nina named the cat Erie, and off we went. This time we promised each other that Erie should be brought ashore twice every day, at least while going through the lakes and waterways in Canada and USA.

We brought Erie along to our winter cabin at Tapawingo, in Alberta, Canada. The list of predators was long, but nothing could hold her back during the spring months. She wanted to be out the whole night. She survived the threat of fox, wolf, lynx, black bear, wolverine, the great horned owl, the northern goshawk, golden eagle and bald eagle.

Erie also had the cat flu, which almost killed her. But it was a coyote in Blind River, North Channel, that eventually did her in. The coyote was observed, and several domestic cats went missing in a short span of time.

Erie was a good swimmer, and she had no fear of the dingy. She could even jump into the dingy first, if she knew we were going ashore. Erie used to meow when she wanted us to come and get her, and then she would jump right back in, without any fuzz.

Cat or no cat? Me and Nina can’t agree on this. We both love cats, but I can’t stand to see a cat being bored. They prefer grass to fibreglass. Our boat is also painfully small for a cat to run around and play. Cats can’t read, I argue. Nina, on the other hand, feels that cats are better off on a small boat than in a cage at the animal shelter.

But there is no doubt that most cats can adopt quickly to the boat, if taken offshore as kittens. Most cats are surprisingly good swimmers, and might even be introduced to water early on.

Enslaved in dreams

2009-09-16T10:44:00.005+02:00

We were asked about houses versus boats when we returned to Norway this summer. I guess we all need a confirmation: are we doing the right thing?

There's a risk of sounding self-righteous, like two born-again Christians who never stops talking about their new way of life, but the gist of cruising is pretty simple. Space and comfort are exchanged with freedom and adventure. That's the main thing if you ever plan to do serious cruising in a small boat.

More interesting is the fact that the need for comfort wears off, and when you’re finally back in a hot shower, you’ll realize that you’re not getting any cleaner than from the bucket-bath offshore. When you’re clean you’re clean, it’s nothing more to it. You’ll properly miss the shower more after a long weekend of coastal cruising, than after a year in the tropics. And you’ll do the same adaption in all the comfort issues.

There are other aspects. The grid of modern life is getting more complicated, more abstract, and I’ll guarantee you this: four years of cruising will be enough to really make you wonder.

Living in transition

2009-09-14T12:02:00.004+02:00

We borrow a nice house from a girlfriend of Nina, who work in Moscow. Nina got her office work, but I stay home all the time, writing. It's a transition before going back to Bika in San Francisco; we need money to go sailing.

To be a contemporary poet means that you’re hoping for fame while learning the anatomy of silence. After some years the idea of a breakthrough seems ridiculous. The silence gets deepened. That's when you start to find the existence of ghosts more likely, even downright plausible.

It usually takes a long time for a house to disintegrate. A house leaves us slowly, but a sailboat can go down in minutes. Maybe that's why I've never heard about ghosts going boating. A ghost needs reassurance.

I believe ghosts can form during countless movements in the house. The opening and closing of doors; if we walk into the bedroom and stop, not knowing what we seek; if we walk into the bathroom unfocused.

A serious burn

2009-09-11T13:19:00.013+02:00

After crossing Lake Michigan we came to Chicago, where an air show was taking place. It was a couple of millions visitors on that particular Sunday. All kinds of boats abounded.

A stealth plane seemed to be coming straight for us. Maybe these planes can pick out foreigners. The stealth are frightening when seen from underneath. There is nothing humanly about it, no flag, no signs, just this weird black shape. It gave me the creeps, like we were about to be abducted. I took pictures, but they were all strangely out of focus. I’m sure they learned something at Roswell.

Most of the boats were powerboats with drunk or semi-drunk teenagers, and temperatures were running high in the narrow gaps of the marinas. Of course, the marinas were all full.

We anchored among all the boats that continued partying. I just love blasting music when I’m tired, and maybe this was why I lost the tea pot in my lap. The lid fell off and I got steaming hot water all over my hip. I got the shorts and underwear off, Nina shouted that I had to jump in the sea to cool the burn, but I hesitated for some valuable seconds, thinking about all the people and stuff.

The burn was getting more painful, though. I had to jump bare- assed, but with my shirt still on, if that counts for something. I was hanging along Bika, with one hand on the toe rail.

I could sense a huge powerboat ease up from behind. I prepared myself for a dose of the American friendliness.

“Are you okay?” they screamed. I sort of half-turned underneath my arm, the powerboat was packed with people, and there were a certain cluster of bikini-dressed women in the bow, beer in hand. “Yes, I’m fine,” I said with a merry voice, “thank you.” I started to hear some laughter, but worse, someone declared out loud in a loud whisper: “Don’t laugh!” This, of course, produced even more laughter. And now Nina started to laugh, too. But it just wasn’t funny.

The wolf-bird

2009-09-09T10:26:00.004+02:00

The raven has been called the wolf-bird, because of its tight connection to wolves. The ravens will enter the scene only a few minutes after the wolves have succeeded with a kill. The ravens follow the wolves, but could it also be the other way around?

Of course, the wolves will observe ravens in the air, circling around a carcass. But I’m thinking about something else. I’m thinking about an active role, a tell and show; a raven’s clue for the wolf to follow.

The ravens know what’s going on. It’s an overview in everything they do. The ravens also know what they would like to eat, but the wolves have to kill it first (unless the humans dump it).

I once tried a sound decoy on the ravens. They were gathered in the trees maybe a hundred meter away. I hid in the bushes and started the wild death-cry of the snowshoe hare.

Within seconds I had a black ball of circling ravens above me. The intensity of the ravens took me by surprise.

An hour later I tried again, but this time I observed the ravens through the binoculars. Not one of the ravens got fooled. They just sat in the trees, and if anything they reacted with contempt to my little act. But it did look like they gave each other some sidelong glances.

Flood water

2009-09-07T09:52:00.002+02:00

I've been sifting through our pictures of fog. It turns out we had some kind of fog on Bistcho Lake, too. Although this was more a frost mist, created by the flood water (or overflow) on the ice.

During our eight months at Tapawingo we hardly had any wind at all. The snow stayed in the trees for weeks. In the morning we could see the chimney smoke gathering like a stratum in the tree tops.

I've been trying hard to avoid kitsch photography, but it's damn hard to resist when nature doesn't present itself in any other way. The beauty of Bistcho Lake is difficult to miss when taking pictures during the early morning or late evening.

The flood water was never fun, though. It often meant that we got stuck with the skidoo (snowmobile), and needed help from another skidoo to get loose. We always used two skidoos for this reason.

Often there was no telling if the snow concealed 30 centimetre of water. And it could be patches with flood water even though the ice was a meter thick.

I seemed particular prone for this misfortune. I drove deep into the flood water once I ventured out alone. The trick is to speed up, and try to drive straight through, but there was way too much water on this occasion. I could feel how the skidoo slowed down to a halt. The belt started spinning in the slush. My shoes got soaking wet, but I had to walk for about an hour in ÷30˚C, back to the cabin to get help from Nina, a skidoo and 100 meter of rope.

The bus to Bogotá

2009-09-04T07:51:00.001+02:00

During our stay in Cartagena, Colombia, we felt like seeing more of this beautiful country. People were friendly, and eager to prove that Colombia was a lot more than drugs and civil war.

We left Bika in the marina and started the bus ride south to Bogotá; up through the valleys, up the mountain sides; we got the frightening joy of looking down, while the driver seemed to be playing with suicidal thoughts, and drove like there was no tomorrow.

I’ve always dreaded the idea of ending my days in traffic. I could see burnt-out vehicles in the valley below, lying upside down like dead insects.

We changed driver in the middle of nowhere. He held a short speech before taking off, just a reminder about the next stops, but then he ended everything with “and may God be with you on the journey.” I looked at Nina. I didn’t find this comforting at all.

It seemed obvious that the new driver was trying to beat his personal record for the next distance. He was religious, though. I could see how he rapidly crossed himself while passing all these memory shrines along the road; pictures of the dead, crosses and candles.

But religion has nothing to do with respect for other people's lives, as we had seen, and the wild driving continued through the hairpin curves of the Colombian highland.

I'd had enough of this. My nerves were shredded. I managed to talk Nina into an alternative route, with slow local buses. We would also see more of the countryside, I argued.

But at the bus stop we got people asking where we were heading. Bogotá, we said. They shook their heads, we couldn’t go this way, unless we had a death wish and wanted to get kidnapped by FARC or ELN. We had to turn back to the main road.

We continued with the long distance bus, and passed several checkpoints along the main road to Bogotá. Three times the bus got stopped. Every man had to come out, while the women could sit and observe us getting patted down. If I had a gun, well, it might have crossed my mind to hand it over to Nina before getting out. But the Colombian military had a chivalry that was impressing.

Trust your spouse

2009-09-02T09:05:00.000+02:00

In 2004, the year before we started the circumnavigation, we sailed up to Nina's parents in Jøkelfjorden (“jøkel” means glacier). Jøkelfjorden is above the arctic circle, and it was a long journey for a short season.

Nina hadn’t done much sailing before this trip. In fact, we had only sailed a long weekend to the south of Norway, when Nina got really seasick. Maybe a circumnavigation wasn’t for us.

We made it to Jøkelfjorden, but on our way south again, it was my turn to get sick. It was some kind of stomach virus, I even had a night in the Harstad hospital. But we had to hurry south, before the autumn gales would set in.

I was lying down below, feeling miserable, but Nina took charge of Bika and was learning fast.

Maybe it was a good thing, seen in retrospect. Sailing is not difficult; it’s more difficult to build confidence and trust. I remember when Nina called for help, we had dense fog and a force 6 wind, and she asked casually if I could help her with the lookout.

I was sitting in the cockpit, pale and quiet. But I think we both realized that the circumnavigation was for us. The dream got strengthened.

The picture is from Karlsøy, when the wind had died out and the fog almost lifted.

Sailing among skyscrapers

2009-08-31T09:57:00.009+02:00

Everybody knows that cruising can give access to remote places, like tucked away bays or unpopulated islands. But it’s less known that living in your own boat can make it affordable to explore expensive cities.

It’s also less stressful, especially on a budget, to unwind in your own boat, than to be staying in a run down hotel, where you hear sounds through naked walls and wonder what the heck is going on.

The fee for the marina is not that much if you are, say, staying in the 79^th Street Basin in Manhattan, New York, or just tied up along the quay in beautiful Porto, Portugal (where we had landlubbers asking if we really came all the way from Norway in “that little thing”).

Chicago was another big city highlight. We stayed in Monroe Harbor Marina, a friendly place with a good access to the city.

Finally we had to unstep the mast and use the outboard to the first lock, outside Chicago River. We passed through down-town Chicago in the early morning, straight through the most interesting cluster of modern architecture. It’s an experience that our little boat made possible.

The fox

2009-08-28T06:58:00.000+02:00

As the fox passed our window early one morning, I grabbed the camera and went out, wondering why the fox was so unafraid.

The fox ran around me like a dog. Curious, playful, intelligent. There’s something alluring about friendly encounters with wild animals. It’s easy to think that you’re experiencing the world like it was meant to be.

Hunters and trappers will often claim nature as brutal, in order to have a moral right to do their own killing. I think it’s interesting when, say, wolf hunters get indignant at the way wolves hunt. But this discussion is not getting anywhere. I’ve met enough hunters to know when they start to circle their wagons of belief. I’m not against hunting, either; I’m against certain types of hunters.

The fox sat down and yawned. I guess it’d been a long night. Then he suddenly sensed something a couple of meters away. He arched over and dived down with the nose deep in the snow. Up came a lemming.

It felt like I'd gotten a friend for life, but we never saw this particular fox again. Maybe it got trapped. Maybe the fur hangs in the closet of a bourgeois woman. Or maybe the fox had more important things to do, than hang around with me.

The fox acted as it was tame, even domesticated, but it had probably never seen humans before. This is the alluring thing about encounters with truly wild animals; they sometimes act as if humans aren’t dangerous. They don’t know better.

The owls

2009-08-26T13:32:00.005+02:00

One of the most common sounds in the dark, during our stay at Tapawingo, was the calls of the great horned owl. It sounded something like “hoho hoo-hoo”, and then it would be quiet for maybe 10-20 seconds, before the call was repeated.

The great horned owl is a big hunter, up to 1.5 meter wingspan, and highly skilled (as all the owls). I once saw a great horned owl early in the dusk; it just swept from the tree and down the cut line in front of me. The wings were almost touching the snow. It was remarkable how this huge bird could fly totally silent.

We never got a good picture of the great horned owl, and I was getting a bit obsessed, since we often could hear the calling at dawn. The first times I dressed quickly, but later I stopped, thinking “damn it, the bird will be gone anyway,” and undressed. The call would continue. Hoho hoo-hoo. I couldn’t listen to this for long. I dressed up again, grabbed the camera, and went out. The bird was gone.

It sounded like a couple was going to nest close by the cabin. We even found the tree. The owls swallow their smaller prey whole, and we could see the regurgitated nuggets of bone and fur, but up in the dense pine there was nothing.

Nina discovered the boreal owl; it was just sitting in the snow, like it was sick or injured. This is a small owl, rarely seen. It seemed to accept that I was crawling around in the snow for a good shot. But the eyes flared up in panic when our cat entered the scene. We managed to hold the cat, though.

A couple of hours later the boreal owl was gone. We couldn’t see any animal tracks around, and hoped the owl got better and flew away.

The owls are mysterious, and subjected to at lot of myths in medieval Europe. We once photographed the horned owl from a great distance, it didn’t turn out well, but after enlarging the picture we could see how the owl seemed to be without a head. It was flying headless. This, of course, has been taken for an incarnation of the dead: “There is a decapitated man flying in our yard!” They didn’t need horror movies in those days.

If eyes could kill. We saw this great grey owl on our way to High Level. There were several along the road.

Music and silence

2009-08-24T10:06:00.003+02:00

You can listen to music for several reasons, but I’m into music for its silence. I’ve come to this conclusion after looking at my playlist. It’s not for dancing. It’s the kind of tunes that knows something about silence.

At Tapawingo I woke around 5 am, ate breakfast and started to write. I listened to music in my headphones and waited for the morning light. Then I went for a walk. It wasn’t for the exercise, but to stop and listen.

We often say that snow is silent but it’s not. I’ve heard a recording of snow falling, amplified. The woods are not silent either. Just listen: there will be sound. Listen deeper: more sounds will appear. Music and silence have a lot in common.

The primeval forest is in a constant process of growth and decay. Branches are breaking under the weight of snow, in the wind, in temperatures going up and down. This kind of forest is noisy because it's alive.

Through the fog

2009-08-21T06:56:00.003+02:00

We had some doubts when entering the oil sector of the North Sea. There are plenty of platforms and supply ships around, and normally you just have to eyeball yourself through it all.

But the patches of fog got more dense, the wind died out, and everything unfolded like a nightmare in slow motion. We had the radar reflector hoisted. I guess the dew forming on the sails helped a bit, too.

We could hear the deep coarse sounds of distant fog horns. This was serious ships. Our little canister just gave a muted fart. Nina shook it up a bit and that seemed to help, but still, this game would have to be settled on the radar. And we had none.

We got contact with a stationary supply ship over the VHF. They could see us, but we couldn’t see anything. The captain said we were heading straight at them. He then came up with a surprise solution; he would move.

The picture is not as dramatic as it seems. It’s not from the North Sea, but from the channel outside Mobile, Alabama, the ship had reduced speed and a predictable course. But the dark grey wall appeared less than a hundred meter in front of us.

Radar is out of the question for our engineless little boat, but we’re considering AIS, after a slow bickering back and forth. We’re all taking our chances in life. But of course, the worst fog stories never get told.