"Pinned down by the wind while on this rowing adventure in the Artic." (BBC Scotland)
Page 1: We are stuck in some hard white, numbing cold stuff and I'm thinking about the last time I did my laundry and didn't have a sheet of Bouncy for the dryer. Anyway, for the time being showers, fry-ups and sissy beds are not for us. For 105.7 days, nights, afternoons and Easter; the wind. Howling from N by NW past Carry Grant at about 30mph, which means something more than an upset tum. Still, we are hiding under Henry's big dugout in a relatively sheltered bay, only 60 miles to the next one via a mountain pass. The coast is where all the open frozen water is, but it's colder there and we don't like getting wet. It's not worth beating ourselves up for a little progress, so back into my Inuit kit and a bedtime story from Henry. The wind. A bloody wild creature that only the rugged out-doorsy aran sweater types can hack. We're not, so why are we here? Did we do a wrong turning from the wedding party that winter's night, into that posh folks rowing club and say "yes"? "South tomorrow", said Nigel which is a comforting word to hear. "South". I say it under my breath. But I know, he knows, the compass should but doesn't seem to, that it's the wrong direction.Time passes us by, then once more we're on board, but being rocked violently. Graham the Grump is doing his erratic fist-waving-at-the Moose-head on the imaginary wall routine, all because he's not allowed in the leader's front seat. This was all explained to me later, so I can't confirm it's accuracy. I must have been out for at least 29hrs18 mins3seconds after being hit across the head by Grumpy's oar. And I've no recall as to how we got to the next, slushy ice bay and across the Wellington channel towards Nunavut. Page 2 of our sea going Artic adventure coming just as soon as my concussion clears.
