Fumbling in the dark

There is nothing quite like boating in the dark. When the landscape is stripped of its color and shapes, leaving only lights behind, the darkness also strips all the noise out of the navigation task. You're no longer going to be wondering about the shape of that point or whether or not you recognize a certain ridge on land - instead you will see only what you need to make your way safely where you're going. Some people find this lack of sensory input boring. I find it serene. Waiting for the next light to appear while basking in the ghostly glow from phosphorescent plankton takes me out of this world, to a secure bubble into which only the elements and the journey itself may intrude.

When I decided to take Jonas home last night, this was only partially on my mind. The greater part of my mind was preoccupied with getting home in a hurry. I had been socializing with Goffe, and as I'd stayed well stuck into his sofa until he proclaimed it was bedtime, the clock was nearing midnight as I walked into downtown Moss. From the canal bridge, the walk home takes over an hour, whereas the boat ride takes about twenty minutes. It seemed like an easy choice to use Jonas, and for the first five minutes I regretted nothing.

Gliding slowly out of Moss, running the engine up to temperature while leaving the arc lights of the city behind and approaching the moonlit landscape ahead, I was quickly transported to my favorite bubble. It burst with a resounding crash when I hit the first ice floe, a heavy piece which kept rotating in my wake. I should have been able to see that, even with the moon behind me, so I stood up and started taking notice. I could see other lumps ahead, but I kept running into thin ice sheets which were impossible to spot on the calm surface. After a while I was running through an unbroken layer of thin ice, invisibly transisting into thicker patches which jarred the little boat, sometimes striking hard enough to knock the screw into neutral.

It was around this time that I started thinking seriously about finding my anchor point on the ice. I'd actually thought about this when I left the gear behind, reasoning that I would probably find it if I took good notice of where it was in relation to the surrounding landmarks. Now that I found myself looking for a blue rope on the ice in the darkness while blinded by the lights on the FK wharf, I suddenly wasn't so sure any more. There is no shred of serenity to be found in a boat at night if you don't know exactly where you're going, and it only took a few minutes for me to start doubting that I was going to find the anchor at all.

I had taken down a detailed, mental image of the position of my mooring point, related to the features of the landscape south of FK. Thus, I knew when I was getting close, I knew pretty much exactly when I was abreast of it, and I knew when I had passed it. Still there was nothing to be seen, save for ever undulating shades of gray across the ice sheet. I kept going north after I realized I had passed my point, knowing that my only hope was that I would recognize something as it glided through the reflection of the moon, which extended in a stripe to the SW. Just as I was about to turn back, not knowing what to do next, I saw a dark shape in the moonlight stripe.

It might have been anything, but I had a pretty definite idea that there was nothing on that patch of ice except for my mooring gear, so I turned back. I don't know what I would have done if the lump turned out to be sleeping swans, but luckily it was the fender I had used to buoy the anchor in case it melts through. Such a fantastic release of tension! In the blink of an eye I went from uncertainty to security, from staring into the murky darkness with my heart racing to trudging happily home across the ice, and a little while later I slept like a baby.

So what did I learn from this? Nothing significant. Others might have gleaned any number of valuable lessons, but I'm too stubborn to go that way. Thus, this story hasn't earned a Lessons Learned tag. However, I did come away with a tiny piece of wisdom: If you're planning to return to a specific location along the edge of an ice floe in the dark, leave a stake with a reflector on it. That is all.