One of the annual summer supply barges arrives in Kivalina Lagoon.
Anthony Dalton
Chapter 5
As I tried to find a way round the shoals to get into Kivalina Lagoon, a heavily built man ran down the gravel beach, waving to me. I stood up and waved back. He pointed to his right, well northwest of my position. As he did so, he walked in the same direction. I carefully motored parallel to shore until we were opposite each other and about 50 metres apart. The man beckoned me toward him. When I was no more than three boat-lengths from shore, he motioned me to turn right and indicated a navigable channel to safety. The rest was easy.
I hadn’t seen any sign of ships or heard any talk of the supply vessels since I left Nome, so I was surprised to find a tug at anchor and a barge being unloaded behind the village. I cruised past on the placid water of the lagoon and beached well away from the action. I was cold, stiff and hungry. My legs creaked and complained as I forced them to move on the unyielding dry land. Standing up for much of the nine-hour run from Kotzebue, even though I constantly flexed my knees to maintain balance, had created tense muscles and the beginnings of cramps. I stamped my feet a few times, did a knee bend or two and rotated my aching shoulders, but all it did was amuse a couple of kids. The soreness remained. I tied up to a lonely looking metal post, which showed signs of having once restrained a dog, and breathed a sigh of relief.
With Audacity securely moored, I asked a small boy to direct me to the house of Ron Adams, the Inupiat I had met in Kotzebue. Ron greeted me warmly and treated me to a steaming hot mug of coffee, then took me next door to meet his father, Caleb Adams. I recognized him immediately as the man who had directed me into the lagoon. I asked if they knew whether the barge carried fuel supplies for the village.
“I don’t think so,” Ron told me. “That usually comes in on the North Star. [Correctly, the ship’s name is North Star III.] He’s due any day now. But there’s gasoline here.”
Although I didn’t think I needed fuel at that point, I preferred to keep my tanks topped up. In fact, having full gas tanks was becoming something of an obsession with me as I travelled farther north.
Later I checked with one of the barge’s crew to see if they carried gasoline. The answer was a definite no. There was no fuel in the shipment. And contrary to what Ron had said, I discovered there was little fuel left in the village. Sylvester Swan, who lived close to where I had moored Audacity, told me a boat had been sent to Kotzebue a few days earlier to bring back as much gasoline as it could carry for the permanent residents. It had not yet returned, but Sylvester said there should be enough for me to buy some—if the fuel arrived and if the custodian of the fuel dump came back from his current fishing trip before I left.
Silently I thanked my damaged propeller bushing for inadvertently sending me to Kotzebue. Had I taken the direct route non-stop to Kivalina, planning to buy gas there, I could have found myself uncomfortably short of fuel on arrival. My tanks, topped up in Kotzebue, carried enough to get me to Point Hope at least, and probably as far as Cape Lisburne. Even though I had used more gasoline than anticipated in the rough seas coming up from Kotzebue, the scarcity of fuel in Kivalina did not concern me at that time. Rather than waste any more precious fuel, though, I heated my sheath knife on the stove and used it to melt the plastic sides of the damaged tank. Pressing the malleable lips together, I hoped they would hold firm. Then I smeared on more silicone to assist the sealing process.
I pitched my tent near Audacity and prepared a meal of vegetable stew and rice. It was rather unpalatable but, hot and filling, served its purpose.
The kids, excited by the arrival of the barge, became unruly. Naturally noisy, they screamed and shouted and raced round my tent, occasionally tripping over its corners and generally being a nuisance.
After dinner I watched, with the kids and adults, as the barge and tug left. Next stop for them was Point Hope; then they’d head on up the coast to Barrow, if the ice allowed. It was the same route I planned to take. Their departure from Kivalina could have been smoother. As the tug steamed out of the channel, the barge got stuck on a sandbar, which wasted valuable time for the crew. I noted the obstruction’s hidden position for my departure a few hours later.
The sun was shining brightly when I went to bed. The children, who are left to do what they want in the short summer, stayed out playing until the early morning hours. They were noisy. The dogs added their voices to the din, howling for hours, each trying to outcry the others. They sounded louder than the dogs at Shishmaref, probably because I was closer to the village. I crawled out of my tent at about 4:30, after a restless and tiring night, to find the sun was still shining and the kids were playing much too close and far too loudly. I made myself some tea and got back in my sleeping bag. When I woke again at 6:30, the tea was cold and the kids were gone. Snuggled into the warmth, I had little desire to get up and go back to sea. I lay there for about an hour, thinking about it, until I gave my butt a mental kick and started packing for departure.
While I procrastinated, a thick fog had rolled in. Audacity was only two or three steps from me, yet she was almost invisible. The breeze was light, and the fog was unlikely to lift until a wind developed. Rather than waste time, I baled out some water and dried the inside of the hull as best I could, but once I was loaded, I had to wait until the fog burned off.
I cursed myself for being lazy that morning. Had I left soon after I first woke up, I might have got to Point Hope before the fog descended. Of course, the fog may have blanketed the coast in that direction before reaching Kivalina. Nonetheless, I would have been farther on my way, even if I ended up stuck on a deserted stretch of rarely travelled land. Confounded once again by weather, I went in search of the gas man. He was, I heard, still in the interior, up one of the rivers. “He’s gone fishin’,” someone said.
Sitting on Audacity’s bow, waiting for the fog to clear, I developed an acute attack of nerves. I was worried about the voyage immediately ahead of me. I knew the low-lying land at the foot of the DeLong Mountains could send vicious williwaws screaming seawards. The same was true off Cape Lisburne. Reports told of wild winds in that area most of the time. With a thick fog enveloping the sea, I fretted that I might be blown too far offshore by errant gusts. The thought of being adrift on the open ocean made me even more reluctant to continue.
Little was visible through the fog. A few nebulous rectangular shapes marked the outlines of houses. Nothing moved, not even the mist. My stomach began to grumble, so I broke out the stove again and made a bowl of hot oatmeal. The exercise gave me something else to think about for a while, and eating the meal made me feel much better mentally and physically. After breakfast I waited in the chilly air again, and the nerves came back to haunt me.
The fog finally lifted slightly at 10:25 that morning. I cast off immediately—watched by Caleb Adams, who reminded me to keep to the channel he had shown me the previous day. We passed the spot where the barge had stuck, without incident, and followed the invisible channel through the sandbars to the open reaches of the Chukchi Sea. The sky was grey, the sun’s warmth kept at bay by cloud and the remnants of the fog. I stood up on the off chance that I would be able to see over it, but it was higher than I. There was little wind. The sea was subdued, swaying pleasantly to its own rhythm, without arrogance or malice.
I kept close to the shore, and about an hour after departure we almost ran up on a rock. With its apex just showing in a trough, completely invisible under a swell, it was a potentially deadly pinnacle. We swerved up the side of a small wave, avoiding the danger by less than the span of my arms.
Gradually the fog and cloud dispersed enough to reward me with a clear blue sky. I increased Audacity’s speed, eager to make up for lost time. The wind picked up about halfway to Point Hope, blowing hard from the north, and the voyage became a battle: the wind tried to blow me out to sea, while I tried to keep us on course against it. The waves doubled in size in response to the wind and attempted to bounce me out of my seat. I was cold all the way. Filling my belly with hot food before I left Kivalina had been a sensible way to pass the time. The internal fuel kept me warm and cheerful, in spite of the exterior cold.
Two events enlivened the 75-mile (137-kilometre) voyage. It was difficult to hear much at sea. The drone of the outboard, combined with the wind and the rippling waves, masked any other sounds. So when a shadow suddenly flashed over me, roaring loudly, I instinctively ducked to avoid the small plane flying low overhead. Once it was past, the pilot waggled his wings in greeting and climbed again. I guessed it was the bush pilot I had met in Kotzebue a couple of days before. Such happenings, though rare, made me feel less alone.
The second highlight was off Cape Thompson. For the dedicated ornithologist, the cape is a paradise—providing the watching is done from the top of the cliff. Out on the sea, too much was happening for precise observation. It was exhilarating and frightening at the same time. Strong williwaws howled off the cliffs, tormenting the waves. The seas piled up in all directions. Puffins and gulls rode the confused air waves above me with a grace that belied the strength of the wind.
I surfed through waves and spray, over two-metre-high crests and into their troughs. At times Audacity was almost airborne. The only way to remain on an even keel was to have both hands firmly attached to the wheel, my feet braced under the deck and my rear end clamped tightly to the seat. Each shuddering wave did its best to dislodge me.
The birds, undeterred by the winds, put on lively displays for me. Close to the cape I encountered a flock of thick-billed murres, a diving bird like a small duck. Murres only go ashore to breed; their natural elements are the sea and the winds. When they are fishing, the birds can stay underwater for two minutes at a time. With such lung control, they are able to swim, or fly, long distances under water in search of prey, using their wings as fins. Their motion under water is vaguely similar to that of penguins, but murres have the advantage of aerial flight, which penguins have lost through evolution. Penguins, of course, are only found in the wild in the southern hemisphere, within reasonable proximity to Antarctica.
Off the cape, the murres sat on the water, their black and white bodies bobbing up and down with the wave action, watching my approach. When I was almost on top of them, they flapped their wings furiously and ran across the surface to safety. Some managed to take off, their feet stuck out behind their tails; others crashed without even getting airborne. If they couldn’t fly, they did the next best thing. As Audacity raced toward them in about four fathoms (seven metres) of water, the birds upended themselves, showing white breasts and bellies, before diving deep to escape. I thought they were expending far too much energy. It would have been so much simpler to paddle aside and let me pass without any fuss.
Once around the cape I could see Point Hope ahead. We must have picked up a strong current, because although it was an extremely bumpy ride over water only two fathoms (3.66 metres) deep for much of the way, we reached Point Hope less than four hours after leaving Kivalina.
Tucked against the steep bank were no fewer than four barges and tugs. (The first proved to be the two vessels that had left Kivalina the day before me.) I raced at full speed toward them, expecting to find a safe landing site. I was disappointed. The beach against which the barges were moored, stern to, was all pebbles and angled at about 45 degrees, far too steep for a safe landing without help. I let my motor idle as I surveyed the scene, wondering how to get ashore. There was no one to offer assistance or advice, and no small boats moored anywhere in sight.
The village boats, I guessed, must be on the opposite side of the town, round the point, perhaps in the shelter of Marryat Lagoon. I would have to make my approach to the town from the north. Pouring on the power, Audacity passed to seaward of the tugs and barges. The final spit of the Tigara Peninsula was only a few hundred metres farther, but before I got halfway there, I could see a heavy sea running south from the Arctic Ocean down the Chukchi Sea, aiming for the Bering Strait. It looked rough and distinctly unpleasant.
A current flows north around the cape. The wind was blowing south. There was an immediate conflict. Having been slowed by the north wind for much of the past few hours, then virtually untouched by it in the lee of Point Hope, I was strangely unprepared for the activity in my path.
I was used to rough seas, high waves, long swells, but the scene that confronted me off Point Hope was far worse than anything I had encountered on any previous voyage. Close to land, the seas began piling up. Farther out, to the west, great ranks of huge waves rumbled steadily south in the direction of the Aleutians and Hawaii. It was not a pretty sight for any sailor.
Although boats are generally far safer out at sea than close to land, it is not always so. If I were to get well beyond the cape, to possibly less-inspired seas, I would have to travel due west. That meant crossing a large patch of ocean with the wind and waves beam-on to Audacity. Without immense care and attention to every nuance of each wave, that route led to almost certain disaster.
My choices were limited. I had to go north and those big waves were in the way. I still had to go north. Avoiding the messy surf close in, I began a wide semicircle to the southwest to round the point and meet the waves head-on.
Before I reached the rollers and committed myself unequivocally to going forward, I leaned back and checked the fuel gauge on the main tank. It registered close to empty. I picked it up and shook it while Audacity strained to get into the action off the point. The tank had no more than 10 or 15 minutes of fuel left. The second tank was almost full, but after being dumped overboard off Port Clarence, I had no wish to switch tanks under the current conditions. If there was nowhere to run ashore immediately after the cape, I would be in serious trouble when the motor cut out.
I turned in a semicircle to find calmer waters. There I quickly changed tanks and returned to the fray. Ahead the big waves marched south. Fuel was temporarily forgotten as I concentrated on getting us over the first obstacle. With Audacity charging under full power, I almost reached the top. Not quite. No matter how hard Audacity tried, she could not climb the last metre through the surf to the crest.
Where the sea boils and foams, it is enriched with air. At the wildest summits, where the waves break upon themselves, shattering into billions of pea-sized drops, bubbles and spittle-like spray, there can be almost as much air as fluid. Audacity’s propeller was designed to push a boat through water, not through air. She could not get a grip. Her bow was over the top; the rest of the boat was on the incline. A wicked wind buffeted the underside of the exposed part of the hull. She stalled, hanging indecisively, ineffectively, while the wave toyed with us. Slowly we began to surf downwards, involuntarily reversing, the wind trying to flip Audacity on her back.
Without more power we couldn’t get over, or through, the peak of the wave. Without more power, Audacity and I were at the mercy of that wind. I frantically spun the wheel to starboard. With the motor screaming at full revs, Audacity slid sideways, threatening to roll beam-on down the wave.
The wave was moving faster than I anticipated. It picked Audacity up and rolled underneath us, leaving us howling along its crest for a short distance before we angled down its back. My log says we drove straight through the next wave, turned behind it and raced back to the safety of the south shore on its back. Once out of the line of fire, in the relatively calm waters near the barges, I found my heart was pounding like a bass drum, adrenaline pumping wildly.
“You want some help?” a faint voice called. I looked up the steep bank to where a lone man stood watching me.
“Yeah, I sure do,” I shouted back. “Can you catch this line?”
I coiled the painter and threw it as two willing hands reached out to catch a loop. Right on target first time. As my helper pulled me in to shore, I scrambled over Audacity’s bow. One leap took me to my knees on rolling pebbles. One foot went in the water. The rest of me clung to the bank. Orange, brown and black pebbles trickled downhill under my hands and knees. I hung on until the bank stopped moving, then crabbed in an ungainly motion to the top.
About two metres above my landing place, the beach levelled off to a broad plateau. My helper dug the anchor hard into the ground. Audacity rolled a bit in the swell, tugging lightly at the mooring. It would maintain her position long enough for me to check on the whereabouts of fuel. My supplies were down considerably. The tank I had run on from Kivalina was almost dry.
The town of Point Hope was close by. Within a few minutes I had found a restaurant and learned where to get gasoline. The restaurant owners, Pat and Thelma—two women from the lower 48—talked me into having a coffee and said they would come to the beach later to see my boat. They kindly agreed to look after my camera equipment for me while I searched for fuel.
When I got back to the boat to collect a fuel tank, there was a crowd of kids on the shore. Four of them held grimly to Audacity’s mooring line. The anchor, no longer embedded in the beach, lay discarded to one side. I had the distinct impression that idle hands had loosened the hook. Later, after another run-in with kids, I suspected some of them had tried to pull Audacity in to shore with a view to petty larceny.
I tugged at Audacity until she was beam-on to me and began to unload her. The kids disappeared. Each item I unloaded had to be carried up the steep bank of loose pebbles to flat land. The fuel tanks, heaviest and most difficult to handle, were first. One, still streaked with silicone, spurted a thin stream of gasoline at me as I lifted it. So much for my repairs.
By the time I finished I was hot and sticky. Audacity had obviously taken a few waves over the transom because she was carrying about 30 litres of seawater in her hull. I baled as much out as I could to lessen the weight. Even so, it was impossible to haul her out on my own. The bank was too steep and Audacity too heavy.
A young Inupiat man sat on a motorbike and watched as I tried, ineffectively, to drag Audacity out of the water.
“Can you help me get her up to dry land?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. He simply dismounted, laid his bike on the ground and ran down the pebbles. Without a word he lifted one side of the bow, grunted at me and began to pull. Even with two of us, it took considerable effort to drag her up the bank out of reach of the sea.
Once she was high and dry, my helper smiled and spoke for the first time, “Okay?”
“Yeah, that’s great. Thanks for the help.”
He wandered over to his bike, which had one handlebar dug into the pebbles. Lifting it upright, he kicked the starter and the motor burst into life.
“Can you give me a ride to the gas station?”
“No,” he shook his head. “I seen a couple of walrus near the beach, back there by the cape. I gotta go.”
He roared away before I could hitch a ride to see the walruses or even ask his name. An element of frustration hung over the afternoon. The sky was clear and a deep blue. The sea to the south was calm with a slight rolling swell. I could see Cape Thompson to my left and the final spit of land by Point Hope to my right. Behind me, out of the north, the wind howled. To the west, where the Arctic Ocean had a clear run south, the waves were enormous. The wind from the north caused the sea to collide with the current flowing from the south. Between them they created the threatening tumult barring my course.
I needed two things: more fuel and a southeasterly breeze. If the wind worked in harmony with the current, rather than the two forces pushing against each other, rounding the point would be a simple matter, akin to my easy trip through the Bering Strait.
With the advantage of hindsight, I now realize I could have tried to pay someone to load my boat and supplies on the back of a pickup truck. It was only a kilometre or so from where I stood on the south shore to the lagoon on the other side. I could have relaunched Audacity there and cruised the lagoon until the wind changed. I could even have motored up the Kukpuk and Ipewik rivers for a while in search of adventure. Of course, had I done so, I would not have rounded Point Hope by sea.
Hopeful of hitching a ride back, I walked to the gas station carrying a single red plastic jerry can. The pump was locked; there was no attendant in sight. I asked a boy where I could find the gas man. The boy shrugged and ran away. I asked an adult. He waved in the general direction of town before continuing on his way. I scribbled a brief message in my notebook, asking the gas man to come and see me when he had time. Tearing it out, I tucked it into the padlock’s arch, hoping the wind would leave it alone. Dispirited, I wandered back to Audacity.
Charlie, a very old man with white hair and a stoop to his back, came to talk to me. He was a long-time resident of the town of more than six hundred people. He insisted the wind would soon change.
“A couple more days like this and the wind will swing round to the south,” he predicted, pointing out the expected change of direction. “Be easy to go round that point then.”
It wasn’t what I wanted to hear. The wind was holding me up. I needed the wind to drop long before a couple of days were over.
“Where can I find the guy who sells gasoline?” I asked.
“There,” he pointed vaguely toward town.
“Can you show me where he lives?”
Charlie shook his head, said he would come back and talk some more in the morning, and walked slowly away on arthritic legs.
A large pile of timber was stacked at the highest point of the beach, probably off-loaded from one of the barges recently. With the wind out of the north, the tightly stacked planks made an effective windbreak. I pitched my tent as close as I could. If I were out of the wind, I might get a good night’s sleep. Inevitably the kids came back to play on the beach. They ran around the woodpile and tripped over the guy ropes on each circuit. Tired of the boisterous play, I threatened two of them with the infinite wrath of their parents or, failing that, the anger of the local police. Nothing really deterred them, but despite the noise I managed a few hours’ rest.
Looking out in the morning, I could see the wind was changing, as Charlie had predicted. It seemed to be blowing in all directions, as if unsure what to attack. High clouds, cirrostratus, like mare’s tails in the sky, heralded bad weather. I hoped it was not for my part of the world. Feeling groggy from lack of sleep, I made a mug of tea and ate a handful of nuts for breakfast. Although the sun was shining brightly, the sky had taken on a venomous look. I gathered my wits and vowed to get under way without delay.
I estimated that the fuel station was about a kilometre away from my camp. There was no way I could carry the main tanks that distance, even one at a time, once they were full. I would need help unless I were to make several journeys with a small can and fill the tanks on site. Point Hope was well blessed with vehicles of all shapes and sizes, so I figured getting a ride would not be a problem, especially as I was willing to pay.
Every time I saw a person with a car or truck, I asked for help. They all declined. Nobody had any interest in earning a few extra dollars or in being a good Samaritan. Everyone I spoke to claimed they were too busy, yet no one seemed to be working.
The weather report suggested a reasonably stable day with a change for the worse that evening. The sky suggested the change might come earlier than that. I hurried to the fuel station again, carrying one empty tank, to see if anyone there would help. As a last resort I was prepared to harness myself like a dray horse, drag the filled tank back to Audacity and then repeat the exercise with the other.
Charlie, who had said he would come back in the morning, was nowhere to be seen. A dusty pickup truck stood by the fuel pump. Its driver leaned against the door, adjusting a broken wing mirror.
“If I pay you, will you help me get this tank of gas back to the south beach?” I prayed silently as I asked. “Then I need to bring another one over here to fill as well.”
He looked at the tank and at me. Then he looked at his wristwatch. The time was 9:15 AM.
“Okay,” he drawled, “I’ll come by that beach at about two o’clock.”
Then, to my astonishment, he got in the truck and drove away. The pump was unlocked, my note gone. I looked around for the custodian of the fuel, but he was nowhere in sight. A local fisherman saw me with my tank and came over.
“Don’t buy gas here,” he warned. “It’s got water in it.”
“What do you mean?” The news caught me completely off guard. “How did water get in the tanks? The fuel only arrived yesterday.”
“When they filled up that tank, someone hooked up the wrong hose at first and pumped seawater in. The gas is no good here. You buy five gallons, you get two gallons of seawater and three gallons of gas.”
“Oh, bloody hell, no,” I moaned. “Is there anywhere else in Point Hope I can get fuel?”
“No. This is the only place. Gas is bad here.”
“Do you know if there’s fuel at Cape Lisburne?”
“They have some fuel.” He lifted my spirits a little, only to dash them again. “But that’s an army camp. They won’t sell any. The farther north you go, the harder it is to find gas.”
I knew that. I also knew there should be fuel available at Point Lay and at Icy Cape, if I could get there. Both were due to be resupplied by the barges working their way along the coast.
“Can I filter the seawater out?” I asked.
“You can, but it still don’t work too good.”
Out on the lagoon, a boater tried to start his engine. Time after time he pulled the starter cord. I had heard his motor coughing some time before without understanding the significance for me.
“That guy out there, he bought gas here yesterday,” my infor-mant told me. “He filtered his gas. It’s still no good.”
The thought of being stuck in heavy seas and high winds with dirty fuel was not a pleasant prospect. I considered the idea for a few seconds and then rejected it in favour of common sense. If I got caught on the open sea with a motor starved for clean fuel, I could easily get pushed into trouble by an unfriendly wind. There had to be another way.
The sky had darkened while I wasted time at the gas station. I watched the clouds tumbling roughly overhead. The blue of the early morning was gone. Point Hope was being threatened by a storm.
“Weather don’t look so good,” the fisherman told me with a sigh. “That’s the end of summer I think. This has been a bad year.”
“When does the ice return?” I asked.
“It’s already back onshore at Barrow. This northwest wind does that.”
I thanked the man for his advice and his information. Dejectedly I carried the empty tank back to Audacity, trying to calculate how far I could get on the fuel I had left. From a distance I could see the barges were gone. No cranes broke the skyline. I had thought of trying to buy a few litres of gas from the tug crews, if they had any. That last avenue was now closed to me.
For once there were no kids on the woodpile. In fact, the beach was deserted. I wondered at that, though secretly I was pleased to have peace and quiet. Before I left for fuel I had secured the tent, even to the extent of placing a small padlock on the zippers. The effort at security was wasted. In my absence the tent had been raided. The front had been ripped off. My food bag was half in, half out, its strong zipper gaping wide. Torn packets of freeze-dried vegetables, stews and soups were scattered all over the place. A plastic carton, which had contained oatmeal, lay nearby, minus lid and contents. Bags of nuts—some torn open, others left closed—lay in a pile. My sleeping bag had been tossed carelessly out on the pebbles behind the tent.
I had left a pair of strong, lightweight hiking boots in the tent. They were missing. Nothing else appeared to have been taken. Fortunately most of my gear was in two sturdy, waterproof canvas bags, tucked away out of sight under Audacity’s foredeck. Leaving my cameras at the restaurant had, it proved, been a stroke of luck. The reason for the lack of children was now blatantly obvious.
Two girls, perhaps eight or ten years old, peered at me from behind the woodpile as I cleared up the debris.
“Do you know who did this?” I asked.
“Two boys,” came the answer.
“What are their names?”
“Don’t know.”
The faces disappeared. Yesterday the beach had been crawling with screaming and yelling kids. Now all was silent. Not a boy in sight. The kids were steering well clear of the camp. In view of my mood at the time, it was probably the safest course of action.
Jim Woods, the Village Public Safety Officer, was sympathetic when I reported the break-in. A giant of a man with a soft Carolina accent, he made a few notes and promised to watch out for my boots. Other than that, he said, there was little he could do as I did not have a description of the culprits. I asked Jim about the fuel supplies at Point Hope. He confirmed that the quality was not good.
I went back to the restaurant for my cameras. Thelma was furious when I told her of my losses and promised to watch for any sign of my boots. A telephone engineer, overhearing the conversation, said he too would keep his eyes open for anyone wearing expensive grey hiking boots. They agreed that if either of them found the boots, they would ship them to Vancouver for me, COD. It was the best I could hope for.
Before I left I phoned Sylvester Swan in Kivalina to see if fuel had arrived yet.
“No, not yet,” I heard. “The North Star should be coming today or tomorrow.”
I phoned ahead to Point Lay. The report from there was not encouraging. A gale was blowing and gasoline stocks were very low. They had no idea when their new supplies would arrive. “Soon, maybe,” was the best they could guess.
I had nearly 60 litres remaining on board. With Audacity fully loaded, cruising in rolling seas, the outboard burned fuel at the rate of 10 to 12 litres per hour. In rough weather she had to work much harder, burning more fuel per hour. I had enough in the tank to reach Cape Lisburne but not go far beyond, certainly not as far as Point Lay. Or I had enough fuel to return to Kivalina if the wind and seas were kind. I considered having fuel flown in from Kotzebue with a new tent, but rejected the idea as far too expensive. It would be cheaper to go by boat and come all the way back again. Unfortunately, that would take at least four or five days, and I didn’t have that long. The fuel delivery aboard North Star was my only real chance. I had to return to Kivalina, though the thought of riding the seas round Cape Thompson again horrified me. My choices, obviously, were limited.