Extreme weather, polar bears, low chances of rescue and littered with icebergs – sailing the Northwest Passage is not for the faint of heart. But the crew of the Abel Tasman are more concerned about what will happen to this fragile ecosystem if it crosses any of the Earth’s 16 “Tipping Points.”

The 24-year-old first mate Alex Rockström grips the helm as the s/v Abel Tasman crests another gentle swell, her sails firm on their northwesterly bearing. She has only just rounded the infamous Cape Farewell without incident. Yet while the rugged peaks of Greenland’s southernmost tip can still be seen behind, all eyes remain fixed forward. An abrupt wall of fog lies dead ahead, potentially full of icebergs.

A dark patch of water approaching from starboard suddenly catches Alex’ attention. A moment later, gale-force winds howl through the rigging. The sails snap taut as the yacht heels violently to starboard, the once-calm waves quickly transforming into jagged peaks rolling in from the west.

“Gusts are hitting 38 knots, maybe more!” shouts the 26-year-old skipper, Isak Rockström, as he climbs out of the cabin and joins his brother at the helm station.

Alex braces against the wheel to head up into the wind as he calls out:

“Keith, reef the main! Isak, furl in that jib!”

The crew explodes into action: Keith Tuffley, the expedition’s leader, lurches to the mast, where he battles the reefing lines. Isak clings with one hand to the lifelines while struggling against the whipping jib with the other. Waves slam against the bow as the tempest propels the Abel Tasman into the cold, dark fog.

Alex would later describe this intersection of intense forces and minimum predictability as nerve-wracking. But while the voyage from Bergen, Norway to Nome, Alaska is long and full of dangers, there is a deeper sense of worry onboard. That’s because this voyage has a scientific mission. And the crew understands that humanity is sailing perilously close to planetary boundaries which, if crossed, will make the challenges met by the Abel Tasman expedition pale in comparison.

Three weeks earlier: A first farewell in Bergen

Clouds rest heavily upon the Norwegian town of Bergen’s renowned Seven Summits. Below, seagulls cry out as they fight over a mussel recently pulled from the rocky shoreline. At 12 degrees Celsius, it is far too cold a day to properly be called summer. Alongside a broad pier, a 75-foot steel-hulled schooner by the name of s/v Abel Tasman is moored.

The desire to explore the map’s lesser-known corners is shared by this expedition’s young command crew members, Alex and Isak. As they make their final preparations to set sail, it is clear that both are set on crossing the Northwest Passage – each for their own reasons.

Isak admits he is more inclined toward southerly latitudes, preferring the tropics both in his academic and personal pursuits. But he’s also one who enjoys the complexity of a good logistical challenge:

“The Northwest Passage is one of the few remaining sailing voyages that becomes an expedition. You must plan for such a long period of time and be ready for so many situations. So, it’s the challenge of it, of being prepared, and working as a team with a great group of people, which has attracted me here.”

Unlike his brother, Alex has long-since nurtured a fascination for all things Polar. But it wasn’t until he read a historical fiction, The Terror by Dan Simmons, that he became hell-bent on exploring these waters himself.

“Does it end well?” repeats Alex when asked, before responding ominously:

“No. No, it most certainly does not.”

From historical tragedies to modern science missions

Curiously, The Terror is a psychological horror story based on the ill-fated mid-19th century Franklin Expedition. Despite resorting to cannibalism, all 129 members of the crew perished from starvation.

To this day, the Northwest Passage is often mentioned together with other brags like the Drake Passage and Cape Horn and remains one of the greatest maritime feats. But for Keith, the Northwest Passage also represents a frontier for understanding our planet’s rapidly changing systems:

“Using advanced tools to gather benchmark data in biodiversity, sea ice melt, and pollution, the crew will act as ‘citizen scientists’ that help provide data to researchers back on land,” he explains.

“Parallel to this purpose, we’re also here to raise awareness of the ‘planetary tipping points,’ and just how close humanity may be to triggering several of them here in the Arctic.”

Why the Arctic matters: Tipping Points at the top of the world

The Arctic is often referred to as the “Earth’s Refrigerator” – and not just because it’s cold. In fact, while this region only accounts for 4% of the planet’s surface, it has an oversized impact on the stability of the globe’s climate and ecosystems. For example, the Arctic Ocean sea ice, Greenland ice sheet, and the snow-covered tundra, all reflect much of the sun’s energy back into space, thereby helping to cool global temperatures.

If this snow and ice cover were to disappear at a sufficient level, however, it would trigger a positive feedback loop that would rapidly raise global temperatures and sea levels. In ecology and environmental science, this is what’s known as a “tipping point.”

A team of twenty-eight leading Earth system and environmental scientists applied the tipping point concept to create the Planetary Boundaries framework in 2009. Of the sixteen tipping points they identified, six are situated along the Northwest Passage (see inset). The Planetary Boundaries team was led by renowned Swedish scientist and communicator Prof. Johan Rockström. As it happens, he is also the father of the Abel Tasman’s skipper and first mate.

It’s not possible to say precisely where the threshold to each tipping point lies. But even assuming the current rates remain constant, it is estimated that the Arctic Ocean will be completely ice-free by 2040.

“We shouldn’t even be here,” explains Keith, gesturing to the blue expanse that surrounds him on all sides.

“This passage used to be virtually impossible to navigate, but climate change has already removed nearly 75% of the Arctic summer sea ice.”

Iceberg dead ahead! First encounters with a beautiful adversary

After a week of high winds, fog, and fortunately no iceberg encounters, the Abel Tasman picks up a new crew member in Nuuk, Greenland. Karina Oliani, the expedition’s doctor, now has the helm and scans the blank white horizon warily as they sail forward at a snail’s pace.

With visibility of just a couple hundred of meters, an iceberg could be concealed anywhere in these dense mists… One set of eyes therefore remain glued to the radar below deck, while Alex scans from the bow, radio in hand.

“Shhh! Hear that?” whispers Karina.

Small “clucking” sounds of waves lapping against icebergs can be heard nearby. But the icebergs themselves remain unseen.

“The fog is so thick – will we even have time to steer clear if we do encounter an iceberg?” asks Alex by radio.

In answer to this question, a dark form soon emerges from the fog like a phantom, just fifty meters before them. Katrina veers quickly to starboard, sending the iceberg harmlessly past. Everybody jumps onto the deck, faces filled with both awe and dread as they witness the beautiful face of their adversary. Even sailing at just 4 knots and at a safe distance, it is still a little too close for comfort.

“Wouldn’t that damage the hull? I mean, how much can we handle?” wonders Karina. Nobody can say for sure.

Before long, 100-meter-wide monoliths become a regular sight, with fingers of ice reaching as high as the Abel Tasman’s mast. And as the days go on, improvised responses to these risks begin to fuse into increasingly reliable procedures:

“Sure, we’d done the research. But really, we came up here without a clue,” reflects Isak as he peers into the radar display.

“Even with satellite images, weather and ice reports and radar, it turns out that there’s still really only so much you can do. You have to accept there will always be a lack of control.”

Yet while Isak admits to losing sleep over the constant threat of an iceberg collision, his brother just can’t seem to get enough of them:

“I never tire of seeing the icebergs,” shares Alex, admiring one shaped like a towering fortress – complete with moat and parapet walls.

“It’s like an exhibition of the most beautiful sculptures. They amaze me every time.”

A race against time: Critical decision at Prince Regent

The midnight sun has thus far provided plenty of light, and weeks of fog are followed by weeks of remarkably agreeable weather. The fire-red sun meets the fjord’s blue ice as Alex entertains the crew with old country tunes on his guitar. It’s still summertime, and the living is (relatively) easy.

But as the days pass by, the darkness and cold slowly begin to creep in. And by August 12^th, a report arrives of a storm pushing a massive flow of sea ice that threatens to seal off the passage ahead within less than 24 hours.

An emergency meeting is called, and a heated debate ensues. The original plan was to sail via the Prince Regent Inlet. But if the icepack arrives first, the Abel Tasman could risk being boxed in from three sides. The crew would then need to make a hasty retreat along the same route back – a lengthy journey that would likely put an end to the expedition.

The alternate “safe” plan would be to wait out the storm and see what happens before making a move. But such a delay could similarly put them too far behind schedule. Faced with an impasse, Keith calls the Abel Tasman’s previous captain Roger Wallis, an experienced polar sailor who had himself completed the Northwest Passage, for advice.

“Hmm, that’s tricky,” Roger says over a remarkably crisp satellite phone connection.

“I’d go for it. But know that if you don’t make it ahead of the ice, you’ll be up shit’s creek without a paddle!”

Risk, resolve, and the crossing of ice barriers

Advance, stay or retreat? Unlike the earlier polar explorers, the Abel Tasman is equipped with unprecedented real-time data. Yet no matter how many arguments, counterarguments, and contingencies the crew comes up with, it’s impossible to remove all uncertainty and doubt.

“We’ve only got a window of about 15 hours. So, if we’re going to make a move, we have to make it now,” says Keith after nearly every option had been weighed several times.

After a moment, Isak speaks up: “I say we go for a home run. What do the rest of you say? Yay or nay?”

Each crewmember responds one at a time.

“It’s unanimous – the yays have it!”

With a renewed sense of purpose and unity, the crew quickly lifts anchor and sets sail for Fort Ross. But already that night, both the wind and the waves suddenly disappear. What little breeze there is, is bitterly cold. Nobody can yet see it, but everyone knows what this means: The ice is close.

As daylight arrives, a thick barrier of ice reveals itself, spreading as far as the eye could see.

“Have we arrived too late?” asks Alex, half to himself.

Spotting a thinner section in the ice, Isak steers cautiously toward it. The crew on deck stand ready with ice poles. Slowly and with great effort, they manage to push a path through the broken ice and back into open water. Only to encounter another barrier. And then another.

If just one of these ice walls prove impenetrable, there is a very real risk of being stranded in the icepack. Or “up shit’s creek,” as Roger had warned.

Emerging from the storm: Final miles to Nome

Other sailors, who had taken the more cautious “wait and see” option, soon radio in to confirm that the ice flow has indeed sealed off the passage. The Abel Tasman, however, is already on the other side in open waters, with clear sailing ahead. A timely decision was made, and it paid off.

Much water still lies between the Abel Tasman and its destination. The yacht and its crew continue to give in to the slow but unescapable forces of entropy. The toilet rupture – or the “Great Shit Explosion” as it is soon called – will undoubtedly become a hilarious memory, eventually. But this, on top of a two-week stretch of darkness, freezing rain, and gale-force winds through the Bering Strait, has the crew utterly exhausted. And nobody is laughing when the engine suddenly stops working.

The Abel Tasman is now within sight of the twinkling lights of the town of Nome, Alaska. Soon, some crew members swear they can smell the coffee brewing in the many cozy cafes lining its harbor. But as Isak prepares for the final approach, it is as if the yacht finally cries out “enough!” as its mainsail is torn in half by a powerful gust of wind. With just her genoa sail raised, the weather-worn s/v Abel Tasman and its now-veteran crew limp into the harbor.

They have just completed the Northwest Passage.

“How does it feel?” repeats Isak. His eyes stare blankly into the distance with a thousand-yard-stare.

“I guess there’s a certain emptiness in accomplishment. A sort of poetic melancholy.”

Reflections on navigating uncertainty and tipping points

With its primary mission accomplished, the crew begins the slow task of repairing the Abel Tasman and regaining their strength. And as they begin to put the exhaustion behind them, more reflections begin to surface on how their experience relates to the bigger picture.

“Looking back, our decision at Prince Regent was the ‘make or break’ moment of the entire expedition. You could say that we stand at a similar waypoint with our relationship to the planet, and the window is closing on choosing a safe path,” Keith reflects afterward.

Like the Abel Tasman, he continues, humanity can be seen to be heading into unknown waters as we continue to push outside of the biosphere’s safe operating spaces. If we exceed the threshold of even one of the sixteen tipping points, we risk being locked into a world that is far from certain to be able to support our current civilization.

“We can alternatively do nothing at all. But make no mistake: Even doing nothing is a choice we make. And nothing is predetermined. Our future is still in our hands.”

 

Photos: Northwest Passage Ocean Science Expedition