Landing somewhere unfamiliar

When I was doing long-distance sailing with my father all those decades ago, everything was more or less analog. I remember standing in the cockpit, looking down into the cabin and seeing him hunched over the chart table, trying to calculate where we were. Charts, calculator, sextant, rulers: they were all scattered across the desk, as if in conversation with one another. He aimed for one sighting a day. But storms or fog often made that impossible.

We, the crew, had only him to trust to get us where we needed to be. With limited tools and a good dose of intuition, he steered us across long distances, toward places we had never seen before—sometimes populated, sometimes not.

When we finally arrived at a new harbour or dropped anchor somewhere unfamiliar, the sense of uncertainty didn’t end. If anything, it took on a new shape. We stepped onto land without knowing what to expect. There was a thrill in checking out the surroundings. Are the locals friendly? Is there any fresh food to buy? What, there is a bookshop!

Especially in the small places, we would wander around showing that we were curious, but not pushy. After all, we were guests, and we did not want to stand out too much. We would quietly ask the person behind the grocery counter or in the pub where we might find some food, or if there was a repair shop nearby, or whether anything was going on in town. We would slowly find our way around, and more often than not, became familiar with the place before the day was done.

Now, I can find satellite images of even the most remote ports. There are videos from others who have made the same journey. Google Maps can place me with eerie precision: within the length of a sofa or the breadth of a sneeze.

And yet. Part of me longs for the unknowing. The surprise. To explore somewhere as if blindfolded.

I’m surprised by this nostalgia for the past. Shouldn’t I be madly researching all the places we are headed? Is that not the responsible thing to do? Why does reading about a place feel like it will somehow flatten the experience of going there?

That is nonsense, right? Seeing a photo never prepares you for the smell of salt in the air, or the way a landscape rearranges your thoughts when you stand still long enough.

And yes, knowing whether there is a cosy café in Narvik is not a threat to magic. It might even be part of it.

So maybe there is a middle way. Maybe I can carry some knowledge into the unknown without spoiling it.

I am bringing analog tools to help me notice things: pens for poems, coloured pencils for sketches, and my Remarkable for blog posts like this one.

Alongside them, I will have digital maps, weather apps, and a Kindle full of books from others who have made the trip. The tools do not decide the experience. The way I use them does.

And for the record, I still plan to step ashore without quite knowing what I will find. Which, thankfully, my terrible map-reading will help ensure.

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