For Captain Craig G. Bell, a temporary relief job offered a spectacular journey — and a reminder of the importance of setting a course outside the comfort zone.
It’s rarely comfortable in the moment — sometimes nerve-wracking, occasionally fearful — but stepping beyond what you know is where the reward lies. Growth comes through adversity, and I was recently reminded of that in the best possible way.
I recently wrapped a temporary relief captaincy, delivering a yacht from Boston to Reykjavík, Iceland. The route took us via St John’s and St Anthony, Newfoundland, then on to Nuuk, Greenland, and through its stark, beautiful fjords.
This wasn’t just another delivery. It was one of the most demanding — and ultimately fulfilling — trips I’ve done in years. Even more so than last summer’s newbuild handover in the Netherlands and cruising up to Norway and down into the Mediterranean.
Ideally, I’d have taken command in more familiar waters, built rapport with the crew, run drills, settled in. But the yacht was on a tight schedule at the wrong time of year — too early in the season, when low-pressure weather systems roll through one after another without much letup. Six days after stepping aboard in Boston, we were off.
Originally, Halifax was meant to be our first stop, but a day out from Boston, an updated forecast from Weather Routing Inc changed everything. A rare, calm window had opened — flat seas, barely a ripple, so we pushed on. It was too good an opportunity to pass up. We cruised straight through to St John’s, adding distance but saving days. That early decision set the tone for the rest of the passage: adapt quickly, trust the data and keep moving forward.
We arrived in St John’s with a bit of breathing room, but just barely. Weather delays kept us there longer than planned, but it turned out to be a blessing in disguise. It gave me time to properly familiarize myself with the yacht and crew, and more importantly, to connect with the man who would become my right hand for the rest of the voyage: the ice pilot, an experienced and unflappable master mariner. Greenland is his backyard. Calm under pressure, sharp-eyed in ice and deeply familiar with the region, he was exactly who you’d want beside you in those waters.
St John’s, rough-edged and charming, treated us well. The harbor isn’t set up for yachts, but the locals bent over backwards to help. Their hospitality is legendary; visitors are often made “honorary citizens” by taking part in a local tradition known as getting “screeched in,” which meant a bit of town history, a shot of potent rum and a kiss on a cod fish’s mouth. Timing didn’t allow for me to experience the ritual personally, but the spirit of the place made a lasting impression.
From St John’s, we crept north to St Anthony. In the fishing village of just 2,500 people, the only place we could find for breakfast was a pizza joint (surprisingly good, actually). After two days of waiting out weather, we left for Nuuk, nearly 800 nautical miles away.
The early days at sea were smooth. But on the third, the wind and swell picked up, still within the vessel’s limits but rough. A cabinet door blew open on the sundeck. I threw on a life jacket, went out to secure it and caught a face full of cold Arctic wind and spray. It was one of those moments when you ask yourself what the hell you’re doing out here, in a place this raw and unforgiving.
By morning, the coast of Greenland was on our starboard bow — icebergs, growlers and ice flows scattered like chess pieces. Conditions calmed, and we made landfall.
Greenland is vast, raw and humbling, with a population of less than 60,000 people. Cruising her coasts requires careful planning when it comes to ports of refuge, tides, ice maps, crew changes, grocery supplies and evacuation contingencies.
As we charted our course from Nuuk to Iceland, ports of refuge were limited. Most villages were still iced in, and the only fallback was an abandoned military dock 26 hours from Nuuk and accessible only by helicopter, which our ice pilot could have secured authorization to use. Limited anchorages due to the deep fjords made it an impractical option. With weather rolling in, few alternatives and a list of minor but stacking issues on a vessel I had just joined, I made a call. We would explore the fjords around Nuuk, but I wouldn’t take her farther. The permanent captain would resume command when ready.
As we were exploring the fjords, the forecast changed again. Two low-pressure systems eased; what had looked like threading a needle now looked wide open. With the permanent captain still not available, I made the commitment to proceed. There was no turning back. We rounded the southern tip of Greenland.
The cruise down Greenland’s west coast was breathtaking. The ice pilot earned his keep navigating us through and around ice flows. Updates from Weather Routing indicated another system was forming. We’d be near the vessel’s limits, but it was doable.
Twelve hours after clearing Cape Farewell, the sleigh ride began. One system shifted unexpectedly and didn’t move off as forecast. We found ourselves pounding into it, seas and wind on the nose. We had seasick crew and a long three days ahead. Adjusting course slightly east, we placed the swell on our beam and found some comfort. Conditions slowly improved over the next 12 hours, and then we turned north toward Iceland. A day and a half later, we landed safely in Reykjavík, just ahead of the next system.
Reykjavík is a modern, vibrant city, and I was fortunate to explore a bit of it upon arrival. With the permanent captain now back on board, there would be no further exploring by sea, but I was lucky enough to travel the south coast of Iceland by car. It’s absolutely breathtaking — raw, dramatic and unlike anywhere else I’ve ever been.
Although my time in this Arctic region was brief, it was invaluable. I now know what to expect up there. I’ve gained solid local knowledge, built the right contacts and developed a clear understanding of the planning required. I know who to reach out to when shaping an itinerary and more importantly, how to mitigate risk and ensure a safe, well-executed cruising program in these remote northern waters.
This journey reminded me why challenge matters. Growth comes when you’re tested, when you stretch, adapt and find a way forward. I look forward to returning, on a yacht well-suited for these waters with the right crew, to explore this extraordinary region. Growth never happens in calm seas.
Captain Craig’s Tips For Icy Adventures
Plan it well, and then plan again. Above all, safety comes first. Make sure your crew are not only properly licensed and trained, but also when possible, have the real-world experience to handle the challenges you’re heading into. Run safety drills often, mix in table-top discussions of what-if scenarios and make sure everyone knows their role when it counts.
Don’t assume newly certified safety gear is ready. Check it yourself. Know every piece, from life rafts to medical kits, inside and out. In remote waters, help is a long way off, so make sure your equipment is flawless and your crew can use it with confidence.
Time your voyage wisely. For example, visiting Greenland later in the summer can mean fewer low-pressure systems, less sea ice, and more access to those postcard-perfect fjords.
Work with good local agents and, where possible, bring aboard pilots or guides who know the waters. Local knowledge doesn’t just keep you safe, it can also unlock the kind of experiences you’ll never forget.
Provision like it matters, because it does. Make sure your chef is fully briefed and that you’ve factored in extra days for possible weather delays.
In the end, this level of preparation isn’t just for far-off runs, it’s a mindset worth applying to every passage, whether you’re crossing oceans or cruising your own coastline. But in places like Greenland, preparation isn’t just smart, it’s survival. Drill your crew, know your gear and plan like the weather’s out to get you — because some days, it will be!