Living the Maewan adventure – part 1

In 2015, Erwan Le Lann took off in pursuit of his dream, to discover the world's oceans and the most remote locations on the planet, often inaccessible other than by sea, in his small sailboat the "Maewan 4." Through stories, photos, and video of the voyage, he takes us straight into the action on the expedition's first leg from Iceland to Greenland, fully immersing us in the Maewan adventure!

Léo Slemett discovers adventure "Maewan" style!

Three days before we leave Iceland, Guillaume and I are waiting for the new crew to arrive for the upcoming stretch of challenging seas. My phone rings, it's freerider turned sailor Aurélien Ducroz. I answer, "Erwan, I'm sorry but I can't make it. However, Léo Slemett, a young freeride skier from Chamonix is super psyched to go, and he also has some sailing experience, give him a call!"
Three days later, Léo sets foot on the Maewan and for the first time we start talking about the expedition, "Aurélien told me that there would a little bit of sailing to reach some insane fjords where we'll ski for ten days; I've never really sailed before but I'm psyched to try!"
Uh oh, not good; we give him a quick rundown of what's truly lies ahead once we raise anchor…!

During the six days at sea to sail to the southern tip of Greenland Léo only came up on deck to brush his teeth, but once we reached the calmer seas and winds of Cape Farewell and the first signs of sea ice, he took the helm where the sun's setting rays lit up his permanent full-toothed smile.

The magical aurora borealis, the dreaded sea ice

All night long, illuminated on one side by the full moon and on the other by the aurora borealis brilliantly dancing along the mountain tops, we sail on silky smooth seas alongside the sea ice to gain the closest point of entry into the fjords. Between our location and land extends a vast chaos of floating ice. We enter, both curious and uncertain, just 12 hours ahead of the next storm, and to be quite honest quite honest a bit nerve-wracked by all of the ice!

After a few hours, with a lookout atop the main mast to guide us through areas where the ice was the thinnest, the wheel starts to feel unusually stiff. We look in every direction, did we run into something? Only when we decide to lift up the floorboard in the cockpit to conduct a visual inspection of the cables running from the wheel to the rudder do we discover that everything was starting to freeze! With a blowtorch in one hand and a hammer in the other, we succeed in de-icing the cable. For the next two months our freshwater tanks would remain frozen solid.

How did we choose our routes?

For the athletes on board, being surrounded by such extraordinary unexplored terrain is a bit like being a kid in a candy store!

The skippers look for coves, inlets, and areas that offer shelter, noting the shoals and lower end of a valley that continues underwater; they observe the direction and force of the current, wind direction, the color of the water that foretells a sandy, rocky, or algae-covered bottom; and of course the blocks of ice everywhere, where they come from, where they pile up, how they move around, as well as those well-protected areas for coming ashore…

The mountaineers study each ridgeline and rock face, trying to imagine the cracks, the type of rock and potential quality, and spot a line of weakness on this or that summit, access to the top, and then an easy descent, a line of ice, the morphology of the glacier, the crevasses, the areas presenting avalanche, rock fall, and serac fall danger…

the skiers identify the couloirs, slopes to descend, ridgelines, and take note of the wind direction for the past few days, the snow accumulation zones, the wide-open slopes and valleys to ski, the cliffs to huck…

Each one of us analyzes the landscape with a keen eye capable of reading the terrain; we picture ourselves in action, visualizing the tricky sections to pass through or simply avoid. We discuss our objectives together taking into consideration the our boats, the snow conditions, everyone's wishes, the number of people, everyone's abilities, and the camera angles.

Coming ashore

Finding a spot to anchor a boat is a science in itself, a complex affair that people often assume rather simple. An unstable or poorly placed anchor means a sleepless night or guaranteed damage to the boat…

When the Maewan drops anchor heading ashore involves:

• Taking out the dinghy and associated parts, inflating it somewhere between the stays and the mast, setting up the wood floor, raising it, setting it down in the water, bringing it to the back of the boat, mounting the outboard motor, taking out the fuel tank and oars,
• Donning life vests, boots, and a waterproof jumpsuit for the person operating the dinghy,
• Putting the skis and poles in a carrier to avoid damaging or puncturing the dinghy,
• Finding a calm spot to come ashore, even the slightest wave could fill the dinghy with water. The ideal spot is one with a rock outcropping where the water is deep enough to allow everyone to step off the boat without the risk of running aground; but you have to be careful, the rocks are slippery!
• The person staying with the boat to return on the dinghy. On only rare occasions can you leave a sailboat unattended without taking unnecessary risks.

A great night's sleep, a very long day

While the storm rages on beyond the fjords, the location where we set anchor is relatively sheltered. We identified an incredible-looking couloir that starts from the very top of a peak. On the day of the descent temperatures drop well below freezing, we spend almost the entire time battling the wind, but are able to ski from the summit to the water's edge in perfect snow. We enjoy a great day in the mountains, shuttling back and forth to the boats goes smoothly, even though the frigid temperatures make waiting around on shore unbearable after more than just a few minutes. The group gathers on the Louise where Thierry plans to make dinner for all of us. We decide to use his dinghy to return to the Maewan to change clothes before coming back to eat.

Two hours go by when Eric decides to prepare the dinghy to return to the Louise. He pokes his head outside and then comes back in with an inquisitive look on his face before asking, "Did someone leave with the dinghy?"

Having poorly moored the dinghy, it was nowhere in sight. Night was falling, the winds were at 20 knots, it was cold, and we were tired from a full day in the mountains. Not only does the dinghy belong to Thierry, but he needs if for work for the upcoming season!

We decide to raise anchor and sail towards the other end of the fjord; with the wind at our backs, we desperately scan the dark waters armed with every headlamp we have on board: an ULTRA, TIKKA, NAO, PIXA… Every shape and shadow looks like the dinghy, a dark grey silhouette among the countless floating blocks of ice. We try to calculate the length of the fjord, the maximum amount of time the dinghy would have been afloat and its drift speed, a headache to say the least that takes us to the end of the fjord still empty handed. We turn around, sailing along the one side of the fjord into the wind, and continue our search until we find the dinghy.
Four hours later a crew member screams, "Over there, there it is!"

Back at our anchoring point, we stop in a relatively flat area, gobble down our freeze-dried meal, and head straight to bed. It is around one in the morning, and we pass out almost instantly, bundled up warmly in our sleeping bags.

All of a sudden I jerk awake, not quite sure why I'm so alert. I quickly glance at our navigation system to check the boat's trajectory and have a hard time understanding exactly what is happening. Instead of the usual scribbled lines of an anchored boat, I see a huge S on the screen! Unbelievable! I jump out of my sleeping bag and poke my head outside: the Maewan is drifting! We have been dragging our anchor and are now in the middle of the fjord heading straight towards several huge icebergs floating along the shoreline.
Red alert, all hands on deck, battle stations, "everybody get up right now!!!!!!"
It is six in the morning and I start the motor, run to the bow and start pulling up the anchor with its heavy 60-meter long chain hanging in the deep open water. This is a great way to warm up since our mechanical windlass (a winch to raise the anchor) is powered only by arm strength! The others quickly join me, all still pretty much half asleep…

A shared experience

We ascend via a broad ridge to the right of our chosen couloir, first on skis (skinning) and then on foot to climb the steep upper section. The group consists of Léo, Adrien, Mathieu, Thierry, Bertrand, and myself.

The turns flow one after the other down a somewhat steep 40° slope before we stop just above a short 10-meter high rock band. Mathieu and I look around, test a couple of cracks and blocks, and find nothing suitable to set up a solid anchor to lower everyone. We find no ice either, and even after digging, there is only snow and rock.

Léo breaks the silence, suggesting, "You know, I have no problem just jumping the cliff…" It's steep and then narrow, are you sure? "Yeah, no worries."

We plant our skis in the snow as an anchor and then lower everyone by rope, leaving Léo all alone on his perch. He throws us our gear, and then jumps. How great it is to have such a multi-talented team!

The adventure continues…

In 2016, the adventure will resume in June to cross the legendary Northwest Passage; we will set sail and a course for the Kamchatka Peninsula in Eastern Russia. The entire summer will also be abuzz with plenty of other activities, research, samplings, and photos.

Click on the Maewan website to follow the adventure!