The ice chart, an indispensable tool for anyone traveling on icy seas, gave rise to some hope: even Cape Alexander, the westernmost point of Greenland, only a third of the surface of the water was covered with ice. Enough for us. So we marched through a white maze dodging icebergs thanks to the skill as helmsman of Aitor Basarrate.

Northabout in the icy sea
The plan was to anchor alongside, after an unnamed island, to the shelter of the elements. And then study the following letter. But as it did not arrive, we ascended the mountain in search of a panoramic view of the Strait of Smith, which opened before us as genuine doors of the cold.
The route – started in the middle of the night by Aitor Basarrate, María Valencia, Rafa Gutiérrez and I – left us the aftertaste of the true off-road walks; We came across caribou, wolves and three Arctic hare platoons jumping uphill like white arrows.
The top, preceded by steep slopes of canchales and atomized rocks, was marked by a cairn of brown stones. From there we were able to assess the situation: suddenly several coves to the north were free of ice.
“It’s free!” There’s an open passage to the north! “I remember Basarrate shouting.
But on the way down we expected an unpleasant surprise. The north of Cape Alexander was ice-free because he had wandered in the opposite direction. It was three-thirty in the morning when we came paddling to a Northabout besieged by ice on all its sides.

Another view of the Northabout in the icy sea
Our comrades were exhausted after hours of surveillance and fighting against icebergs. The wind had attracted thousands of blocks of ice in pilgrimage. The ice pack tightened tight and sinister. Only to the south they seemed to split some paths of liquid water between the ice. It was the critical moment. It required the action of intrepid captains and experts. To our fortune, ours are.

Nicolai Litau and Mike Stewart
Without a trace of nerves Stewart tried to take the sailboat to the free bays of the north. But the trap was closed and we had to return to the starting point under Cape Alexander. Very tired and with the hull of the boat damaged.
In spite of the restlessness those who were not guarded slept loosely, because there are times when exhaustion overcomes fear.
A huge impact woke us up at dawn. I came to consider the worst of situations, as it is floating drifting in waters less than three degrees Celsius.
But then Litau, the best ice rider in the world, frozen the look and smile, marked us the only way to escape. And we fled to the south, through a labyrinth of waning ice, with Aitor Basarrate clutching the wheel like a soul to his host.
Even in Soriapaluk, once free, we had no truce. The Bay of Robertson, where the town is set, was invaded. We had to move the boat 8 times in 24 hours of uninterrupted fights with the ice. On the 28th, we had a truce. And we were able to rest.
The ice sheet left no room for doubt: the northern coves where we wanted to shelter ourselves were solidified by 80 percent.
The same as the way we had escaped in extremis. Defeated, we had looked out to the Smith Strait, the gates of hell white, and had broken it.
But the war, we said, is not over yet.
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