Drifting, Navigating, Becoming: Lessons from the Arctic
I’ve just spent two weeks sailing through the Arctic — a slow drift through ice, light, and everything in between.
Out there, the lessons weren’t loud. They didn’t come from books or workshops. They came from silence. From ice. From watching, listening, drifting.
Find the lead. And when you can’t, move inch by inch.
Sometimes, you see the path — a narrow lead between frozen plates of sea ice. You follow it with focus and momentum.
Other times, you can’t see anything. You’re surrounded. The ship is boxed in, and planning feels impossible. You don’t know where to go or when you’ll be able to move again.
It’s not a question of if you’ll get unstuck. It’s when.
Until then, you shift the bow, gently. One ice at a time. One decision at a time.
You shift your weight. You stay alert. You adjust — inch by inch.
Even when it’s noisy, slow, or unclear.
Stillness isn’t always silent. But it can still be deliberate.
You stay with it — until the path opens.
The engine off is where the magic begins.
The most peaceful, magical moments often happened when the engine was off.
In the silence, you start to hear what’s always been there:
- Arctic terns hovering and gliding, their wings catching the wind.
- The cracking and melting of the ice beneath.
- The slow, sloshy puddle sounds of walruses moving through water.
- The crunch of a polar bear’s footsteps in the distance.
You begin to see, too. How light reflects off ice in a way that words can’t hold. How glaciers breathe. How fragility is part of the beauty.
Give yourself ten minutes with the engine off. Let silence speak.
Plans always change.
Out here, flexibility isn’t optional — it’s essential.
You shift course when ice blocks your way. You stay on deck when the sun breaks through, soaking it in while it lasts. You hoist the sails when the tailwind comes — and shut off the engine to ride quietly with the wind.
When a polar bear appears, you cancel the landing. And just watch.
And sometimes, what felt like an unlucky disruption — a change of course, a scrapped plan — turns into a gift.
A detour leads to a rare wildlife encounter.
An unexpected stop brings unexpected beauty.
You learn not to judge the moment too quickly.
Any circumstance can become an opportunity. Or an opening. Or an invitation to see something you wouldn’t have otherwise noticed.
You follow the lead.
You trust the shift.
You find a new way.
Some Nights Are Turbulent.
There are nights when the sea is restless.
When the wind turns on you. When the ship rocks hard and sleep won’t come.
You might feel queasy, tired, or unsettled — and still, you keep going.
This is the rhythm of movement.
Not every leg of the journey is easy. But every stretch gets you closer.
When the night is rough, remind yourself: it won’t last forever.
Calm will return. Sunlight will break.
There will be moments for rest.
And maybe even a plunge into icy waters — if that’s what you need to feel awake again.
You Don’t Move a Ship Alone.
To have 30 artists, scientists, and writers onboard — you need at least 4 guides carrying rifles, 9 crew members, a chef, and a captain.
It takes a whole ecosystem to hold space for exploration, safety, and movement — day and night.
You don’t cross the Arctic solo. You don’t navigate change, ambition, or reinvention solo either.
You ask for help and advice. You lean on someone else’s strength when your own is worn thin.
Even something small — like borrowing boots, sharing a roll of film, or offering a shoulder massage — makes a difference.
You notice something interesting? You share it. Invite others in.
When plans shift, you communicate.
When someone has an idea, you listen.
When you have a need, you voice it — and make space for others to do the same.
You collaborate.
You hold each other.
And you realize: you’re more capable than you thought — and never meant to do it all alone.
This is the beginning of what the Arctic taught me.
Not through instruction — but through stillness, surprise, and the sacredness of shared space.
With warmth,
— Jay
