Sailing Greenland’s Arctic: Becoming at Sea

Between the rocks of Greenland and the tundra of Labrador, fear became my teacher.

I didn’t know that would be the lesson when I packed for this trip. I thought I was preparing for an adventure: glaciers, icebergs, remote tundra, women with stories to tell. I packed hiking boots and borrowed waterproof pants, bought Gravol and forgot my sea bands, and brought along the gentle hope that I’d feel awe on this Greenland and Arctic small-ship expedition.

I wasn’t prepared for how much of that awe would come hand-in-hand with fear.

Even before the ship set sail, I felt nervous. The thought of being on open water stirred something old in me. Something profoundly human. Something deeply young.

I grew up on a sailboat. Seven people in sixty-two feet of space. The ocean is both home and contradiction. I know its rhythms, its hush, its sway. But I also remember the confinement, the places you cannot go, the sense that escape doesn’t exist when everything around you is water.

Before we boarded, my thoughts looped like wavering waves. Will I feel trapped? Will I be safe?

The mind is clever that way. It fills blank spaces with stories. Some are thrilling, some deeply terrifying.

Fear is often born from imagination; it builds scenarios faster than we can breathe through them. 

But then the ship departed. The land receded. Between the steady hum of the engines and the roll of the waves, my fears met reality and softened.

It was okay. I was okay. More than okay; revelling. 

The Sound of the North On A Small Ship

In that quiet, something happens. The noise inside you starts to match the stillness outside. Thoughts slow. Awareness sharpens. You start noticing details that would normally slip by. A glint of sunlight on an iceberg, the rhythm of boots against a metal deck, the laughter of women you didn’t know a week ago but now can’t imagine not knowing.

This is the strange magic of small ship expedition travel: it strips away everything nonessential. No errands. No alarms. No familiar routine. Just raw beauty and human connection.

It happened on the day we reached the Torngat Mountains.

The air was sharp and clean. The mountains rose around us like ancient sentinels, rounded from time, their flanks covered in fall colour, a mosaic of gold, red, and rust. I had never seen a landscape like it.

And then came the announcement: Polar bears.

At four different landing sites. Each time the Zodiacs circled back.

Each time, I felt my body tighten. My breath catch. My imagination took over again. Claws, teeth, inevitability. While others leaned forward with binoculars, I sat frozen, heart racing, thinking, This is it. This is how I go.

It’s strange, isn’t it, how fear feels so physical? It’s not just in your mind; it lives in your breath. Deeper even, into your heart and muscles.

By the time we finally landed, I lasted fifteen minutes. The moment I could use “I need the bathroom” as an excuse, I did. I was back on the ship faster than I care to admit.

That evening, one of the women, a new friend with a steady heart, convinced me to try the next day’s hike. “It’s easy,” she said. “You’ll be fine. The bear guards are everywhere. They’ve got this.”

I said no. Then no again. Then, loudly, “Fine!” followed by a resigned and rather impolite f*ck.

The next morning, I went.

Is Bravery What You Feel or What You Do?

The first half hour of the hike, I was petrified. The second half hour, I was just scared. The last half hour, I finally saw.

The land opened up around me. There were muted reds and golds, glacial water glinting in the light, bearberries and Labrador tea scattered across the ground. Our guide told us there was a curious black bear walking parallel to us at a distance. My heart thumped, but I didn’t turn back.

Inside the ring of bear guards, something shifted. I began to breathe deeper. To look up, not down.

The Torngats are a land of contrasts, both tender and immense. Glaciers carved the valleys thousands of years ago, leaving behind curves and jagged peaks, beauty and brutality intertwined. It’s the kind of landscape that humbles you, reminds you how fragile you are. And how alive. 

That day, I learned that bravery isn’t the absence of fear. It’s walking anyway, with fear in your pocket, hand in hand.

The Wild Women

Maybe that’s why Wild Women feels like such a fitting name for this company. It’s not just about the places we go; it’s about the people who go there with us.

On our Greenland and Arctic small-ship expedition, every table in the dining room buzzed with stories. There were women in their 30s and women in their 70s. Teachers, mothers, scientists, writers. Some seasoned adventurers, others first-time travellers. All of us, in one way or another, were searching for something. Meaning, connection, courage, curiosity. A chance, an opportunity, the way.

I’ve learned that when women gather in wild places, the remarkable happens. Layers fall away. Laughter comes easier. Vulnerabilities are met with empathy, not judgment. We’re all in it together.

It is an intricate magic. You can feel the connections forming, the feeling of being amongst strangers giving way gracefully to laughter, supportive comments and ease.

Over shared meals and hikes, Zodiac rides and laughter as we sat on the deck under the sun, we became a community. We learned each other’s stories. The heartbreaks, the turning points, the bold triumphs. These stories became constellations, reminders that courage takes many forms. 

The Moments Between

Not every moment on our Greenland and Arctic small-ship expedition was big. Many were small, but no less transformative.

Afternoons reading in the ship’s lounge, the ocean swaying gently beneath. Evenings filled with music, conversation, and the kind of laughter that feels earned. An ‘Ask Me Anything ’ session with Margaret Atwood reminded me that intellect and playfulness can live in perfect balance. The sound of throat singers in Nain, voices intertwined in rhythm that felt ancient, eternal. The scent of spruce needles crushed between my fingers in Terra Nova, sharp and resinous, pulling me back to childhood and home.

Transformation doesn’t happen in a single flash. It happens in the accumulation of these moments.

When you’re not trying, when you’re just present.

Coming Home

Returning home was harder than I expected.

The ship’s rhythm had become my rhythm. The gentle sway, the morning announcements, the sound of footsteps on deck. Back home, everything felt static. Still.

I told myself it was fatigue, that I needed rest. But underneath, I knew it was resistance.

When you expand so much, when fear becomes courage, when stillness becomes strength, it’s hard to fit back into the old spaces. The laundry, the dishes, the inbox, all of it felt too small for the version of myself that had stood before glaciers, that had laughed in the spray of waterfalls, that had faced down fear and walked through it anyway.

The truth is, growth rearranges us before it settles in.

I’ve been learning to meet that with gentleness. Folding laundry with gratitude. Answering emails with awareness. Washing dishes not as retreat, but as grounding. Letting them be when the effort feels too great.

What Lingers

Even now, months after the Greenland and Arctic small-ship expedition has ended, I can still feel it, that hum beneath the surface. The knowing that I am capable of more than I believed. That I have reserves of strength that I can tap into. I am curious about what that means for my life.

When I close my eyes, I can still see the icebergs. I can taste it, that single lick I took, blue and glacial and impossibly old. I can hear the water, feel the cold kiss of Arctic air on my skin. I remember how the sky lit up in a shade of orange that seemed unreal, how the energy of the wild women filled the ship like warmth.

I went to the North expecting to see beauty. I did. But I also saw myself.

Not the smaller version that plays safe, that overthinks, that hesitates. The one that walks. Trembling, but forward.

Fear didn’t vanish. It never does. But it changed shape. Now, it feels less like a warning and more like an invitation. I can step boldly onto the tundra. I can step boldly anywhere. 

After the Wild

The best journeys don’t end when you come home. They keep moving through you. In your thoughts, your choices, your voice, your work. This one still does.

When I think of the women I met, the land we crossed, the awe that lived in every day, I realize: bravery isn’t always loud. It’s quiet too. It’s the small yeses that change everything.

And on the journey, between Greenland and Wild Labrador, I said yes. 

I am still saying yes.