The late nights are catching up with me. I feel like I’m walking around in a fog—and not just because of the weather. A week of chasing icebergs until 3 a.m. starts to mess with your brain.
Violet and I wander into town for halibut and chips. The portion’s massive and exactly what we need—crispy, hot, and seriously good. We eat slowly, watching the fog roll in until the town just… disappears. One minute we can see the rooftops, the next, everything’s gone. Swallowed up in gray.
It’s bitter cold tonight. My nose is frozen and I’m seriously regretting not packing a proper parka. Between shooting, I make multiple trips down into the boat’s cozy hold to defrost with tea and cookies. Everyone else seems to be doing the same and it’s a good chance to have a chat and get to know each other.
Out on the water, things are quieter. Then someone spots a whale… just floating. It’s sleeping. For some reason, I never thought about whales needing sleep, but of course they do—don’t we all? Only its blowhole breaks the surface. It drifts gently, peacefully, barely moving.
We head back early tonight—around 2 a.m. There’s nothing new happening with the light or the ice, and it’s too cold to wait around hoping. Vincenzo and Raymond have done an amazing job finding what they could in this weather. Even without a golden sky or glowing icebergs, the stillness and strangeness of the night are unforgettable in their own way.
