The following bright morning, we stuck our nose into the Barents Sea and apparently Rasmus liked what he smelled. From bow to stern, up went sails and hoodies to both capture and buffer the wind. Each of us took spells at the helm according to Rasmus’ schedule – four hours on, eight off. One by one, like cows to feeding, except not, folks began throwing up over the gunwales. Ben, one of our extreme skiers, murmured “congrats” after Jordan announced he had puked on the head of a minke whale calf. No one knew quite what to say. 

As we advanced farther into the Barents, I recalled Hemingway on the Pilar, keeping one eye peeled for Russian submarines. Someone – perhaps Justin – had started a policy of after-breakfast naps - one that seemed both magical and riddled with a shame that, as the days aboard passed, evaporated.

“We need a workout regime,” announced Justin on our third day at sea. All of us draped in successive layers of the clothes VOORMI had so kindly provided, we hammered out push-ups in sets of 25, creating interior saunas of warmth in the process. And still the gear wicked, gentle reader! On the fourth day, we began to see drift ice. By now, most of us favored the onesie sailing suits. At the helm, I hooked my thumbs into the hand slots of the River Run Hoodie, and put up each and every hood until I felt like a creature at the far end of some long dark cave. But how nice and toasty there at the back. 

On the fourth day on the Barents, after running donuts and Figure 8s around forests of icebergs, we passed a ghostlike Russian ship headed for Murmansk. A moment later Jordan delivered a “Land ho!” with gusto.

No sooner did we broach the mouth of Isfjorden and drop anchor, than Siggy - who by now was wearing his Treeline Hoodie as a second skin - issued a bona fide invitation for a covert seal hunt.

“Let’s do it,” I said.

As the midnight sun lowered, we cranked down the black Zodiac. The two-stroke grumbled, clearly annoyed at being called into service in a land so cold. As we gathered speed, I yelped at the sight of wallowing walruses while Siggy glassed the stone banks where the snowpack had been washed away by the flooding tide.

Proudly donning my camo green Sportsman’s Two-Pocket hoodie, snug in my belief that CORE worked, I felt nearly invincible. I made a mental note to suggest to Dustin and Megan fabricating an all-white Snowy Owl hoodie for the Arctic - one that could hide you from a polar bear, and could also be featured in Milan. This, incidentally, a note I forgot to deliver until this very moment.

Back in the galley of the Linden Jordan and I drank coffee in the bright sun while Kaya and Freya swung open the Dutch door in the galley and chopped cucumbers while wearing the VOORMI/Chef David Rose aprons Dustin had brought along. Together, the two looked very much like Vermeer subjects set afloat.

That same evening, to celebrate our arrival in Longyearbyen and give the crew a much-needed break, Megan and I cooked up a dinner of Ptarmignan fajitas courtesy of Rasmus’ good shot. I secretly longed to wear the VOORMI Chef apron with its sewn-in leather and heat shielding membrane, but alas the real cooks had made off with it, perhaps for good if the kind nature of Megan and Dustin was anything to go off of. 

Fueled by tequila, both crew and guests alike rallied to hit up the notorious Karlsberger Bar in Longyearbyen, famous for its selection of whisky and bourbon. Later that evening/morning as we careened in the general direction of icy docks under low sunlight, I shoved my hands into the dual pockets of my distinctly un-camouflaged Sportsman’s hoodie – but goddamn did it warm up quick - and realized that cold places keep you warm. These words that appeared in my brainpan as if lit up on a marquis, made bright by the glow of the peaty whisky buzz. 

Back in my bunk trying to sleep, despite the spinning world and smoky taste in my throat, I considered how the Arctic throws into sharp relief our own hot-blooded nature. Proving that, so long as you wear good gear that allows your heart to keep moving inside your chest, your lungs to continue to contract and expand, then you can enjoy the finer things the world has to offer - the sea, the waves, summits of mountains, not to mention the whiskey distilled from the fast-running rivers in the valleys.

Of course, this requires a willing sheep and a firm shaving hand, not to mention dutiful saving of legal tender for gear of uncompromised quality. And yet, let me tell you this: if you manage to clad yourself in material borne of what’s always been right there in front of you – I’m talking here about both love and wool at the same moment – then you also have the opportunity to trust in what is difficult, and enjoy life simultaneously.

Good gear allows no less of a wonder.