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North of 80°: Life in the High Arctic

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Published 5 June 2025

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With hands-on experience aboard some of the world’s finest superyachts, Charlie brings insider knowledge and precision to every charter. Combining his background in Business Management with a passion for the ocean, he helps clients secure the perfect yacht and delivers seamless, high-end experiences on the water.

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Charlie shares what it felt like to explore the Arctic ice aboard Vikingfjord, from silent glacier moments and drifting with polar bears to the kind of encounters that stay with you long after you’ve left the ice behind.

EXPLORE VIKINGFJORD

I don’t think I fully understood how vast the Arctic could feel until I stepped aboard Vikingfjord. From the moment we left Longyearbyen and the familiar faded behind us, it was as though we’d entered a different world, one where the rules of time, scale, and sound no longer applied.

Everything felt sharper, quieter, bigger. And more alive. That first evening, we toasted our departure with champagne in the lounge, all nerves and excitement. By nightfall, we were already at the edge of the sea ice, scanning the horizon and marvelling at fresh polar bear tracks. Something about being that close to signs of such powerful, elusive wildlife made me feel small in the best possible way.

The Glow of the Glaciers

Waking up in St. Jonsfjorden the next morning, the sky was heavy with cloud, but the glaciers glowed electric blue. I felt a kind of awe that’s hard to put into words, like the landscape was humming with its energy. We watched harbour seals twist through the water and then, suddenly, belugas. A pod with calves, so graceful and ghostly they didn’t feel real. I stood on deck with my camera, completely still, just trying to take it in.

Later that day, while cruising along the glacier front in Fjortende Julibukta, we spotted a huge flock of King Eiders, more than our guides had ever seen in one place. The colours, the movement, the scale of it all, it was overwhelming in the most beautiful way. Mike chipped off some glacier ice for whiskey, and we sipped it on deck as the light turned golden. Then, just as we lined up for a group photo in front of Tinayre Glacier, it calved. A roar, a crash, a wall of ice collapsing into the sea. I felt the sound in my chest. I won’t forget it.

80 Degrees North

Crossing over 80°N was surreal. I remember standing on the outer deck, the cold biting at my face, scanning for any sign of movement on the ice. Every shape and shadow had me second-guessing. And then, walrus. Massive, lounging, completely unbothered by our presence. It made me laugh. They were the first of many.

But it wasn’t just about spotting animals. There was a quiet between the sightings that felt just as important. In Raudfjorden, we dropped anchor and drifted in total stillness. Mountains rose all around us, the sea like glass. That night in the hot tub, the air freezing and the water steaming, we were ambushed by a rogue hose and a very smug Vee. Arctic mischief, I suppose.

Bears on the Ice

There’s no way to describe seeing your first polar bear on the ice. She moved with such quiet purpose—walking, swimming, rolling, hunting. We stayed with her for hours. I felt completely transfixed, like I was watching a secret unfold. And just when we thought the moment had passed, a second bear arrived. The deck went silent. It was pure magic.

That afternoon, I hiked on Axeløya, stretched my legs, and took part in the now-legendary polar plunge. Cold doesn’t cover it, but the rush, the laughter, the sense of aliveness, it was unforgettable. And that evening, as if to reward our bravery, the sun came out for a barbecue on deck. It felt like a proper celebration.

A Place That Stays With You

As we made our way south, the bears kept coming. We watched a giant male roam the ice, seals in the distance, the entire fjord his kingdom. I remember sitting in silence at Bamsebu later that day, listening to snow buntings sing, the wind soft and the light golden. I didn’t want to leave.

Our final landing at Alkhornet was the perfect ending. Reindeer grazed among spring grass, Arctic foxes scampered across the scree, and the cliffs echoed with the calls of nesting birds. It was one of those moments where I just stood still and breathed. I felt calm. Connected.

That night, we gathered for one last dinner. Bob gave a talk on climate change, and I felt the weight of it. What we’d seen wasn’t just beautiful, it was fragile. Precious. The Arctic had left its mark on me, and I know I wasn’t alone in feeling that way.