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Another Kind of Epic

We follow the path of explorers who ran the Northwest Passage over a century ago, but our journey is a lot more fun

Mario Vittone

A wide, eye-level shot capturing a majestic and treacherous Arctic landscape filled with massive white and blue icebergs floating in a calm, dark blue ocean. In the immediate left foreground, a towering wall of sheer ice rises sharply, showing deep fissures and dynamic textures. Behind it, a sweeping, mountainous glacier structure dominates the background under a pale, overcast sky, while a smaller, vibrant turquoise iceberg block sits low in the water on the right, displaying bright, light-refracting edges.

Story + Photos by Mario Vittone

A broadside, eye-level shot of the "Sarah-Sarah," an unpainted aluminum FPB 64 long-range trawler, floating stationary on perfectly calm, glassy water that reflects the boat's shape. The rugged, military-style exploration vessel features a bright red bottom hull line contrasting against its metallic silver superstructure. The boat is designed with a long bow, a low-profile main cabin with numerous square windows, an open flybridge helm, a tall central radar mast with stabilizing outriggers, and an American flag flying from the stern under a clear blue sky.
Sarah-Sarah at anchor near North Star Point, just east of Amundsen Gulf.

Roald Amundsen and his crew left Norway on June 16, 1903, hoping to be the first to transit the fabled Northwest Passage. By mid-September, the ice closed in around their ship, the Gjoa, in a cove on the southeast coast of King William Island. A Netsilik Inuit man taught them how to survive, build igloos and drive dogsleds. They ate what they hunted and made clothes from the hides. After two years, they finally left King William Island. It would be another year before they reached Nome, Alaska. To send word of their success to Oslo, Amundsen had to drive a dogsled over a thousand miles to the nearest telegraph station. His family had waited three years and four months to find out if he and the crew had survived.

A wide, scenic landscape shot of flat sea ice floes drifting across still, mirror-like Arctic waters. In the mid-ground, low-profile white and pale blue ice sheets float near a prominent, blocky brown rock formation that stands out from the distant, barren coastline. The glassy water creates sharp, clear reflections of the ice, the small islands, and the vast sky filled with scattered, soft blue and white clouds catching the subtle light.
The harbor at Pearce Point in the Arctic Ocean.

This past summer, I helped crew an FPB 64 along the same route. It took us two months. About midway through our journey from Portland, Maine, to Anacortes, Washington, we anchored where Amundsen had been iced in for two years. We sat in our heated cabin and streamed Netflix. We ate filet mignon. I did some laundry. The crew went topside for Scotch and cigars. I pulled out my phone, connected to the boat’s Starlink Wi-Fi, and called home. 

This was not Amundsen’s Northwest Passage. This was a good time.

An interior view looking out through the front helm windows of a vessel navigating close to a rugged coastline. The long, industrial-style aluminum bow of the boat stretches forward, punctuated by red-capped air vents, safety rails, and a small mermaid figurine hanging near the windshield. In the lower foreground, the dashboard is equipped with multiple digital navigation displays, including a GPS chart plotter and a sonar screen showing depth data. Outside the large windows, the boat cruises through deep blue water past towering, barren brown cliffs and mountains under a partly cloudy sky.
A view from the helm entering the Northwest Passage with Devon Island, the largest uninhabited island on earth, to starboard.

Obviously, the warming climate had a lot to do with the apparent ease of our passage and the past decade’s rapid rise in the number of private boats attempting (most often successfully) a voyage through the Arctic. And I’m not trying to oversimplify the complexities and risk of transiting the Arctic. They are still there, and we ran into a few.

But navigating the Northwest Passage safely isn’t much different than any other long voyage. You need the right boat for the conditions, the right crew for the boat, preparation for the expected, and plans for the unexpected. 

A satellite map graphic illustrating a long-distance marine voyage route through the Arctic's Northwestern Passages. A continuous thin white navigation line begins in the Labrador Sea, charts north along the western coast of Greenland, crosses Baffin Bay, and winds westward through the complex island channels of northern Canada. The path continues west along the northern coasts of the Northwest Territories and Alaska into the Beaufort and Chukchi Seas, before heading south past a red anchor icon off the western coast of Alaska. A green anchor icon is also marked on the map near Greenland to highlight key points along the transcontinental maritime route.
A screenshot of our PredictWind track.

The Right Boat

The Sarah-Sarah does not hold an ice classification, but the FPB series of boats are built like they were intended for that use. They are made to take a hit, with 13-mm aluminum hull plating, a significant stem and framing, compartmentalization and a keel that extends below the prop. The rudder and stabilizer fins are designed to sacrifice themselves partially before a strike would damage the hull. And an FPB is designed to self-right in a rollover without taking on water.

Now here’s the trigger warning: If you are unfamiliar with the FPB 64 and you own a bluewater vessel, this next part might lead to tears of disbelief and envy.

A wide, forward-facing view from the bow deck of an aluminum exploration trawler cruising through calm coastal waters at dusk. Two men stand smiling on the upper flybridge under a dark bimini canopy; the man on the left is dressed in a black jacket, while the man on the right wears a bright orange cold-weather parka with fur lining. In the foreground, the flat metallic cabin roof features a coiled black line and non-skid walking surfaces. The expansive water extends out to a flat, distant treeline under a dramatic, cloudy evening sky where the setting sun breaks through with a bright yellow glow.
Sarah-Sarah owner and captain Scott Evangelista (left) and Sam Devlin on the bridge at anchor near Goose Island, off Nova Scotia.

There are only 11 FPB 64s in the world, and they objectively outperform every other long-range trawler. Designed by Steve Dashew and built under his supervision at Circa Marine in New Zealand, Sarah-Sarah has a range of 7,500 miles at 10 knots. Even with her size, she sips fuel at 4.5 gph. Slow to 7 knots, and the burn rate drops to 1.7 gph, pushing her range past 14,000 miles.

For us, those capabilities meant that when we topped off the 3,400-gallon tanks in Nuuk, Greenland, we had enough fuel to make it to Anacortes. I cannot tell you how nice it is to pull into a marina and tell the folks asking if you need to fill up at the fuel dock, “Not until next year.”

Shaped like a bullet at both ends and with a shallow draft, a dynamically stabilized FPB is a completely comfortable ride in seas that would keep many other bluewater designs at the dock. Twelves to 14s on the stern? No problem. You want to throw them at the beam on an eight-second period? OK, whatever. And punching into a head sea, while not something you are going to nap through, also will not push the boat anywhere near its limits.

A wide, eye-level shot taken from the water approaching a colorful coastal town nestled against a dramatic mountain backdrop. In the foreground, choppy blue ocean water is visible just past a silver metal pulpit rail structure on the boat's bow. Across the harbor, rows of vibrant, multi-colored buildings in shades of red, yellow, blue, green, and pink sit clustered on a rocky hillside. The busy port area features shipping containers, industrial docks, and small boats, all framed by a jagged, rocky mountain ridge stretching high into a partly cloudy blue sky.
At one time, Greenland’s vibrant-colored homes served as a color-coded system to identify a building’s purpose.

As we left the Labrador Coast for Nuuk with a massive storm on our tail, we simply made turns for 10 knots and stayed in the flat, dead calm ahead of the storm, all the way across the Labrador Sea. When the weather router predicted 10s to 12s on our starboard quarter for three days as we ran south down the Bering Sea, we were thrilled. 

For three days and nights, we slept like children between watches. And as we left False Pass to cross the notoriously rough Gulf of Alaska for Juneau, we passed the fishing fleet in the anchorage. They shook their heads at us like we were idiots. 

Sarah-Sarah never rolled more than 3 degrees on the entire crossing. We cruised into Kodiak well ahead of the weather that kept everyone else out of the gulf. Still, when things get, well, nautical, you’re going to be miles from any hope of towing assistance or repair. 

A medium, eye-level shot of three fluffy, light-colored sled dogs or huskies sitting and standing on a rugged, rocky hillside. Two of the dogs sit side-by-side on an upper rocky ledge in the center, while a third dog stands alert on a lower boulder to the right, looking directly toward the camera. The surrounding terrain is composed of massive, uneven rock formations with complex geological layers in shades of brown, tan, and dark gray, interspersed with very sparse patches of green tundra grass under an overcast sky.
Greenland sled dogs wait for their owners on a rocky island near Upernavik.

Your backups need to have backups. Sarah-Sarah is her own shoreside repair station, with completely independent steering systems, navigation systems, fuel delivery, radars and stowage for every imaginable spare part. 

When we lost our engine control unit off Halifax, Nova Scotia, we had a spare. When the primary coolant pump failed 50 miles from Ketchikan, we had four spares. We lost an alternator. Of course, we had a spare. Two, I think.

The trip itself would require three engine oil changes. They took less than 30 minutes apiece. Which leads to another must for a trip through the Arctic: the right crew.

A sharp, close-up profile view of an adult bald eagle gliding elegantly through the air in mid-flight from right to left. The bird of prey showcases its iconic, bright white head and tail feathers, a sharp yellow hooked beak, and deep dark-brown to black wings spread out as it cuts through the air. The eagle is captured against a soft, heavily blurred background of dense green pine and evergreen trees, creating a strong contrast that isolates the majestic bird in sharp focus.
A bald eagle patrols Naha Lake in Alaska.

The Right Crew

I’ve made much of my living responding to and investigating the mishaps of captains who were not prepared for the situations they faced. By contrast, Scott Evangelista, Sarah-Sarah’s owner, is the most prepared and competent mariner I have ever met.

Besides the lifetime of miles he has under his keel, his level of preparedness and his mechanical knowledge and competence with his boat made us fast friends. If something attaches to the engine and is not the shaft, he has at least one spare. Same for the generator, and watermaker, and heating and cooling systems … and, and, and. On the rare occasions when he lacked expertise or knowledge to repair a system himself, he had a shoreside expert in his pocket to talk him through any problem or repair.

A wide, eye-level shot capturing the large, dark-gray fluke of a whale arching out of the ocean water as it dives. Water droplets stream off the scalloped edges of the whale's tail, creating a splash on the choppy surface. The surrounding sea is densely dotted with dozens of small, dark seabirds swimming and flying just above the water's surface under an overcast sky.
Humpback whales showed themselves on both sides of the Canadian Arctic archipelago.

Also aboard was Sam Devlin of Devlin Designing Boat Builders, an expert on marine diesels and vessel propulsion with decades of experience. Sam is also wildly funny. He had five stories for every occasion. 

Scott’s best friend since college, Jon Herman, had thousands of hours aboard Sarah-Sarah. His knowledge of the boat was an obvious plus. 

Finally, Scott’s son, Bill, came aboard in Nuuk to help stand watch through the Arctic. 

My job was safety and communications: to assist Scott in developing the standard operating procedures for safety on the trip, for acquiring and maintaining the safety and survival equipment, and to make sure we complied with the regulations of Greenland and Canada as we transited those waters. 

And I was responsible for breakfast. Being willing to cook went a long way in making up for my lack of useful sea time. 

A medium, wide-angle shot from inside a white inflatable dinghy boat, featuring two smiling men cruising past a massive, vibrant neon-blue iceberg. The man on the left wears a black winter jacket, a black beanie, gray pants, and a red life vest. The man on the right wears a bright orange hooded parka, blue jeans, a white flat cap, and a black life vest with binoculars hanging around his neck. The boat glides through bright turquoise glacial water under an overcast, cloudy gray sky, with a barren, rocky brown island visible in the background on the right.
Sarah’s dinghy, Side Hustle, exploring the harbor at Pearce Point.

Prepare for the Expected

The Northwest Passage is remote, but no more so than a Pacific crossing to Hawaii. Both will put you 1,000 miles from the nearest rescue asset and well out of VHF radio range from the nearest vessel. 

The difference is all about the ice. The Arctic may be warming and the ice may be breaking up sooner in the year, but the ice is still there, and it will present challenges.

Icebergs are not the worry. They are easy to spot and avoid, though we did find out more than once that some of them are angled in such a way as to be completely invisible to radar until they are 100 yards away. 

A medium, forward-facing shot of a man smiling intensely while sitting at the helm console of a white inflatable rigid-hull dinghy boat on a completely calm bay. The man wears a dark gray beanie, a heavy black winter jacket with a red life vest, khaki pants, and black gloves, holding two large silver-barreled marine poles or tools upright in each hand. The perfectly glassy, teal-tinted water reflects a barren, hilly brown landscape stretching along the distant shoreline under a pale, overcast sky.
Canadian authorities encourage taking weapons when going ashore in polar bear country.

Sea ice, which spreads out in every direction for miles, is another thing entirely. If you wait until it is gone completely, you might have to overwinter like Amundsen did. 

To be successful, boaters must manage the sea ice, not completely avoid it. The trouble is, to manage any risk, you need information. You want certainty. What you get, however, despite the daily Canadian ice charts and satellite images, is delayed information about what was and might be true now, but probably isn’t. 

Then you must overlay current weather predictions that may or may not be true, and then you push out into the sea and hope everyone involved—the ice guys, the meteorologists and your gut—was right. It’s part science, part hope as a navigation strategy.

We did take two significant hits and made one nearly trip-stopping error as we crossed through fields of sea ice in what is now named Amundsen Gulf. We decided we knew better than the Canadian Ice Service and drove straight into a field of 50 percent-coverage ice that we guessed wasn’t really there. 

A wide, eye-level landscape shot of a coastal settlement built into a jagged, rocky terrain with a massive mountain looming directly behind it. Clusters of rectangular, Scandinavian-style apartment buildings and homes are painted in bright, vibrant colors including red, blue, yellow, and orange, standing out vividly against the rugged landscape. The foreground is composed of rough, grey-and-tan rock formations with sparse patches of green grass, leading up to the village which sits nestled at the base of a towering, sheer rock mountain face under a soft, overcast sky.
The brightly colored houses and structures, like these in Sisimiut, are a common sight in Arctic towns and settlements.

It was. We spent six hours locked in an ever-changing maze of ice, then finally resorted to gently, well, ramming our way through. We broke a meter-thick chunk to escape to open water. Then we hid in a bay on Pierce Point and licked our wounds.

Two days later, we hit a chunk of submerged ice the size of a refrigerator. Shortly after, with just enough arrogance to announce I would not miss seeing ice like that, I slammed into an ice bridge connecting two floes. 

I was certain I had ripped off the starboard stabilizer. Thankfully, it just sounded like I had ripped off the stabilizer. However, we did leave our bright-red bottom paint on numerous chunks of ice all over Amundsen Gulf. 

A wide, dramatic landscape shot capturing a series of large, white and light-blue icebergs floating on a dark, choppy ocean under a moody sky. The largest iceberg structure rises prominently in the center, featuring a pointed peak on the left and a long, blocky, sheer-walled plateau stretching to the right. Two smaller, isolated icebergs sit low on the horizon to the far left and right. The scene is illuminated by a striking sunset or sunrise breaking through thick clouds on the right, casting a bright, golden-orange haze over the icy water and the distant sky.
The last icebergs in Baffin Bay before entering the Canadian Arctic.

Plan for the Unexpected

If you had to pick a place in the northern hemisphere that would be the worst to experience an engine failure, Prince Regent Inlet between Somerset Island and the Brodeur Peninsula would make the short list. Brodeur and Somerset, completely uninhabited, sit to the south of Devon Island, the largest uninhabited island in the world. It truly is the middle of nowhere. That’s where, just 7 miles from our intended anchorage and a mile off the sheer cliff walls of Somerset, our John Deere 6068 died. 

There were a couple of alarms, and then the engine made a very unhappy noise. About 30 seconds later, we were dead in the water. 

Scott yelled, “Rig the dinghy!” For a second, I thought I was wrong about him being the right captain for the job as I helped sling the 40-hp setup over the side. When Scott drove the dinghy around to the starboard rail and lashed it in a side tow to the 85,000-pound vessel, I really thought I had picked the wrong guy. 

A medium, eye-level shot capturing a large herd of massive, brown walruses packed closely together as they rest on a grey pebble beach. Near the center, a single walrus stands out by lifting its head high to look directly forward, showing off its thick whiskers and two long, white ivory tusks. The rest of the walruses are huddled tightly in a dense pile, their wrinkled hides ranging in shade from pale tan to deep brown. The shoreline meets a calm, bright turquoise-blue ocean that extends across the upper third of the frame.
Walruses in on Devon Island.

Three minutes later, I was at the helm as we made an easy 5 knots. We were fine. Scott put his hand on my shoulder and said with a laugh, “We maintain 9.5 knots using just 75 horsepower from our main engine. It stands to reason that 40 horsepower can get us underway, right?”

Scott’s planning job had been vessel operations. He knew his boat, and he had a plan for everything that might go wrong. 

Two hours later, we were at anchor in a perfect little bay. We replaced the low-pressure fuel pump the next day. Scott had two spares, of course. 

A high-angle, aerial drone shot showing a massive, sculptured white iceberg floating in a deep blue ocean, with a long-range trawler boat visible in the background. The iceberg dominates the foreground, featuring a sheer, pale blue face, a flat snowy top, a dark cavernous hole in its side, and a vibrant turquoise shelf glowing just beneath the water's surface on the right. In the upper center, the silver-and-white aluminum vessel sits safely at a distance on the calm sea, emphasizing the scale of the Arctic ice structure under a clear sky.
Sarah-Sarah dwarfed by an iceberg in Disko Bay.

That was the trip: Execute the plan, handle the problems, rinse and repeat until you arrive. We tied Sarah-Sarah up to her home dock in Anacortes 75 days after leaving Portland. We had experienced some excitement and some truly stunning views and wildlife. It was a real adventure. 

But despite the achievement, I cannot get over how easy it all was. We were prepared for everything from pack ice to polar bears. This experience was one considered decision after another, not unlike any other day on the water anywhere in the word. 

In retrospect, I’m reserving the word epic for Amundsen and his crew.

A medium, eye-level shot of four male crew members standing arm-in-arm on the open flybridge of a boat, smiling cheerfully for a group photo. All four men wear matching bright red hooded technical parkas featuring a circular maritime patch on the left chest, paired with matching dark blue baseball caps. In the lower center foreground, a large white-rimmed Garmin navigation screen displays a detailed GPS marine chart. The boat's stern railing and a grey bimini top frame the crew against a calm, grey open sea and a hazy, overcast sky.
The crew poses for a picture as they cross into the Arctic Circle last summer.

This article originally appeared in the April 2026 issue of Passagemaker magazine.

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