It took just a few hours for the Arctic to reclaim its colours. First the horizon vanished, then the contours of the sea, and finally almost all contrast. What remained were countless shades of grey, damp air and a sea that looked as though it had been cast from liquid lead. The fog has been with us since Tuesday evening. Sometimes thicker, sometimes thinner, but never far away.

And yet the evening had started so promisingly. At around 7 pm, the wind was blowing at 4 bft from the south-east, and we hoisted the jib, the staysail and the mainsail on the second reef. A short while later, the engine fell silent. For the first time since setting sail, it was the wind alone that was propelling us forward. Travelling at around six knots, the Dagmar Aaen glides through the Davis Strait, the strait between Baffin Bay and Greenland. The steady rush of water against the hull and the creaking of the rigging provide the background noise.

Then, at around 10 pm, the fog rolls in.

At first, it seems harmless. Isolated wisps drift across the water, then dissipate, clearing the view once more. But little by little, the horizon disappears completely. Sky and sea merge into one another; distances are almost impossible to gauge, and the world seems to have grown smaller.

Even before visibility is finally lost, Greenland reveals itself one last time. The coastline slowly recedes astern, and a few icebergs can still be seen on the northern horizon. They look like pale shadows in a landscape that is increasingly devoid of colour. Even the unusually late sunset at 11.45 pm fails to bathe the sky in vivid colours. Instead, the day bids farewell almost silently and vanishes into the grey along with Greenland.

With our first day at sea, the familiar watch rota settles in. Four hours on watch, eight hours off. For those on watch, fog does not mean there is less to do – quite the opposite, in fact. Right now, the main priority is to keep a proper lookout, as sailors say. The radar becomes the most important navigational instrument, as visibility is often limited to just a few ship’s lengths. At the same time, daily life on board continues. Weather data is transmitted to the German Weather Service, the engine is regularly lubricated, and whenever possible, we bring the ship to a halt to carry out measurements with the CTD probe. An expedition isn’t just about sailing, but also about research, technology and well-coordinated teamwork.

With waves of half a metre to one metre, the sea is surprisingly calm for this area. Nevertheless, the start of this longer leg is taking its toll. Some on board are battling seasickness. For many, this is part and parcel of the first few days at sea. If someone is unable to work, another crew member naturally steps in. By the next day, things often look quite different again.

During the night, the wind dies down. What sounds pleasant at first brings with it a different challenge. The swell persists, causing the Dagmar Aaen to roll and heave heavily. Below deck, every movement becomes a balancing act. Pots and plates need to be held tight, small everyday objects suddenly take on a life of their own, and anyone moving through the ship instinctively reaches for every handrail.

Outside, the scene remains unchanged.

Fog.

Grey.

Next day: There’s no longer any wind-driven swell, just a long swell and our stern wake. The sea seems as heavy as lead. The sky and the water appear to be made of the same substance. Surreal. The view is reminiscent of a black-and-white photograph. There are now only countless shades between light grey and anthracite. The Arctic reveals itself in its most stripped-back form.

On watches like these, you genuinely look forward to the moment when the next crew takes over. Not because the work isn’t enjoyable, but because a warm berth can be an astonishing luxury after four hours in the damp cold. Take off your oilskins, zip up your sleeping bag and listen to the sounds of the ship for a few hours before the next watch begins.

This description may sound rather dreary – but the atmosphere on board doesn’t suffer as a result in the slightest – quite the opposite, in fact. We help one another out, take over duties when someone is off duty, and laugh together at the little challenges that life at sea brings. Everyone is gradually finding their rhythm between watches, sleep, meals and the ship’s movements.

Today, too, the fog has obscured the view right to the horizon. But perhaps that is precisely what belongs to a journey like this.
Not every horizon needs to be visible to know the course. We carry on. And the Arctic has, for the moment, withdrawn its colours once more.