06 August, 2024: Departing for Greenland

“After two months of preparation, the moment is finally here. My bags are packed, cameras prepped and journeys booked… I’m off on my first assignment as Storyteller in Residence to Greenland.

As a routine tropical diver that spends most of her time diving in waters between 28-30°C, it’s safe to say it has taken a fair bit of preparation to get ready for this expedition – reacclimatising myself with the cold(ish) waters of the UK, logging 20 hours in a drysuit and navigating the new kit, challenging weather and general faff that comes with a very different kind of diving to the one that I’ve spent most of my career doing. And yes, despite the notoriously unpredictable conditions and of course, an ocean twice as cold as I’m used to (a moderately cool 14°C), preparing for this expedition has been incredibly fun. More than I expected, certainly, and having now spent so many hours with kelp, seals and bobtail squid in my home waters, I feel that I’ve been seduced once more by Britain’s chillier, but none the less charming seas.

But I am about to take the plunge into waters much colder and even more exciting, because my first (and longest) expedition with Oceanographic is taking me to Greenland. I first visited this Arctic nation back in 2021, when filming a documentary on climate change as part of an all-female team that sailed from Iceland to Greenland. Hot on the heels of the global pandemic, we spent much of our time exploring the coastline from the sea, confined to our boat by COVID regulations, late departures and a 60-knot squall.

This time, my expedition will be largely land-based, to connect and learn from as many people and communities as possible. With the intention of documenting the intersection between people and our changing planet, I hope to highlight those voices on the frontlines of a warming Arctic. My journey will start on the east coast, scuba diving with icebergs on the island of Kulusuk, before briefly flying west to Greenland’s capital, Nuuk, then northward up the west coast to Ilulissat’s famous ice fjord and the ice-cap entrance at Kangerlussuaq, before finally departing by small ship through the North West Passage to Canada. It feels exciting to be back under my own steam – and I can’t wait to see what the next 6 weeks will bring.”

06 August, 2024: Arriving in Kulusuk 

“One thing that I never forgot about Greenland was the sky. In days of longer light and short nights, the sky seems to sit differently. It hangs in shades of pastel blues, pinks and lilac hues that fall against a jarring backdrop of rugged mountains. And sitting here writing this, on my first evening back in Greenland, I’m looking on that very same pastel sky as the 11pm sun ‘sets’ over the mountains surrounding Kulusuk Island.

Last time when I approached Greenland’s east coast, I came from the sea rather than the air. But, approaching Greenland from the sky this afternoon evening, I had the same very thought I had last time: Why the hell did they call it Greenland when it is so very clearly white. Because you see the ice before you see the land.

At first, it’s a few scattered icebergs peppering the ocean’s surface, the majority large in size at first, the largest surviving the furthest out to sea. As you approach toward land, the sizes become more diverse and the scatter greater. Icebergs increases in density and number until the coastline comes into view, and the entire surface of the sea around Kulusuk becomes smeared with white.

The small island of Kulusuk sits on Greenland’s East coast, and is home to a small settlement where hunting and fishing are intrinsic to community survival. As the fourth largest settlement on this coast and accessible by an airport – one of only two on the entire eastern coast of Greenland – Kulusuk is known the gateway to the East.

I land at the humble airport, reminiscent of those in other parts of the country. As I’m greeted by those at the hotel, I quickly learn that this year has indeed been unusual for Kulusuk. “This year has more ice than has been seen in decades, so much so that it has disrupted travel, hunting and the influx of supplies,” a pair of fellow filmmakers tell me at the hotel. For much of the year, Kulusuk is cut off for the winter, only accessible in the summer months once the winter storms have abated and the seasonal sea ice has begun to break up.

After a short walk into town, I snap a few quick photos of the ice-field, it’s a still evening, aside from the echos of husky pups echoing off the rocky walls and the crunch of a boat going out to hunt. I watch the boat pick its way through the ice, stopping and starting as the density of ice changes. Knowing that I’ll be diving in these frigid waters in just a couple of days fills me with a slight apprehension – will I be warm enough?”