Sailing the West Fjords, Iceland

While visitors throng to Reykjavik, free-spirited Icelanders head north for their own adventures

Around 4am the ghost thing started to add up

I’d given up trying to sleep. A pale but insistent light had been soaking through the wide skylight above my bunk all that sub-Arctic midsummer night – and the three nights before – tickling my retinas through tightly clamped eyelids. I call it night – how is it night if there’s no darkness? Resigned to wakefulness, I crept on deck.

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