Engeyjarviti: What could possibly go wrong?

A kayak, a lighthouse, and the moment I realized the ocean doesn’t care about my plans.

“It’s hard to stop loving the ocean. Even after it has left you gasping, salty.” - (Quote from the poem “The Type” by Sarah Kay)

For what felt like an eternity, I didn’t know if I was up, down, or somewhere in between. A total whiteout — a frenzy of foamy water — swallowed me whole. This was what it meant to truly lose control, to be flung about like a rag doll in the hands of the sea. I had dreaded this moment. It was exactly what I had feared: rolling over with my kayak.

In my little guidebook, Sjókajakkar á Íslandi, it says plainly: when the wind rises above 10 meters per second and the wave tops turn white with foam, a beginner has no business being out at sea.

And yet, there I was — at sea, and a beginner.

Of course, I hadn’t read that particular warning yet as I nervously strapped the borrowed, bright yellow kayak to the roof of my car. The boat was the exact length of my old Toyota — it fit so precisely that I had to smile, despite the knot of anxiety tightening in my gut.

That day, I had decided to attempt the crossing to Engeyjarviti, one of the last three lighthouses still waiting for me to paint a watercolor of.

Too many months had slipped by without progress on the Viti project. Routine had dulled my senses, and adventure was beginning to itch under my skin. I had to go — I needed to go.

And so I found myself standing on the narrow beach of Klettagarður, my chosen departure point, under a clear sky. I was already sweating after hauling the kayak and my gear down to the water’s edge. I couldn’t yet see the lighthouse, but Engey — the island — was clearly there, anchored in the bay like a promise. Its sister island, Viðey, is better known, connected to the mainland by ferry. But Engey, though almost within arm’s reach of Reykjavík, was separated by three long kilometers of open water.

My heart was pounding. Fear gnawed at me. Still, I forced my hands steady as I checked and rechecked my equipment. I slid into the yellow cockpit, gave a first push with my paddle against the sand, and let the sea take me.

I felt at once extremely vulnerable and wildly elated, moving at eye level with the restless surface of the water. The further I paddled, the further I left behind the safe embrace of the shore. I narrowed my world down to the movement of my arms, the dip and pull of the paddle, the steady breath in my lungs. As a rhythm took hold, I allowed myself to look at the familiar skyline of Reykjavík, slowly drifting by, offering me a brand-new perspective on a city I’ve been calling home for seven years now.

Departure beach (Klettagarður)

The more I paddled, the more the fear dissolved.

It always happens this way: the anticipation of an adventure is far more anxiety-inducing than the adventure itself. Excitement took over, a huge smile stretching across my face.

I AM DOING IT! I shouted to myself, the words torn away by the wind. I was going to paint another lighthouse — finally! No obstacle seemed large enough now to stand between me and my watercolor.

The wind was against me, but it wasn’t strong enough to make the paddling hard. Engey grew larger and larger with every stroke, and after about an hour, I could make out a bright sandy patch among the dark rocks — the very spot I had marked on the map as my landing point.

When I reached the shore, I was drunk on sunshine and happiness.

The dopamine of physical effort flooded my body. I was, without a doubt, the happiest person in the North Atlantic Ocean.

Arrival beach on Engey

In truth, I had only kayaked a handful of times over the years. I once took a beginner’s course, and in the summer of 2022, I made the crossing to Hrollaugseyjarviti with a friend. That lighthouse — visible on clear days from the famous Diamond Beach — had been a much riskier journey: eleven kilometers across open sea, among whales and curious seals, made possible only by a rare day of calm ocean.

Compared to that, Engey was a shorter, safer crossing — but this time, I was entirely alone. People had warned me, of course. They reminded me of the golden rule of sea kayaking: never go alone. But, dear reader, if you’ve been following my adventures for any length of time, you already know: I am not the kind of person who lets other people’s fears keep me from my goals.

The truth is, I had tried to find someone to come along. But plans shift. Life intervenes. And sometimes, if you wait too long for company, you end up never going at all.

Had I waited for someone to come along, the Viti project would never have begun. So I keep moving forward alone — and sometimes, if I’m lucky, someone crosses my path and shares a piece of the road. But on that early summer day on Engey, I was utterly alone. Alone on an island populated only by seabirds.

After reaching the shore, a new challenge presented itself — one I had not anticipated: walking to the lighthouse. It was only a kilometer away, but it wasn’t nearly as easy as it sounded. The island was wild — untouched. No paths wound through it. What had looked like simple grass from the distance turned out to be thick, tangled vegetation, sometimes rising up to my hips. Hidden beneath the angelica’s giant leaves and dense clumps of grass were deep hollows and sudden dips, ready to catch the unwary.

It took far longer than I had imagined to reach the lighthouse.

Engeyjarviti was exactly the kind of Icelandic lighthouse I love most: bright orange, contrasting defiantly against the deep blues of summer seas, or — depending on the season — the heavy white of winter’s snow.

Built in 1937, it stands only nine meters tall, a solid block of concrete crowned by a classic red Swedish lantern. The light had once been powered by gas, which explained the rusting tank still standing at its side — now obsolete, ever since the system was electrified.

The door wasn’t locked. I slid inside and began to climb the narrow stairs. The smell inside is similar to the smell of boats — a blend of dampness, peeling oil paint, and the lingering ghost of old fuel.

But all those heavy smells vanished the moment I stepped out onto the lighthouse’s small platform, replaced by the salty wind. Sunlight flooded over me. Below me, the island stretched out, raw and wild. In the distance, Reykjavík buzzed with invisible lives, small and busy against the skyline.

And here I stood — a dot on a forgotten island, with only the indignant cries of the seabirds for company.

It was time to paint

But as I stepped back from the lighthouse to find my point of view, the quiet voice of self-doubt began to rise inside me: I hadn’t painted in months. Three months, or maybe more. Had I forgotten how? The color blends, the soft transition of the clouds, the balance of wet paper — would they come back to me? Even choosing the composition felt overwhelming: Akrafjall in the background, or Reykjavík? I wandered chaotically through the deep vegetation, the seabirds shrieking their impatience with my indecision.

The wind was picking up. Time was slipping away.

Finally, I dropped to the ground and spread my watercolor tools around me. I started with a quick sketch — the familiar movement of the pencil quieting my mind, bringing me back to the moment. Then I reached for my brushes, opened my paints, and finally slipped into the artistic flow.

An hour later, it was done. It wasn’t a masterpiece. But it was enough. One more lighthouse done.

Mission accomplished.

Sorry it’s all blurry!

The sun was still shining. I wished I could have stayed longer, wandering this wild island, but I knew I had to hurry. The wind was relentless now, just as the forecast had warned — nine to ten meters per second. But I knew the wind would be at my back, pushing me toward shore. By the time I reached the kayak, the shoreline felt calm — but as soon as I paddled away from the safety of land, it was a different world entirely.

The sea no longer tolerated me.

The waves had turned, temperamental and playful in a dangerous way. I had to keep looking behind me, constantly checking if a wave too high, too fast, was sneaking up. I made fast progress, carried by the wind, but my body was tense with awareness. I had no business being here, a mere mortal on this chaotic, living surface. The ocean doesn’t care what your plans are. Still, the tiny beach grew larger before my eyes — a bright spot of safety in the shifting blue.

But the chaos grew too.

The waves sometimes clashed against each other in opposite directions. I could feel it: the apparent stability of my kayak was being challenged. Maybe it was chance that kept me upright; maybe it was some half-learned instinct in my paddle strokes. I didn’t know. But if I capsized now, I would have to swim for it.

Closer and closer.

I could see tiny silhouettes of people standing safely on the beach — and it felt surreal, how safe their world looked while I was so exposed, battling the surf.

I was almost there. But how would I land? I had never landed in surf like this. And there was no slowing down — the wind and waves were deciding for me.

A final wave picked me up like a toy.

The next thing I knew, I was slammed onto the sand, the kayak flipping, the world spinning in a crush of sand and foam.

———————————————————————

When I finally dragged the kayak above the tide line and collapsed onto the sand, soaked to the bone, I lay there for a moment — in shock at what had just happened. In shock at how close I’d come to catastrophe.

The painting?! I gasped, suddenly remembering — and frantically checked that my artwork was still tightly sealed inside the dry bag.

It was. Safe and dry, just as it had been when I left the island.
Wouldn’t it have been the ultimate irony if, after all that, the watercolor had been ruined by the sea? My phone, however, wasn’t so lucky. I would later find it completely unresponsive, never to turn on again. But the mission was accomplished. One more lighthouse painted.

And more importantly, I had found myself again — in the paddle strokes, in the shifting light on paper, in the salt still clinging to my skin. I had returned to the two things I love most: painting and adventuring. And, believe it or not, I know this won’t be the last time I find myself in a kayak.

Because it’s hard to stop loving the ocean — even after it’s left you gasping, salty.

Watercolor of Engeyjarviti