Lost at Sea: The Haunting Legacy of the Pourquoi Pas?
As I step into the lighthouse, the resounding thud of my rubber boots fills the spiraling staircase, echoing like a heartbeat against the walls. Amidst the dim light, I finally see it: the memorial of the “Pourquoi Pas?”.
Above, the sculpture of Commandant Charcot presides, a silent sentinel over the plaques recounting the harrowing tale of his ill-fated vessel and its crew, whose journey came to an end in September 1936. My eyes dart from picture to picture, each a portal into the past, each holding a fragment of the tragic narrative.
A photograph stops my gaze—a scene of sailors sprawled upon the grass, nestled side by side in a seemingly tranquil rest. In the muted hues of sepia, they appear serenely asleep, as if basking in the warmth of the sun after a long day of labor. Yet, a horrifying realization grips me: I have been mistaken, they are not sleeping; they are deceased, victims of the merciless sea claiming its toll after the “Pourquoi Pas?” was lost beneath the waves.
Approaching Þormóðssker Lighthouse
On my twelfth day at sea aboard Freyja, the biggest vessel of the Icelandic Coast Guards, we carried on our final leg back to Reykjavík after circling the country, tending to the guardians of the treacherous waters: the lighthouses. Among them, I was eager to reach one in particular : Þormóðsskersviti.
Before anyone showed up on deck I was already suited up, feeling like an astronaut in gear too large for my frame, my gaze fixed not on the moon but on the distant tower. The sea, mercifully calm compared to prior stops, hinted at a smooth landing. That was all I was hoping for. Of all the missions, completed or aborted due to challenging conditions, I wanted to reach this lighthouse more than any other.
A brief glance at the sky revealed a somber grey, yet devoid of rain threats. As long as the rain doesn’t show up I should be able to complete my watercolor. With the crew members and the gear ready, Ingi acknowledged my eagerness: "You really want to go to this one, don't you?" he smiled.
Gummi also showed up on deck and pointed at a map of the skerries, revealing the resting place of the vessel, a rock named "Hnokki" where only the metal parts of the wreckage remain.
As the crane lowered the inflatable boat, the dance with the waves commenced. Descending into the rubber vessel marked the start of our venture, and my adrenaline rush.
Being at the same level as the waves feels incredibly vulnerable. I cannot help but envision the despair of sailors who were forced to abandon ship, desperately struggling for their lives in water that likely only amounted to a few degrees.
The waves remain calm, allowing us to easily land on this rock that appears like a mere speck amidst the expanse of the ocean. The first thing that strikes me, aside from the persistent bird droppings odor, is the color of the stones. They're covered with a thin layer of vibrant green moss, which gives a spring-like feel to what would otherwise be ominous rocks. However, this beautiful green is deceiving, and I must curb my excitement to run to the lighthouse and first concentrate on safely crossing the extremely slippery stones.
Þormóðsskersviti ranks among the top ten most remote lighthouses I've encountered in my travels. Perched defiantly in the Faxafloi bay, its isolation hints the danger that surrounds it. To truly comprehend the peril of this area, one must ascend the lighthouse and witness the labyrinth of skerries that surrounds these waters. In moments of poor visibility, this expanse becomes a death trap for any ship daring to venture forth. How then did the Pourquoi Pas? find itself ensnared in this perilous area?
On the fateful day of September 15, 1936, anticipation hung heavy in the air as the three-masted ship prepared to depart Reykjavik's harbor in Iceland. The weather, initially promising, whispered of calm seas and clear skies, a hopeful backdrop for the eager crew embarking on their journey back home, to France. Led by the renowned Jean-Baptiste Charcot, their Arctic explorations had concluded, with Iceland serving as a refueling stop before their final leg.
Yet, as the vessel neared the tip of Garðskagi around four in the afternoon, an ominous shift occurred. The once placid weather gave way to rising winds, foretelling a tempest coming from the south-west. Unbeknownst to the sailors, their voyage home was about to be interrupted.
As dusk descended and the barometer plummeted, the decision was made to turn around and seek refuge back in Reykjavík's harbor. However, the sea, now a tumultuous beast, showed no mercy. Amidst howling winds and towering waves, the Pourquoi Pas? battled fiercely. Other vessels were also caught in the maelstrom and the crew narrowly avoided a collision with a trawler.
Hope flickered as the lights of Grótta’s lighthouse shimmered in the distance, a sign of potential salvation. Yet, the ship's plight worsened; its movements erratic, its course uncertain. They were unable to reach the harbor. The situation worsened when the radio antenna was snapped by the wind, and with all means of communication severed the desperation was mounting. The crew kept on facing the relentless fury of the storm for hours. Another light was briefly sighted, probably the lighthouse in Akranes, but once again it was impossible to reach it.
At the break of dawn, a short clearance of the sky granted a glimpse of the area they had reached: instead of being a sight of relief, the sailors gasped in horror.
Skerries were encircling them.
Course of the Pourquoi Pas?
Despite the efforts to steer clear, it was too late. The Pourquoi Pas? scrapes the bottom twice, which leads to the boiler's explosion, rendering the engine useless.
In this chaos a towering wave claimed its toll—sweeping a sailor into the abyss and leaving another grievously wounded. With steely resolve, Charcot rallied his crew, issuing the orders to wear the safety belts and lower the rescue pods.
Shortly after, the Pourquoi Pas? crashes against a skerry. Lost in the chaos, its crew found themselves at the mercy of an unforgiving sea. I can let you imagine their final fate.
It's important to understand that most sailors in the past did not learn to swim. This may seem counterintuitive to survival if a boat sinks, but consider these facts: If you're thrown into frigid waters with a safety belt, hypothermia will likely kill you within 30 to 60 minutes. This is a prolonged period of suffering in the cold. Without a flotation device, the cold will stiffen your limbs within 10 minutes, causing you to drown. If you can't swim, you drown instantly. Therefore, sailors of that era often chose the quickest way out.
Crew members of the Pourquoi Pas? (But different expedition).
Twenty-three bodies were recovered, seventeen were never found, forty died including Charcot himself and only one sailor survived.
In the midst of this devastating death toll, one miracle stands out: Eugène Gonidec, the sole survivor of this tragedy. He swam towards the lights of Straumfjörður farm and lost consciousness upon reaching land after a three-kilometer swim in cold water. The farmers discovered him, half-frozen and blinded by salt, and managed to revive him.
Eugene Gonidec and its saviors.
Five years after this tragedy, the Þormóðsskers lighthouse was erected as a beacon to warn sailors of this perilous stretch of sea.
This story holds a special place in my heart. You see, the majority of the sailors aboard the Pourquoi Pas? hailed from the same region in France as I do: Bretagne, a land steeped in seafaring tradition and Celtic lore. The name Pourquoi Pas?, meaning "Why not?" in French, resonates deeply with me, reflecting the boundless curiosity that drives exploration. This vessel was more than a ship; it was a scientific endeavor, fueled by a relentless quest for knowledge and understanding.
"Why paint every lighthouse in Iceland? Why the Viti Project?" To these questions, I can only respond: Why not? It's a simple yet profound acknowledgment of my infinite curiosity and my strong desire to explore the unknown.
It was an immense honor for me to accompany the Coast Guards on this lighthouse mission, and I sincerely hope this story has allowed you to live through my experience of exploring this lighthouse.
And as always, here is the final result of painting a watercolor portrait of Þormóðsskersviti:
Thank you for diving into this journey with me!
Keep on shining your light,