In Svalbard, nightly anchor watch became the norm. As did what we dubbed "Anchor TV," as we'd sit in the Barba salon watching the anchor trace squiggly lines across the iPad screen, always threatening to break free. It's a suitably exciting Arctic substitute for HBO. And on more than one occasion, when our hold unloosened from what had seemed to be a promising bottom, the crew were out there in their long underwear at some ungodly hour battling the elements to get things back under control. Most useful, if exhausting, was our improvised winch-up-the-mast technique to lift meter upon meter of anchor chain and an anchor loaded with kelp and battered by current that otherwise wouldn't budge.