Greetings from the edge of Argentina. We have moved from Puerto Williams in Chile to Ushuaia in Argentina. Twenty-seven miles into the wind through the Beagle Channel. Warm reunions and sad farewells.
Quite a lot has happened since we last wrote:
We met a group of trekkers from Chișinău,
caught up again with a friendly yacht and shared a mooring buoy with them; last year they sailed the Northwest Passage with their children. They had set off to round Cape Horn as tourists and came back only just in time to catch us in Chile.
We left Chile for Argentina, bound for the main island of the Tierra del Fuego archipelago,
cleared in without any of the promised major problems or inspections,
stayed at no fewer than two yacht clubs,
and most importantly, met two Russian crews from Antarctic yachts, along with their legendary captains.
The First Mate’s Days Off
And I also allowed myself a whole three days off. I revelled in my freedom to my heart’s content—I washed everything in our floating home and cleared out the shelves and desk in the bedroom, where the captain treacherously set up a chart table for himself five years ago. From now on, this will be my study. A navigator’s things to the navigator, a writer’s things to the writer. Because if I carry on working at the table in the saloon (deckhouse), amid the round-the-clock tyranny of buns and tea, my wondrously elegant figure will now be lost to the world for ever.
As part of our day off, the whole crew made a dash around Ushuaia’s shops in search of new trainers for our young sailor. The old trainers had wanted to be thrown away back in Tahiti, but had accidentally hidden themselves in a locker. At the southern edge of the world, however, they turned out to be the only suitable footwear. Over two weeks, those long-suffering cast-offs completely fell apart on Lada’s speedy little feet, without ever ceasing to be too big for her. We bought new ones, two sizes too large; we couldn’t find any others. Sailor Nastya acquired a cosy hoodie and has been walking around happy for the second day running.
After such a hectic rest, I feel like a truant and sit down to write my report.
Warm Encounters in Chile
On the eve of our departure from the southernmost town on the planet—Puerto Williams in Chile—we had two days of abnormal heat. The thermometer leapt to +25°C, the penguins went into shock, and the serviceman stationed on Cape Horn told his colleagues that in all the time he had worked there, he had never seen weather like it: flat calm in the Drake Passage, and too hot in a windbreaker.
The summer day glittered with sunlight as we filmed a piece on the second floor of the cruiser yacht club about how we torture our young sailors. A little plane carrying the group from Moldova landed at the airport. They were too shy to come straight aboard our yacht, though they did wander around the yacht club, but by sunset we had gone over to join them for a barbecue. We hadn’t had such a lavish spread or such a warm-hearted evening in a long time. How wonderful it is to have supper beside a fire, talking in your native language. In the morning, the group were setting out on the southernmost trekking route in the world. But they were not very lucky with the weather. On the very day they set off, summer in Patagonia was due to end, and the forecast promised rain at sea level and snow higher up. We had dreamed of going with them, even if only for a day, and returning the next. But the captain said we had to leave for Argentina on Thursday so we could clear in before the weekend and meet the Russian crews in Ushuaia. They would be leaving for Antarctica by the 12th.
To keep ourselves from feeling sad about parting with the Moldovans, we did a live broadcast on a friendly Instagram platform, where Nastya told the whole truth about her schooling. During the day, we dashed around dealing with formalities and moved from the yacht club named after the sunken cruiser to a mooring buoy. Our friends Paul and Christine had just arrived at the same buoy with their young sailors, aged nine and seven. Their free-spirited, slightly wild daughters, Zoë and Margot, met Lada on the way back from immigration and, after dancing a jig for joy, all three of them tore off to the park and the swings.
They were heading off for several days to the national park actually called “Cabo de Hornos”—Cape Horn, that is. We could not go with them, because to anchor in these waters you need to run lines ashore on both sides. The coves are very narrow, and if you swing on the anchor chain, it is easy to end up with a rock through the hull. It was to get those lines that we arrived in Ushuaia, Argentina, the day before yesterday. On Horn Island there is a small house where a border guard sits and stamps passports. You need a full one and a half blank pages in your passport to become the proud owner of stamps like the ones in the main photograph.
It’s a pity we don’t have them. We rounded Cape Horn in 35 knots of wind, and approaching the island would have been dangerous. After Puerto Williams, Paul and Christian are heading to the Falkland Islands to see king penguins, then they will return to the Pacific through the Strait of Magellan and cross the whole ocean in a single season, reaching Tasmania by November. They have invited us to visit, so now we are wondering which way to approach them—from the west or the east.
While we talked in their cosy saloon to the crackle of the wood-burning stove, the children raced from yacht to yacht. At five in the morning, we cast off, and the neighbouring family sleepily emerged in full force to see us off. And as always, no one knows whether our sea routes will cross again, or whether we will remain no more than faded memories to one another.
The Passage to Argentina
We had to cover about 25 miles through the Beagle Channel with the wind dead ahead. It howled so hard that even at full power we made only 2.5 miles an hour. The penguins dived the moment I took out the camera, and it was bitterly cold. Summer ended overnight, and the mountaintops had turned slightly grey with snow.
By lunchtime, we reached Ushuaia’s modest Club Náutico marina, where a berth with water and electricity costs $8 a day. On the approach, we spotted the yachts “RUSARC AURORA” and “MON COEUR” in the marina opposite.
The Land of Mate and Tango
We had been thoroughly warned about Argentina—apparently they would come to inspect our liferafts, distress flares, and a great many other things besides. Everything turned out to be even easier than in Chile. At the harbourmaster’s office, which is called the prefecture here, the children and I walked around outside the entrance. At immigration, which is in the port, we sat in the waiting room, and we did not even go to customs or back to the harbourmaster’s office. Instead, we wandered through the museum gardens, studying photographs of the Yámana (Yaghan)—the true people of Tierra del Fuego, who lived here for several thousand years and disappeared less than a century after the Europeans arrived.
The captain did not have to run around for too long, and after clearing in we made a forced march to the neighbouring marina. Roxana—the woman who runs it—had noticed us back at the prefecture and promised a Russian party with RUSARC and Nikolai Litau’s crew, who were due back from their Antarctic voyage today or tomorrow.
A conversation at the marina with the RUSARC crew gave us the idea of moving over here for a few days, rafted up as the fourth boat out. Besides the Russian community, there is also a children’s playground with swings. And internet in a two-storey building that I never did get to visit....
To be continued. For now, I am loading this report into an email and sending the captain out into the rain in search of internet access.
Thank you, our dear friends, for your comments and active involvement!
And a huge special thank-you to our shore-based fellowship, which supports the expedition through PayPal.me/TravelyFamily. Our thanks to Andrei K. from the Moscow Region, Vladislav P. from Moscow, Igor M. from Novosibirsk, Pyotr P. from St Petersburg, and Nikolai E. from Almaty!