About the Naked People of Tierra del Fuego and the Clothed People on the Yacht

About the naked people of Tierra del Fuego and the clothed people on the yacht. 45 degrees south latitude. According to our track, we have covered 3,350 nautical miles, or 6,030 km, since Bora Bora. Less than half remains—hooray! We once thought that this circumnavigation would hold no passage more epic than crossing the Atlantic or sailing to Easter Island, where we arrived on the 23rd day after setting off. It is amazing how experience changes your understanding of yourself and of the challenges that are not only interesting to you, but also within your capabilities! We will develop this theme in our next report; it runs deep. I’ll tell you how the South Pacific changed a teenage sailor and a mother hen who used to be a spirited tomboy and now seems to be turning back into one. And I’ll tell you about the transformations of the young sailor and the captain, too. But for now, back to immediate matters.. .. .. . 28 December. 5 a.m. Outside the yaranga: +12.9; inside the yaranga: +15.8. Wind from the northwest. Positively balmy. Today, for the first time since the Mediterranean winter, I pulled on my daytime clothes without getting out from under the blanket. Even our young sailor Laduska, who had always worn nothing aboard the yacht but knickers and a bow in her hair, put on a striped sailor shirt and harem trousers yesterday. The heat exchange those little ones have! We have long been wrapping ourselves in sweaters and socks, while she couldn’t care less, running around naked all day as if we were in the tropics. Just looking at her made us feel cold. But she simply giggles and reassures me. Mum, don’t worry, I really am warm! .. .. . It is still damp, with occasional showers. Every twenty-four hours, the air temperature drops by one degree. Point Nemo is 295 miles away. This will be a truly unusual New Year’s Eve, at a place ten times farther from land than from space. Friends, thank you for your advice in the comments! We are trying to find out whether it is possible to contact the ISS by radio. We have tasked our shore team with studying the links, the times when the ISS passes over Point Nemo, and the astronaut crew roster. It would be wonderful to wish them a Happy New Year! “ISS, ISS, this is the sailing yacht Lady Mary calling...” .. .. . I wonder which channel they monitor? .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. Yesterday we read Fyodor Konyukhov’s notes. He writes that there is neither time nor winter nor summer here—there is only Cape Horn. Fog and cold. True, the great cape is still more than 2,000 miles (3,670 km) away, but you can already feel that we are more there than among the warm islands of the Pacific. Despite the tolerable humidity of around 70 percent, moisture condenses on the windows and walls because of the difference between the temperatures outside and inside. It is positively running down the walls in the forward cabin. The water is fresh, so we cannot blame it on water coming in from outside. We go around with a cloth and wait for a break in the weather so we can air the boat out. The other day we watched a film about Tierra del Fuego. Before the arrival of civilisation, several Patagonian tribes lived there, including the Yaghan people. As recently as the last century, they went naked in winter and summer. Completely naked, as though on the equator—except that this is the 55th parallel. But not the same 55th parallel as in Europe, washed by the warm Gulf Stream. On Tierra del Fuego, 600 miles from Antarctica, it is always raw and chilly: down to minus 20 in winter, no higher than 18 in summer, and icy winds howl through the stunted trees. There are no frosts below minus 40, but nor is there any dry warmth. The young Darwin was astonished by the Yaghan and wrote in his diary: “A woman was breastfeeding an infant while looking at us. And snow was falling on her bare shoulders and the child’s body.” The people lived mainly at sea, in large dugout canoes. They would stop on land for anywhere from a day to a week, building flimsy shelters for the purpose. Then it was back to their home—the hollowed-out canoe, where a fire burned on a little heap of sand, naked children bustled about, Mum steered the boat through the fog, and Dad fished. And this splendid Yaghan people never moved to the warmer north; they simply carried on living naked in the south. They would still be living there now, had the Europeans not established themselves in Ushuaia. Those Yaghan who were not killed were dressed in warm clothes and settled in houses. The Yaghan died out. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. So what is my point? There are almost no limits to human adaptability. And we have it even better than the Yaghan: clothes and a roof over our heads will not do us any harm—we are used to them. Nor can cooler latitudes frighten us. It is certainly colder back home right now. And condensation is found not only aboard boats, but also in badly built standard prefab blocks, from which the housing maintenance office, through sheer negligence, never rehouses anyone until Channel One broadcasts the outrage. We warm ourselves with tea and hot cocoa and save the treats for when it gets really bitterly cold, so we will have something to cheer ourselves up with. We rarely turn on the heater, both to help our bodies adapt and to save fuel. And yes, by the way, we have it easy here: there is no chance of falling ill with flu or an acute respiratory infection, because there is no one to catch it from. So there is hope that we will celebrate this New Year more cheerfully than the last one in hot, wet Panama. There I heroically lay ill with a cough and fever from Catholic Christmas right through to 2 January. Better to be here in the fog but healthy, treating ourselves to buns while watching The Irony of Fate and eating Olivier salad from metal bowls. The crew council decreed that for the duration of the holiday, our mugs and bowls are to be designated not steel but silver. So our festive tableware is fit for real aristocrats—just look how it shines! . .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. The waves have grown higher, about 4 metres. We have a following wind of around 20–25 knots. We are rolling considerably, but we are used to it. The genoa has torn for the fifth time. Completely ripped along a horizontal seam. We are sailing under the staysail and the mainsail reefed down to the third reef. We are waiting for a calm so we can once again take down the largest—and very wet—sail and stitch every possible seam. The weather is unlikely to let us do it on deck, so we will have to drag it inside. At least that will keep us busy for an entire day, given our production capacity. The fog creeps right up to the hull, then retreats a whole mile. The petrels have hidden in the grey cotton wool, and the albatrosses are also bogged down in the murk somewhere beyond the limits of visibility. Whales and dolphins have not appeared for more than a month. It has been even longer since we saw any ships. And the last people along our route were on 29 November, when we made a stop to buy provisions on the little island of Rimatara in the Austral Islands, where many people have never in their lives seen any vessels except aircraft and fishing boats. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. Our provisions are noticeably dwindling: now they will last not six months, but only five. Two crates of grapefruit and pomelos look as fresh as ever; the lemons are somewhat sadder. We even have two bananas and three Tahitian apples left. We will feed the former to the children today and ceremoniously slice up the latter on New Year’s Eve. Thanks to the captain’s ingenious invention, not a single one of our 60 kg of bananas spoiled. We have enough onions, garlic, coconuts, canned vegetables and sweet fruit to last us to Patagonia. And enough protection against scurvy in the form of dried African hibiscus to get us to Antarctica and back. No, no, don’t think that we are planning to go to Antarctica. Of course, it would be wonderful to call in at the Russian Bellingshausen Station and the Ukrainian Vernadsky Station. But I think that this time we will only be sending the polar explorers our greetings in our thoughts. Better to wait for Fyodor Konyukhov in Ushuaia. We have still not managed to establish two-way communication with him. But there is still time. We are also trying to send our position to marinetraffic.com. It is not set up to do so automatically. We will report whether the operation succeeds. Friends, thank you all for your support from ashore! It is the warmest and most joyful thing, breaking through even the cold fog. We wish you a festive New Year’s mood from the very edge of the world: 45.15 S 128.20 W.