Wow, We’ve Left the Bay!

Wow, we’ve left the bay! The three days of silence were because of a storm, which Lady Mary waited out in a bay so sheltered that you can’t even see the satellite from there. The storm-force wind has ended, but the cyclone is still hanging overhead as a black cloud and flakes of wet snow. Right now we’re making for another bay against 20 knots of wind, sending this post while under way in case the satellite hides behind a cliff again? . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. Three days earlier. It’s about 14 miles to Alacush Bay. Once again, the sailing directions tell us to moor almost stern-to the shore, using shore lines. All the little coves are so tiny that you can’t swing at anchor in them—you’d end up sitting on the rocks. A wedge-shaped island juts into the narrow bay, but that’s only how it looks on the chart. In reality, the islet is quite far away, and once you’re anchored you pay no attention to it. The storm will arrive tomorrow evening, and the captain expects to wait it out here. Curiously, this is the first bay where we don’t particularly feel like going ashore. But I still have to take the mooring lines to shore and, most importantly, remove a fishing line stretched across the bay. Floating lines are tied to several tree trunks, and crab pots lie by the shore. . . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. The captain tells me to untie the line in the middle, where there’s such a tangle of knots it would keep me working until morning, like Cinderella. While Lady Mary circles around the narrow inlet, I try to carry out his orders, to no avail. Then untie it from the tree! the boss commands. I row to shore; long, fleshy seaweed with large leaves tangles around the oars like Sister Alyonushka, trying to drag me to the bottom. I read somewhere that when the first settlers poured into Tierra del Fuego, they suffered widespread famine. As far as I’m concerned, you could survive a winter and while away a summer on seaweed alone, never mind the game, of which there must surely have been more around here in the old days, from birds to seals. Plus fish, crabs in commercial quantities, mussels, and other aliens—that’s what we call live seafood, thanks to our comrade Tima Kondrenkov... To avoid starving, they probably just needed to spread out through the forests and along the shores instead of huddling together. And live off harvesting whatever they could, switching from seaweed to seal meat. I untied the line using my basic climbing skills and took it over to the opposite shore. The yacht moved deeper into the bay, hauled back on her anchor, and the shore lines were passed down to me. One tree and then another, symmetrically off the stern, just the way we like it. We only had to reset the anchor—it failed to bite about five times. Meanwhile, I stood in the dugout by the shore, holding on to the gnarled trunk of a beech leaning over the water, breathing in the scent of moss and feeling almost like a real Native American. . . . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. By the end of the mooring operation, everyone was rather worn out. It’s hard work—waiting, rowing, tacking back and forth, and hauling the anchor chain to and fro. We consoled ourselves with a dinner of Nastya’s fluffy mashed potatoes and fried aubergines. Ladunya settled down to maths, and Nastya to her self-discovery exercises. Evening workout, then tea and a screening of the film Ice. A great, motivating film. And at dusk a fishing boat honked at us, as if to say, Caramba, amigos! Clearly delighted that we’d taken his parking spot, he sailed off into the sunset, cheerfully flashing his lights. . . . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 2 August. We weigh anchor. There’s snow on deck. It looks particularly strange on the stiff ferns resembling little palm trees—palms in the snow. Low tide has exposed colonies of large mussels. Bring me a saucepan! I shout from the dinghy as I row off to deal with the lines, armed with a container for mussels. Andryukha wrinkles his nose as if to say he’s not a fan. Then he wolfs down the catch with lemon juice and asks for seconds. Tomorrow I’ll go to cast off with a bucket instead of a tiny saucepan. Delicious, quick, inexpensive, and very French, for some reason—that’s how it seems to me :). The children don’t care for mussels, so the captain and I will gorge ourselves like true gourmets. I had to clamber over rocky, mossy ledges to reach the lines tied to the trunks. And at low tide, the line that had been stretched right across the bay became heavier and farther from where it had been tied, so I secured it to another line rather than to a tree trunk. . . . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. Then another 14 miles to Caleta Emilita, among silvered ridges, the solemn faces of sea lions, and radio calls: Lady Mary, Lady Mary, this is Alcamart Timbales! A jaunty name for a border outpost, and an even more cheerful location. A waterfall tumbles into a little valley with curly clusters of trees, descending in tiers with a certain grace, splitting into many streams. A white house with an angular, cottage-style roof and another couple of small, farm-like buildings—that is the border post. This would be the perfect place for a resort, straight out of a picture. Within sight of Alcamart Timbales, amid expanses of water and little islands, Emilita awaits us—our new anchorage, frequently visited by crabbers. Garlands of plastic rope hang from the trees, and at the entrance stands Petrovich, a dummy in yellow fishermen’s foul-weather gear holding a lantern. There’s also a line across the bay, but there’s room to anchor outside it. A cheerful stream cascades into the lagoon as a little waterfall. We fill our canisters with fresh water from it. Ladunya has begun making her first independent rowing excursions to shore. Before, she had only paddled kayaks, but now she’s grown into handling the heavy dinghy with its powerful oars. . . . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. You can follow the expedition in real time on our website, under Route—Iridium Track. The map with our track is also available at bit.ly/iridium360. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . Today we received the first batch of your comments. Thank you for the warmth and for the smiles that never leave our faces while we read your greetings. Hugs to you all, and may everyone have summer and light! And we continue towards the Strait of Magellan. Thank you for breathing life into the expedition budget at Paypal.me/TravelyFamily: Matvey I. from Kryvyi Rih, Alla P. from Krasnogorsk, and Ivan B. from Novosibirsk! You’re a powerful source of motivation. . . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. I’m leaving one of the crew with the antenna to send the report via satellite, while I dash up on deck into 20 knots of wet snow on the nose—the captain needs moral support!