Saturday 31 March 2012

Highway to the Danger Zone

Jamie and Steve have found sturdy sea legs, so we're enjoying some hearty and seaworthy meals.

Waking up for the 2000h shift, we find there's finally something on radar - which looks just as it does in the movies. We have a unidentified bogey on our Five O'clock. (We don't actually talk like that, but the passing thought amuses me, because I it would amuse JJ and Vidal.) There's no response on radio, but a we watch a distant red light in the darkness. We soon outpace them and the tenuous excitement is over.

As we're coming upto arrive Stanley, shortly before midnight, we're all on deck deconstructing our goose wing setup in a now unwelcome thirty knot wind. I hadn't put up the part I am taking down, and even given some instruction, I'm clueless and useless in equal measure.

The wind and cold is harsh and I'd greatly prefer to be ducked down in the wind sheltered doghouse, but everyone else is up here and Chris looks entirely unperturbed, so I've got to at least pretend to be hardened sailor.

Friday 30 March 2012

A Hazy Shade of Winter

Where one day ends and another begins is only academic. We watch, sleep, eat, repeat. The sea is more forgiving today. Jamie and Steve are barely vomiting at all, but are not quite enjoying the ride yet. During the day shift, Steve and I successfully bake a few loaves of bread. Both day and night, our thirst for tea is powerful, if not for warmth or taste, then for passing time.

In the dark, watching the wind power up and come around from north north westerly to north westerly, we seize a rare chance to shine, or, at least, get up. Trimming the main sail and yankee gives us enough added wind power to switch off the engine. Steve isn't a regular sailor either, so we're both quite pleased with ourselves.

As our day shift is ending, the sun is setting. There's no land in any direction. On the horizon, the sky is a layer of a pastel green, washing upwards into grey, then blue, purple, red, orange and yellow. Purple clouds sit above with a few more low lying in the foreground. It's nice.

Thursday 29 March 2012

Know Your Rights

Pelagic and Santa Maria Australis are chalk and cheese. By Wolf's own admission, SMA, with her carpets, upholstery and veneers, is too luxurious for purpose and surroundings, and certainly for the style and taste of her mountain climbing captain. Pelagic is chalk. She's a no frills, no shit, expedition boat, and enjoys a highly regarded twenty five-plus year history. She's mostly sailing with TV documentary crews and extreme adventurers for something around £1,500 per day. This isn't a tourist gig. The job for skipper, Chris, and crew, Jamie, Steve and I, is delivery of Pelagic to Piriapolis, where she'll sit out the winter.

http://www.pelagic.co.uk/fleet_pel.asp
To mix our experience, and lack thereof, I'm paired with fellow Londoner, Steve, for shifts. The shifts make up twenty-four hour watches. We're watching to keep from crashing into boats, rocks, and other unfriendly or sharp objects. We also watch wind speed & direction and adjust sails as necessary. Steve and I take the first nightshift at 2000h. We're relieved at midnight and will return at 0400h. Then we'll take the second of the two six hour day shifts.

At some point during the day, Chris is on deck, pulling or tieing or untieing some coloured rope, so I'm pressed to take a radio call from a Chilean base station. At request, I give details of our position and destination – choosing English over patchy, badly broken Spanish, for the set protocol of these communications – to which the Alcamar signs off with “Thank you, Captain. Out.” This tickles me greatly. Back in the office, I was occasionally called “Captain Pugwash”, after one afternoon, I had called in late, giving the reason that there was insufficient water to return to land.

"Hello Dan, Could you tell Alan that I'll be a couple of hours late this afternoon. There's not enough water. Er... I'll send you a picture"
Keeping the style of the yacht, pissing etiquette is simply to shoot off the back of the boat. I'm told that according to the law of the sea, as a Cape Hornier, I have the right to shoot in any direction I please, whereas others would be restricted to downwind. I tend to favour downwind in any case, but occasionally exercise my right. In noteworthy rough sea, nearby Staten Island, I find pissing off the back, sailing at a brisk 8 knots, to be most colourful. We're being chased by a three, maybe four – certainly higher than my pissing position - metre wave that is keeping pace with us. It almost looks to be offended by my action. Equally colourful, is the green hue of Jamie's face. He and Steve are competing for the glory of he who can throw up the most. Both are muscling through the illness, but are punctual to throw up on an hourly basis, and neither can muster an appetite. I, on the other hand, am having a lovely time and retain an appetite that is comparable to the opening few seconds of an game of Hungry Hungry Hippos. If I were even a half decent sailor, I would be of some use here, but that's yet to become the case. I've no idea what any of these ropes are attached to.

At night, we're restricted to minimal electricity. Only the kitchen and chart table are under dim red light, so the night watch is exactly as it sounds. Pelagic has Autohelm, so with the course set and steady wind, there's nothing needing doing. For our only entertainment, we have a single, also dimly lit monitor, with radar, an electronic chart, and a depth chart that looks like the Predator has fallen asleep with heat vision still on. Absolutely nothing is happening on any of these screens, nor out the window of the “dog house”, where we sit without great comfort. In the last half hour, staying awake and alert is all but impossible for both of us. Every minute, my eyes are heavy and my head dips before jerking back up.

Wednesday 28 March 2012

Here I Go Again

Ok. I think I'm now up to date, blog-wise.

I've had to rush most of it, so will fix my hurried grammar and spelling later.

We're planning to sail tomorrow morning, which should take about three days.

I'm glad to be getting out of Williams. It's great for hiking, but it's becoming increasingly hostile & unsustainable, insofar as that there are no bars, pubs, or restaurants open by day. There isn't so much as an Irish pub here. What's the point in exercise if you can't then immediately scupper pints and pints of rich, mouthy ale.

In the Falklands, I'm promised pubs, and, at least, bottled conditioned ale.

Tuesday 27 March 2012

Black Dog

When walking around Williams, you tend to get an escort from at least one stray dog. I've moved onto the Pelgaic today, and we've decided to go for a walk. Today our escort is a black dog, who seems to have some history with every other dog in town. In every encounter, he's either starting trouble or is on the receiving end.

A couple of hours into our walk I 'm getting the impression that neither I nor the dog had been party to the discussion of the details of the walk.

After eighteen kilometres, (by GPS reckoning,) of gravel road & roadside walking with stops for mushroom picking, we come to our destination. It's the site of an old Yagan Indian settlement. There's not much there now, just the landscape they fashioned from a seemingly insatiable taste for mussels. I'm told they'd sit around, eat these things all day, throwing the shells over their shoulder - this reminds me of a fight that Stu and I almost got into in a chicken shop. The shells have piled up and have now become circular mounds dotted all around the fields where their fires once were.

On the site, as usual, black dog decides it would be great fun to chase cows around. It turns out cows can get up to an impressive gallop, given the right motivation. This commotion has woken the locals. Two Chilean chaps approach us with their dog. The first guy seems quite friendly, but, most noticably, he's carrying a mace-like length of thick chain. The second older guy had a short back and forth with the Spanish speaking members of my new crew. I gather it roughly translated to "Get aarf my land". And so began an eighteen kilometre stroll back to town.

Monday 26 March 2012

Man on the Silver Mountain

Today, my crew mate, Jamie, and I went on a walk up to where I'd been yesterday, and beyond. It turns out I'd taken the wrong marked route on my solo hike. The description I had been given early yesterday transpires to be of a more popular trail, which is pretty and forgiving, including nice wooden stairs and wild strawberries. This explains why I had been the only one with complaints about the "walk", not to mention, the only one who came back with an arse covered in mud.


In the "beyond" section of today's trail, the snow is making things a bit spicy. A steep moutain path, with loose ground, covered ice, then covered in soft snow is not making for ideal trekking. We were following footsteps in the snow ten minutes ago, but I don't know where the heck those guys went. No one's come through here recently.

A few more increasingly treacherous slips and slides later, we've had all the spice we want and pull a U-turn.

Sunday 25 March 2012

Slip Slidin' Away

It snowed overnight in the mountains, which is making the final ascent of my trek interesting. My socks and shoes are long since wet from a trailing foot that didn't quite match the forefoot's leap across a river.

On the way down, the steepest sections of the track are falling apart under my feet. Half the time, I'm sliding down in a surfing stance, desperately trying not to land on my arse. I am falling on my arse - quite a lot. I've soon learned that when dry, tree roots are perfect ladders for climbing up and down. When they're wet, they the slippery snake bastards that'll land you on your arse. I'm also gathering that my BMX circuits do not have a one-to-one correlation with steep hiking.

Returning through a much more straight forward route than the wet directionless fields and forests I came through, I'm guessing I could have saved an hour or two that I'd spent lost, aimlessly trying to find the start of the marked trek. Nevermind though, off-piste trekking feel much more heroic.


Saturday 24 March 2012

Kiss From a Rose

Today I made seal soup. The skull still has a little flesh on it, mostly around the lip. The hostal I'm in is run by Patti, who is quite lovely. It's less a hostal and more her house with a few back rooms of bunk beds. I've asked Patti for "muy caliente agua", then, to better convey what I'm try to achieve, I've opened my skull bag just enough so she can have a peak. She's wholly unphased by the skull, and offers a pot and the stove.

Photo: Frithjof Behne
The boiling rotten seal flesh has a certain smell. Not necessarily a bad smell. After boiling for an hour, I'm out front by the road, cutting and scraping away the remaining flesh with my trusty Swiss army knife and fingernails. There was more flesh that I had thought. It is not extremely pleasant.

Friday 23 March 2012

In the Navy

I´m back.

I´m in a internet cafe/(super)market in the 2236-strong Chilean Naval Base town of Puerto Williams. We returned last night, and ze crew is all en route back to Europe - excluding me. Since the 10th of March, I´ve been predominatley sailing/motoring the channels of Tierra Del Fuego with my eurotrash crewmates. The phrases "Sehr schoen" und "Super schoen" were common vocabulary. It was really quite pleasant. In place of the blog, I scrawled a commentry of the trip all over an Ushuaia tourist map. At some point, I will put it into the computer.

Following up a conversation from last night`s moderate-to-severe drinking session at the Micalvi club, I'm on Pelagic knocking for the skipper Chris Harris. He's arranged a crew of two, and needs a fourth, to sail the boat, Pelagic, up to Uruguay where it will sit out the winter.

By some stroke of luck, this is the boat that inspired this whole adventure five or six months ago. My second sailing school skipper, Graham, had told me about Cape Horn and Skip Novak's Pelagic. I'd looked into Pelagic before I came out here, but at some six thousand pounds, it was unrealistic. So, this has worked out very, very nicely.

http://www.pelagic.co.uk/fleet_pel.asp
.

Chris says we're aiming to leave on Monday. Roughly, it´s a three day jaunt to Port Stanley, The Falkland Islands, then five more to Piriapolis, Uruguay. From the Falklands, there's even a chance I could find the option to switch boats and head to South Africa, via South Georgia.

It´s a shame that I can´t spend more time here in the wilderness surrounding Williams, but presumably there is wilderness elsewhere also. Worse though, it´s a terrible, painful shame that I may not get back to the Cape Horn brewery.

Thursday 22 March 2012

Green Green Grass

It's the final day and we're returning, for the last time, to Williams in a dead calm Beagle Canal. As I'm weaving the boat through fields of kelp, two big, black flying chicken-type birds land on the spreaders, halfway up the mast. I'm stuck on the helm whilst captain and crew scramble for cameras and angles. Shortly after, one of the birds takes a shit, landing on the deck and a window. Wolf promptly declares, with only partial humour, "OK. Fun is over.". The birds are dipatched and I'm left to thoughts of what to do next.

Photo: Frithjof Behne
Photo: Frithjof Behne

Over the past few days, I think I've worked out Baby, I Love your Way (Frampton.)

In the evening, we toast with the very last of the beer, then drink many, many more beers and Pisco sours at the Micalvi club.

Wednesday 21 March 2012

Red Red Wine

Still at the hacienda, we took a shot at fishing, but didn't really give it enough time. Into which you can read "failure". As a consolation, another nice hike reveals a colony of seals or sea lions. I'm not sure what or where the difference is.

We've soon finished almost all the booze. We're down to a single digit number of Chilean brewed beers and cooking wine. Thankfully the Tetra Pak cooking wine is surprisingly passable. Apparently, it's the first time a crew has finished the Santa Maria Australis' supply of wine and beer, but knowing the guys, we could have done it in half the time.

Tuesday 20 March 2012

Wild Horses

The weather is now very Patagonian. We abandon any hope of a trek and sail towards the next stop. The next stop is a hacienda  - a sort of farm house - where I'm given the hope of  "asado". We land to find the crew of another boat there, unfortunatley - they've already laid claimed to what might have been my asado. Asado is essentially just a barbequed lamb - salt, garlic, pepper, oil. I do get enjoy watching the gaucho hacking up the lamb with a machete and a saw. Three well training dogs wait patiently, but very anxiously for bones and scraps, which they're eventually thrilled to chase out the back door. At this point I'm quite hungry. So much so as to be jealous of dogs. Even at the best of times, I'm not above gnawing at long finished bones.

Photo: Frithjof Behne

The hacienda sits isolated in some 30,000 hectares of land, and is occupied by just two. The gaucho is a locally born and bred guy. This life is probably all he knows, other than what the sail boat visits brings. He's employed by an American, who owns the land. The gaucho's job is specifically to kill all the cattle and horses that occupy the land. Those animals aren't native to Chile, and once complete the land is expected to be returned to the Chileans to become a national park. I'm not sure of the American's motivation. The second resident is very different. She's a Belgian who, at thirty, sold her business in Antwerp, bought a boat and sailed off into the unknown, then sold the boat to live life on this hacienda. This is interesting, but probably an extreme compared to any fanciful ideas I have. The scenery here, as for most Patagonian scenery, is epic. Almost, as good as High Def' TV.

Photo: Frithjof Behne
We return to the boat and I am well fed as usual. We eat extremely well on the boat, thanks to Pascale, who is a jack of many trades. However, perhaps we don't eat as often as I'd like. For some reason, I'm constantly hungry these days.

Monday 19 March 2012

Roll the Bones

We return to the beach to fill our boots with calatafe berries, with plans for a marmalade. The relatively nearby Puntas Arenas brewery makes a Calatafe ale, but my first bottle of it was uninspiring. I'd give it another shot now, given the chance.

We also revisit the skeleton. I now have a design in mind to make a beautiful hat from the skull, with which I can scare children and tourists alike. To compliment such a hat, I decide it would be nice to have a lovely seal bone necklace, so I hack a few toes off.

Photo: Frithjof Behne
Later we pull into an particularly spectuacular mountain-surrounded anchorage, with glaciers pouring heavy waterfalls for background noise. However, the weather is turning towards traditionally Patagonian - rain.

As well as marmalade, the berries have gone towards a calatafe cake. It is good.

Photo: Frithjof Behne

Sunday 18 March 2012

Photograph

My camera now rests peacefully under ninety metres of sea in the Sinopia Channel. Whilst loading the Zodiac I looked down to watch it bounce off the starboard bow and sink like a stone. I'm bothered by the total loss of a hundred and thirty bananas and the battery charger that now taunts me, but I'm indifferent to the loss of the camera itself. I'm not inclined to replace it. There were some nice videos of me doing Bear Grylls impressions and pictures of awesome lakes and hungry condors, but they were only benefit to you, whereas as I am perfectly satisfied with the memory. Besides, Frithjof is on the case.

It's down there somewhere. Photo: Frithjof Behne

We move on to visit another pair of low lying glaciers. Some mile or so ahead of these is a carpet of icebergs, from ice cubes to white van-sized pieces - more than capable of sinking an overzealous yacht. We have a spotter standing on the bow, giving directions with arm signals to avoid the white vans. After a little arm failing, Santa Maria Australis gives a long metallic groan from the port side. With a slightly skewed faces, in sympathy for the boat, Wolf cooly comments "That's a big one".

"Hard to Starboard!", Photo: Frithjof Behne
Photo: Frithjof Behne
Then there's time for a little more scotch.

Despite a moderate rain, Pascale and I are determined to get off the boat at our anchorage, at least for a stretch. We find the beach to have a good and rare supply of calatafe berries, and collect as many as we can carry, with plans to return tomorrow morning. Twenty minutes wandering down the beach in the rain, I spot something interesting. It's the skull of a mean looking animal. Under some seaweed by that, there what looks lke a human hand, but removing the seaweed, the arm is a little short. I'm told there's one wild cat native to the area, Pumas, I think, but we conclude this is probably a seal. Farther down the beach, we find the rest of our skinny friend. With the tendons still intact, I'm able to pick the whole rib cage up by the headless spine. I've brought the head back to the boat and enjoy to stroke it to immitate Kevin Peter Hall's portrayal of the predator in Predator - the best action movie ever made.

Photo: Frithjof Behne


Saturday 17 March 2012

Thunderstruck

We take the Zodiac to land at a low lying glacier, "Pia". In the time we're there, every five or ten minutes, we watch bits of glacier from boulder- and car-sized pieces to entire buiding-sized faces fall off into the channel below. The thunder of ice crashing into the channel below is almost as impressive as the ensuing wave of sea and  icebergs.

Photo: Frithjof Behne

I've seen Bear Grylls walking on glaciers and claiming it is highly dangerous. If Bear Grylls can do it, I'll be damned if I'm going not going to. Afterall, you can't go this far, and not go farther. I meander off from the group, as I suspect a glacier walk would not be recommended by Pascale. I get as near to, and as close under Pia as I dare, then find a nice spot to relax with the uke. I play one song, but at an increasingly high tempo as I become increasingly conscious of how dangerous my spot is. I'm ready to run, but on ice, I'd struggle.

When I return to the group, now on the rocks, a little way away from Pia, we watch another big wall of ice fall. As I'm enjoying the wave of ice come at me, I have to exclaim "shit!" and make a short dash further up the rocks. I'm surely glad this piece didn't fall thirty minutes earlier.

In the evening, we're sipping Chivas on the rocks - glacier rocks.

To the extent I can remember how it goes, I can now play Mark Knopfler's very pretty Local Hero theme.

Friday 16 March 2012

Where Eagles Dare

Photo: Frithjof Behne
In the morning, Wolf asks, on my behalf, whether I could stay on the farm for some period. No definitive answer is given, but there's some questions or concerns about my ability to ride a horse and trek mountains for 10 hours each day. I'm not confidently able to answer these questions. In London, for lack of any mountains nor hills, I had taken to running circuits around Hackney BMX park, but I'm not sure if that translates.

Four go trekking that afternoon. As previously, only two remain after an hour or so. My German and Austrian friends have a contruction which is not suitable for trekking.

Photo: Frithjof Behne
Comorans and Albatrosses are no more exciting than Pigeons. Condors, on the other hand, are good looking birds. One hovers ten or fifteen metres above me - presumably curious as to whether or not he and his other half could eat me. I'd love to see them try. In Conan the Barbarian, Schwarzenegger teaches us how to deal with hungry birds. They decide against eating me, and Pascale & I scramble, hop, and canter down the mountain.

Aargh, aargh, argh!



Thursday 15 March 2012

Maggie's Farm

We've resupplied at Williams, and are now the second part of the trip, motoring towards the glaciers. I've learnt the theme from Airwolf. I didn't much care for Airwolf, but it had a great intro.

The family farm at our anchorage is by great distance, the most rustic scene I've ever come across. One guy, Claudio, not much older than me, is living here, though usually with the parents also. This is a different world. I understand, (by way of translation,) that tomorrow, he will go out into the mountains with his dogs to retrieve a cow, (because livestock are super free range here,) and butcher it to order for some fishermen.

I'd be keen to spend a week or two here with Claudio. I'm quite good at eating delicious meat, so naturally, I am keen to learn how to hunt, kill and butcher an animal.

I also understand, that one of the dogs, who was purchased a great expense and effort, (because there no pets shops nearby,) is not so useful as had been promised. In this world, you earn your food, or you are food. I doubt I'd see that little doggie on a return visit.

Wednesday 14 March 2012

Radio Gaga

Photo: Frithjof Behne
We're heading back to the Micalvi, motoring on account of northerly winds. On a boat, once the sail is set, or not, as in this case, one often has a great deal of time. That is unless it's your boat, in which case, you've either got your eyes ahead, or you're fixing one of ten broken parts of your boat. I am spending much of the time reading a German-Spanish translation dictionary or noodling around on the ukulele. On the uke, I'm pushed to expand my repetoire, given the audience. Today, I think I've nailed the better part of Van Halen's Dreams.

I'm also rationing my reading of CAMRA's Beer quarterly magazine. I must concede that when reading about lovely cask marque pubs and delcious ales I do miss home - well, mainly, I miss the pubs and the ales.

The Alcamar at Cape Horn favours radio channel 14. All day, I hear "Uno-Cuatro, Uno-Cuatro". This is an amusing echo of my yesteryear days with the eurotrash desk.

Tuesday 13 March 2012

Top of the World

Given the choice to return to the Cape and sacrifice a day of glaciers, we unanimously decide to return. The wind is now easterly, and favourable for landing. We suceed, to be welcomed by The Alcamar and his son, Ivan and Ivan, and their dog. A single Chilean army family live on Isla Hornos, as well as others peppered through the channels of Tierra Del Fuego. Many, many pictures are taken. The weather is so good,  we return to the yacht with the Alcamar & family for a tour and a beer. Wolf offers the family the gift that never stops giving, until there are no bananas left - it's the gift of bananas. This is quite special for a family who get a monthly delivery of varying quality.

Ivan Jr. has worked out that when offered a biscuit, it's always best to take two. He keeps a firm grasp on his second portion as he muches through the first. Then, it's best to reload as quickly as possible.

I´m then wing man on the boat to return the family to the island. With the job done, we look back and exchange waves with the family. Everyone is having a nice time, waving in the sunshine. Now almost at the yacht, I'm pretty bored of waving, but it occurs to me that the waving is actually calling us to return to shore. We return with mild concern, only to find that we had been speeding away with the precious bananas. Then, some laughter, more waving, and more picture taking, before returning to the bay where I had been rescued in darkness some nights earlier. In the evening, the sun remains out, and so does the beer.

There´s a large map of the world underlying the dining table. As we´re popping a cork on another bottle of red, Wolf and I are sitting at the foot of the world, musing the possibilities of or next trips and laughing at our god-like view.

During the days, I spend a lot of time staring at this map. Nomadic life is quite enjoyable. At least, whilst it has funding.

Monday 12 March 2012

Between Sun and Moon

Under a bright sun and blue sky, I'm helming around Cape Horn with Wolf's instruction to give a wide birth to an outlying rock. The sea is calm, even by my experience. Waves are no more than a metre, and we can easily spot a passing seal. This is a disappointment. I had picked Cape Horn because I was looking for some serious peril. I'm told that given westerly winds, we won't be able to land on Isla Hornos. When I imagined the trip, I never expect to land - only to round the horn - but given the opportunity offered, then retracted, it's disappointing.

Shortly thereafter, to my surprise, we're preparing the Zodiac dingy to make a landing. I opt to join the second landing party.

Alas, disappointment is restored as the first party returns to report it's not possible to get through the dense kelp. The disappointment was not especially rational. Perhaps it was motivated by the news that there was a gift shop on the island, but possibly because I have resisted using the sea toilet thus far, and long for good plumbing.

As we round the horn, I split the Cape Horn brewery's Honey beer with the crew. We agree it's a very, very good beer. If not for the occasion, I'd not want to share it. Then, some ukulele. And the Horn is rounded. This evaporates the former disappointment.

At the night's anchorage, three go trekking. I now eat, sleep and trek with my Swiss army knife, to which I've annexed on my torch. A short time later, only two remain trekking. The landscape is pretty much incredible. The sun is brighter than I've ever seen before, presumably due to lack of pollution. Though, under normal circumstances, I'd say pollution is good thing. A healthy level of pollution feels right, and keeps London warm and relatively rain resistant.

Later, we continue to enjoy the break from pollution to stare at stars and nebulas. Given some alocholic lubrication, the sky is even more impressive. So much so, my jaw is hanging open - a habit I picked up from that horny wolf from a Hanna-Barbara cartoon. His eyes would also shoot out and his tongue would roll out. He was a good character, it was a good cartoon.


Sunday 11 March 2012

Welcome to the Jungle

With the kettle boiling in the background Frank, another German, produces a bottle of rum and offers a "grog". He explains that grog is simply Rum, hot water, and sugar. Holding the spoon, I ask how much sugar I'm to add to my mug. He goes on to explain, "The sugar is optional, and the hot water is not necessary". Grog is good.

After a long day of plain enough sailing, we anchor in a bay. I join the landing party of five. A river cuts through the pale yellow sand beach, but the river runs a deep red, as if it's draining out from a scene in Braveheart. Only Pascale and I are game for a good trek. These islands aren't inhabitated, so when you land, the island is all yours, and largely untrekked by others before you. Traversing the terrain is mostly easy, but where rivers run or once ran, it's jungle-like and tough to push through.

Photo: Frithjof Behne
At some point, we find neither of us are sure what time the sun goes down, nor do we have a torch. From a distance it looks like you can easily get to some point in the distance, but repeatidly, we find these jungle sections to climb in and out, or over. Some concern is simmering about how much light is left and how long it will take to get back. With some relief, we eventually spot the mast of the Santa Maria Australis.

Thirty minutes later, we're still battling to get there. Even so close to the boat, we know that when we lose the light, we can't move at any speed, nor can we be rescued. We, or at least I, am back up to, then past, simmering. We're given the choice of traversing through the last of the thick, and now very irritating, dense jungle crap, or going the long way around. With the sun setting, we choose the hard & fast route. We make it back to the beach no more than ten minutes before darkness.

Dream Warriors

I've been plagued by some bizarre night terrors in the past few days, climaxing in the best of them last night. In reality, I'm sleepng in a thin bottom bunk. It's perfectly comfortable, but where my head and shoulders are, it's enclosed on all sides - necessary for efficient ship design. If I move both arms outwards, my elbows touch the sides easily.

On the second night, I dreamt I had woken up in a coffin. I'm not sure if I was asleep or awake, but I pressed all the walls, but find no escape. In a panic, I pushed out hard to the right, and was very much awake when I hit the floor. Even at the time, on the floor, I found this quite amusing.

On the next night, I dreamt I was stuck in a pipe of some description - probably the pipe that Sigourney Weaver's Ripley uses in the classic and brilliant Aliens - and without panic, I started to work my way down the pipe in the direction of my feet. I woke up, in a scrunched up ball at the foot of the bed.

And last night was the climax. During our stop at Toro, I had had a good walk around the fishing boats. I woke up to find myself trapped in a box. I presumed this to the container piece on a fishing boat, where, I guess, they keep the fish alive in pool of water. I did not want to be there. I started banging on the lid of the container, shouting that I was trapped inside. To my great relief, I heard a voice from outside. I thought this was a fishermen's kid, and guessed he wouldn't speak English, but with more banging and shouting, I presumed he'd understand that I wanted to get out. Thirty impatient seconds later, the fisherman's son had not opened my tomb, and I was not pleased. A few moments later, I noticed that the voice has French accent. Then, I seemed to wake up and catch sight of Pascale, and further down, Wolf.

The next night, I slept with my torch tethered to my arm.

Saturday 10 March 2012

Southbound

It's a second cloudy day. After a continental breakfast we set sail. There are varying degrees of sailing experience, some of which I'm a little dubious about, but in any case, we all start learning what's on the other end of various coloured ropes.

Some hours later, we arrive in Puerto Toro, a fishing village south of both Ushuaia and Williams. Wolf and Pascale disappear onto a fishing boat. Some thirty minutes later, Pascale emerges with a fisherman who begins butchering crabs and depositing the still fidgeting legs in a bucket.

Photo: Frithjof Behne
If you know the right people, a big bucket of crabs costs something in the region of one bottle of red and a couple of packs of smokes. Two hours later, I'm severely stuffed with delicious crab.


Friday 9 March 2012

Du Hast

The Germans, Austrians and French - the last of whom is our first mate, and a lady, Pascale, contrary to my assumption of a Frenchmen - are on boat to Puerto Williams, home of our yacht, Santa Maria Australis. This boat is a 20 person passanger ferry, packing a pair of V8 Yam´s (Urgfh, Urgfh, Urfgh.) The Germans have opened proceedings by christening the voyage with a bottle of scotch, which we pass and swig like family - some backwater, misfit, crooked family. We are merry bunch. Other than Pascale, all fall somewhere between twice and thrice my age. We briefly chase a few whales with partial success and come almost uncomfortably close to a hundred year old shipwreck.

Pt. Williams.
Photo: Frithjof Behne

We're greeted on arrival by Wolf and are introduced to Williams, a naval base town of 2000-and-something people. It's a quaint, quiet little town, where roving packs of both dogs and horses roam wild and free. We're not leaving today, so hit the museum and later enjoy chips and sliced frankfurter sausages to the sounds of CCR, which later transpires to be on a loop. We like CCR and chips and sliced frankfurters.

The conversation is ninety-five percent German, of which I can follow some five percent. The key pieces are translated for me. Verner, a German, asks permission to tell an Austrian joke. It's very well recieved in both it's native German, then broken English versions.

An Austrian astronaut is sent into space with a monkey. When in orbit, both open an envelope containing their mission instructions. The monkey opens his envelope. The instructions are to grow a range of plants and study their progress, to build and repair navigation instruments, and to dock their space craft with the International Space Station. The Austrian astronaut opens his envelope. His instructions: "Feed the monkey three times each day."

Terrific.

Thursday 8 March 2012

Auf Geht´s Deutschland

Yesterday I sat in front of a computer at the hostel for an hour or so, often refreshing my inbox, waiting for confirmation my money had been paid. I´m now shortly due to head to Chile, where we start.

Following that confirmation, some Israelis and I took a short trek to Laguna Esmeralda. It was quite good. I'm quite thankful that 'alf Swiss taught me how to breathe. Pictures will follow when I have somewhere to plug my camera in.

Later in the evening, I met our crew. The next two weeks will be extremely Germanic.

Wednesday 7 March 2012

Against All the Odds

Today began with a minor hitch. I found out that the money for the sailing expedition, (due to start tomorrow,) had not been received, owing to some issues with my EUR/GBP company, (which later transpired to be my typo.) What I would have done to have a Lucy, Claudia or Oli to hand. I´d much prefer to be up a creek with out a paddle, than at a port without a boat. I reckon it´s fixed now, but I guess I won´t know until the first Euro cut off tomorrow - London, 1200h, as I recall. In any case, I don´t worry about these sorts of things.

Next, I needed to charge my recently purchased camera in one of these ungodly argentinian outlets. After visiting some ten shops, looking for a UK adaptor, I had heard "impossible" on at least one occasion. But this only reminded me of a time when a double-digit-strong number of people told me that I couldn´t get from Madrid at 1700h to Porto overnight. "Re-book your flight", they said. I was touristing the heck out of the femurs and skulls of the São Francisco´s catacombs by 1000h, then home for dinner, in probably-too-trendy Shoreditch. And like then, in the last electronics store, at, literally, the end of the world, I found a seemingly passable taiwanese adaptor. It looks like a fire hazard, but it does seem to be working. Success, where Patty and Selma failed.

You will recall reading about that first local pale ale I found. Having taken the address from the bottle, I decided to spend the afternoon looking for the Cape Horn brewery. I recall a previous time I had been "churched out" and went off looking for a brewery, I was in Toledo, Spain, home of Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez. That escapade involved me finally finding a distinctly closed brewery, after some 2-odd hours traipsing around a residential district under an unforgiving sun, blazing 30-something degrees. This escapade went much better. I (sort of) helped with the unload of malt and was given a tour of the quite reasonably sized microbrewery operation. I was even kindly gifted some small trinkets, including a honey beer from a small test batch. I hope to be welcomed back there to get some real brewing experience. 

Feeling pretty pleased with myself, as usual, I went to the closest thing I could find to a lovely wooden pub, and sank the pale ale and weiss beer of the afore brewery.

Tuesday 6 March 2012

Over the Hills and Far Away

I opened a Spanish newspaper in Madrid airport to find a story, which I could only tenuously decrypt, but it was probably aptly illustrated by two heavy-set Argentinian women burning the Union Jack in Buenos Aires. I wouldn't know enough about the history and present of the situation to opine, but I'm quite certain one of my old pals is opining "in size" on the facebook

After some 12-plus hours in the air with some insufferable children, I landed in a cloudy, but casually 20 degrees, Buenos Aires for a 20 hour layover. BA has a pretty cool buzz. I find "buzz" to be a non-descript word. Down town BA is a little like Brick Lane - people, music, crap for sale. As best I could work out, what makes BA special is a) temperature, b) beer is available only in bottles of a measure of "970cm^3" and c) a healthy pollution that makes the air thick and satisfying.

I had two attempts at exploring BA, both times it dumped rain on me. From what I saw, I'd certainly spend some time there.

I'm now in Ushuaia. As always, the number one task was to find beer. The first beer I found was a lovely, reasonably sized, locally brewed pale ale, named after the cape. So, I'm particularly content right now.

Photo: Frithjof Behne

Saturday 3 March 2012

Exit Stage Left

Dear All, 

Despite having ignored most social networking to date, I've been persuaded to make efforts to provide some updates on my impending travels. I'll give it a shot.

Perhaps some context to start. I worked in a bank for some four-odd years. In the earlier year, or even years, I wanted to be CEO. In the latter months, I would all too frequently make the shape of a gun out of my hand a press it against my temple. Overall though, I had a nice time. In November of Twenty-Eleven, the bank pulled the eject lever on my spinny chair, and I no longer worked in the bank. The end was painfully predictable. By the coming of the fateful day, I'd long since removed my personal effects and had packed no more than my ukulele and box of cigars, with which I promptly re-located to the pub.

Since November, I've enjoyed my "semi-retirement" greatly, and have entertained my time with various jobs and activities. The highlights, in no particular order:

Sailor
Part-time Sous Chef in an kebab shop
Climbing up and down Pen Y Fan
Roadie, on the Spanish leg of a European tour, for a Hardcore, Deathcore metal band, Cyanide Serenity
Finding the Holy Grail
Motorbike lessons
Watching all series of The Big Bang Theory, How I Met your Mother & Sheena
Learning tourist's Spanish
Walking a dog
Safety Marshall - Fuller's 4's river race
Re-enacting the Rocky IV training montage
A jaunt to Africa for a picnic lunch
Milling around microbreweries
Attaining momentary celebrity status on the London BMX circuit
Petting animals at the petting zoo
Pulling Gary Moore faces
Drinking
Smoking
Assisting, albeit briefly, a start up a Italian food distribution company
Trapped on The Thames on account of insufficient water
Admiring The Great Masturbator
Drunken ukulele duel with anti-capitalist protestor (late on the evening I ejected from the bank)
Completed visiting all wooden, ale-serving pubs in a radius of appx. 2500ft of the old office, and appx. 4000ft of old flat

Tomorrow, I'm going to fly to the end of the world and sail around Cape Horn with some Germans, Austrians, and a Frenchman. I gather rounding the Horn will, most likely, involve scenes of mild peril, but I still hold that special sense of immortality that young men enjoy - albeit scientifically unfounded. I'm sure it will be fine.

Then, I suppose I'll gallivant around South America for a while. I'm not sure how long I'll be gone. I've got no plans, bookings, nor reservations, so I guess I'll simply wander around aimlessly, getting into mischief and high jinks and such-like.