Blog entry #1, November 26th
Having already bonded like duct tape to a winch handle over wine and Tenador Libre, Captain Jakob, First Mate Paula and Motley Crew, Onne, Kieran, John, Jaye, Lindsey, Sjors and Dan set off with a cruisy ride down the Beagle and made it to Port Williams where we stopped for a shower and to negotiate Chilean customs. Unfortunately, absent officials, an overstuffed cruise ship and a slipped anchor held us up a bit longer than expected, so having visited the control office and found it empty of the necessary officials we headed for safe haven to eat and wait for a fair wind to blow in our favour.
While its true that the fair wind of bureaucracy failed to pick up any speed that afternoon, we did manage to get a damn good feed of dinner plate-sized burgers and cheesy beef sandwiches washed down with plenty of tiny beers, Cumbia and football at La Colombiana.
In the end we stayed another night in port, chatting, playing 80s bangers, discovering Sjors’s love of the musical Chicago, and snoring a little too loudly late into the evening. Next is the Drake. Batten down. Bring it on. Pass the bucket.
Blog entry #2, November 29th
We made it! Sort of. Though not completely across the Drake, we have, at least, seen our first icebergs; a distinctive white shadow under the looming grey Antarctic sky, the first was a giant square-sided ice block visible between the rise and fall of the waves. Spotted by the watch team at Long: 62o 21.122 S / Lat: 63o 52.461 W. The second was an altogether closer encounter; a beautiful, glowing blue and white monolith sculpted with a fine ridge and hooked beak-like precipice. Calm and stoic; it didn’t flinch as we sailed past and gawped and chatted and snapped at our first meeting with its kind. It goes without saying (even though I just said it); it was pretty special.
When we entered Drake Passage proper three days ago it began with relatively smooth sailing, and we were treated to our first animal encounter; a pair of Peale’s dolphins following us for just a few minutes. While this has been our only cessation sighting (cessation is our word of the day), we have made a good start to our list of birds, which include: wandering albatross, black browed albatross, sooty albatross, Arctic or Antarctic terns, giant petrels, cape petrels, storm petrels & prions.
Escorted by our entourage of swooping, flitting and diving feathered companions, it wasn’t long before the waves started growing and the boat started leaning further and further over. It turns out that eating soup and bowls of cereal at 45o isn’t all that easy, and though those of us who aren’t sailors have got the hang of it now (just about), there have been a few learning curves that have meant poor Lindsey – whose bunk sits right by the dinner table – has inspected the day’s menu a little closer than she’d like. Sorry Lindsey. And thanks for being such a hero about it.
But by the time we passed Cape Horn the huge swell had become normal and saw us reaching and crossing the ‘furious fifties’ without incident. It’s mad to think that the water blow us reaches down to well over 4,000 meters. There is, quite literally, a mountain of water beneath us; and though the waves are gigantic in proportion, it still feels as though they are just ripples on the surface of the huge vastness beneath. When the boat sinks to the bottom of a wave the next one arrives and towers 10 feet above – but the boat just floats up and over again and again (thankfully). And its only every 10 minutes or so that we and the cutlery are flung from one side of the boat to the other.
To say it has been smooth sailing would be inaccurate. Crossing Drake Passage has lived up to the hype. It’s not been a journey without incident, but where would be the fun in that? Jakob has been working non-stop to keep us moving (in a mechanical, sanitary and captainly fashion), seamaster Onne has been the ultimate tinker man, fixing and fiddling as well as, with his team of salty dogs (John and Kieran) coaxing the boat to a very respectable 15 knots, and Paula has been the glue, the WD40, the beef brisket and the duct tape that’s held the whole thing together.
So, after three-and-a-half days of sailing we are (nearly) there. Antarctica. And, all-in-all (speaking as one of the non-sailors), its been a fun ride. Wild, but fun. Sure, we’ve needed that bucket on occasion and we’re all ready for a wash and a proper non-shifted sleep anchored firmly to a secluded bay. That will be nice. But I can honestly say that I (for one) couldn’t possibly imagine a better way to get where we are now. I think. Or maybe I’ve been using the brine pedal instead of the sweetwater one? … Nah, I was right the first time. It was great. Time to explore Antarctica!!!
Blog entry #3, December 4th
So it turns out that where Antarctica is concerned, ‘nearly’ isn’t nearly enough. Less than an hour after we celebrated our first iceberg encounter and I put a satisfied full stop on the last blog post did my words come back to haunt us. Wild? What we were about to experience would permanently redefine the meaning of the word.
First came the fog. As thick as Paula’s lentil and potato soup, it gathered around us so closely that we couldn’t see more than 10 feet in any direction. Apparently somewhere, just a few miles off the starboard side, was Smith Island which boasts two giant 2,000m peaks visible for miles around. But not to us. As the waves rolled we watched as best we could for icebergs, squinting into the fog in vain hope of penetrating the lentil soup to catch sight of the hazards that, thankfully, didn’t come our way.
Then came the wind. Gradually strengthening as the night wore on, both heaters were extinguished by strong blasts which sent sooty smoke pouring into the cabin. With the wind showing no sign of abating, and the waves growing ever larger, we left our saltiest sailors to do their graft as the rest of us snuggled into the bowels of the heaterless cabin and tried to sleep. As we laid in our bunks and waited for our next shift, the boat churned and growled in deep hungry grumbles. From where I lay at least, it sounded and felt not unlike like we had sailed right into the guts of a giant sea creature and were being digested whole.
Sometime in the early hours we arrived at Deception Island – an old sunken volcano where we were due to lay anchor. The volcano’s crater makes almost a compete circle with an enclosed and protected bay in the middle, high jagged cliffs, snaggletooth rocks jutting up out of the stormy water, an opening only a few hundred meters wide. Protected, but narrow… and the strong current and high winds blowing at 50 knots conspired to blow us straight past it. Our captain had already been sailing for close to 24 hours non-stop. We were agonisingly close to safe haven, yet with no way to enter.
Begrudgingly we sailed onwards crossing towards Livingston and the South Shetlands. And that’s when things got really interesting. When I thought I saw big waves before, they had nothing on what was to come. With gusts up to 67 knots (apparently that’s about 110km/hr in land-lubber money) and constant gale-force winds well over 55 knots, we were blasted from both sides and tossed around like a toy boat in a bath tub. One wave hit us so hard we went full 90 degrees – in nautical terms, that’s a full ‘knock down’. It was like being clotheslined from the top rope by Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson. Just before we received our blow Jakob managed to fire off a warning, giving us just enough time to grab hold before we were slammed over. Calls around the boat confirmed that no one was hurt, although John’s Wombat burrow was pebble dashed with loose objects and the kitchen was turned completely upside down.
As Jakob, Paula and Onne battled outside, Sjors and I kept watch for more big waves from the inside. Basically that involved me peering out of the window and shouting ‘Big one!’ every time there was a particularly large arrival. In truth all the waves that arrived and went looked like CGI to me. Enormous. Daunting. Ridiculous. To quote Sjors who was on the other side of the boat, “They arrive as mountains and leave as valleys”. Most we rolled over, but we found the ones that really hurt were the ones that broke just as they got to the boat – slamming against the hull crashing downwards and taking us with it.
Having already battled for well over 24hrs straight the fighting continued until we finally conquered that stretch of the Bransfield Straight and reached the relative safety of Half Moon Island in the South Shetlands. When we arrived it was still to windy to enter so we tacked and circled round hoping that our choking, sputtering engine would hold out, until, finally, a tiny crack opened and we could wrestle ourselves into the bay.
Moored and settled we opened wine and ate crackers… then the alarm sounded and we dashed outside, realising that we were slipping anchor. Then, finally-finally, with our fingers and toes tightly crossed hoping for no more drama, our tired sailors took some rest and slept and slept and slept.
The next morning half the crew took the zodiac and set out to explore Half Moon Island while Jakob, Paula, Onne and Kieran set to work; our sick engine was going to need a lot of love before it could take us any further. Along with the generator that blew and the heaters that still needed repairing.
Incidentally, and very sadly, we later heard news that on a cruise ship caught in the same storm while crossing Drake Passage, a passenger died and a few more were injured. Which only served to make us even more grateful for the skills, patience and determination that is at the helm of our intrepid, increasingly idiosyncratic vessel.
On the island we had our first penguin encounter proper. As soon as we landed we saw a little chinstrap waddling along the stony beach and when we stopped to take a photo he came walking right up to us and practically sat on my boot. He looked, I swooned, and with a tilt of his head he waddled away. As if I didn’t love penguins enough already, now I was truly smitten.
We discovered an old wooden whaling boat washed up and broken on the foreshore with a female elephant seal lounging next to it. We walked up to the ridge lines and discovered rookeries of chinstraps and gentoos guarding messy nests. We discovered weddell seals on the other side of the island, Jaye spotted a fur seal swimming and there were penguins everywhere… we were happy little campers.
Looming large behind Half Moon Island is Livingston Island; over the other side of the water we can see a long line of massive crevassed glaciers that pour into the sea from the high peaks above. It is impressive and formidable. Everything around us, including the weather, feels like we are at the top of a high mountain range – somewhere in the andes or high alps – with intimidating craggy peaks, sheer cliffs, crevassed glaciers, bulbous cornices and massive snow drifts. But we are at sea level, so all this bursts up abruptly right out of the white frothing waves.
Drifting past the island are chunks of ice in various sizes, shapes and colours. Bright blue, soft white, silver and glassy. As big as a car, a house, a beach ball. Some as big as an island.
Back on the boat our captain and first mate have fixed the heaters and are busy fixing the engine. It’s had big problems. They’ve taken the whole thing apart and still it’s only making chugging and wheezing noises; coughing but not belching into life. There’s whispering talk on the ship of having to head home or ways we might get collected. We are safe in this anchorage, but we can’t leave without a reliable engine – and we definitely can’t go onwards unless the crew are 100% confident.
So we did what all good sailors do. We put on the soundtrack to Chicago and made mini calzone out of empanada pastry. We drank Bundy rum, wine, beer, whisky and chatted into the night, feeding the hope and drowning the sorrow.
In the morning Lindsey made french toast for breakfast. The mood is somber as John and Jaye discuss whether they know any of the surrounding cruise ships and their captains and think about who might be able to smuggle us onto their boat if the worst happens.
After breakfast the mechanics get back to work and we head to our little island again. We explore the abandoned Argentinian base and hike to each of the three highest peaks; trying not to retreat into sadness as each of us quietly contemplates the possibility that we might not make it any further south.
… but wait…
Hope is rekindled. When we return to the boat, the engine sparks into life and the first proper smile we’ve seen for a while blooms on our captain’s face. The ailment has been identified and the necessary surgery performed, “We go tomorrow”, he says, much to our still disbelieving delight.
Much to our continued surprise and delight, that evening yet another small miracle is performed as a jolly dinner is followed by a sumptuous dessert of peach cake drizzled in banana mousse and sprinkled with crunchy almonds. That’s right, haute cuisine on the high seas, courtesy of chef Sjors, our Dutch dreamweaver and dessert maker extraordinaire. Who knew?
The next day we recross the Bransfield Straight and sail to Deception Island. This time it’s calm and easy going. When we arrive safely we can finally let all our fears disappear and start to look forward to the adventure ahead. And what an adventure it’s already been.
On the island we visited the mud slides and broken building left there by the whalers, and meet our third species of penguin; the Adelie penguin. We anchored in a blissfully serene bay on water that was as still and brilliant as a mirror.
To complete our nature update, out on the water we’ve seen squads of chinstrap penguins darting past gracefully and purposefully. We’ve seen minky whales, fur seals, jellyfish and, in the chaos of crossing, Jakob and Paula made the first orca sighting. More to come.
With much relief we are now heading due south towards Trinity Island. The sun is shining, the sea is glassy and still. Samba music accompanies our gentle sway. Bliss.
Blog entry #4, December 11th
As we sail onwards and southwards, Captain Jakob points out a small cluster of rocks in the channel and tells us that that they aren’t on the charts. Apparently in Antarctica we are often sailing in literal uncharted territory. There is often no official depth chart, only drawings and annotations handed on by other sailors to help us find out way. We name the island Dan’s Rocks.
But Dan’s Rocks is nothing in comparison to the vast slabs of ice that tower over and around it. The icebergs.
This next part of our journey has been dominated by an ever increasing number, size and variety of icebergs. They are everywhere and they are endlessly fascinating. From brilliant white to deep icy blue, vibrant cyan, soft green, rich cream and endless variations it would be impossible to describe.
An iceberg the size and profile of a modernist cathedral, boasting an elegantly curved roof leading to a high proud steeple, stands tall as the highest point in view. It easily dwarfs Dan’s Rocks. It’s just one of many.
Early on our journey to Trinity Island we are greeted by two humpback whales which obligingly head our way and pause to swim and cavort just a few meters off the bow, breaching the water with their giant back, showing off their barnacles, shooting up torrents of water into the air and flicking their massive tails skywards. They spend about 6 to 8 minutes playing in front of us before disappearing back into the dark, deep waters.
We stop and at Cape Herschel, drop the kayaks and kayak around the mainland. Around us icebergs are littered everywhere, like jewels washed ashore from a treasure ship. Some are craggy towers, some carved in sharp geometric patterns. The most lovely glow bright tropical blue under the water, creating a sublime halo beneath the bergs which radiates an eerie power and hints at their submerged mass.
As we paddle through the bergs and watch the penguins fall into the water from the snow-covered banks, at regular intervals we hear echoing bangs and cracks; the sound of snowfalls and avalanches. Most are far away, but we don’t have to wait long before a large section of a cornice flops into the water by us with a loud bang, sending waves to rock our boats.
We arrived at Trinity Island and inadvertently bother a crabeater seal as we are searching for a safe place to anchor, picking between the icebergs and following the the hand-drawn charts. And, after finding ourselves a spot, we settled down to a delicious dinner of spaghetti aioli followed by nutty chocolate cake with mango mousse from chef Sjors. We have, by collective conclusion, decided that chef Sjors is – at least – in the top three desert chefs in Antarctica, and quite possibly the best dessert chef ever to grace the galley of Spirit of Sydney.
After pointing out that when offered an island I should perhaps have named it after my wife rather than myself, Dan’s Rocks has now been rechristened, as Moron Island. Or Fools Rock. Seems appropriate.
The next morning we set off out of our secluded bay gently negotiating the large patch of ice, slush and small bergs have crowded around us in the night.
The weather was clear, bright and cold as we cruised south along to the Gerlach Straight, jousting with icebergs when the waters get too crowded, but mostly sitting up on deck taking in the incredible Antarctic views that surround us on all sides. As well as the regular flurries of penguins darting through the water we spotted another Weddell seal stretched out in the sun and a young leopard seal sunbathing on the ice.
At Enterprise Island we moored to an old whaling boat that apparently caught fire at the end of a season thanks to a drunken party (or so Jakob tells us). In the half-submerged rusty steel vessel you can still see the chimney and massive thick hull with winches and rows of sinister-looking harpoon heads. Around the boat the water (as it is everywhere in Antarctica) is crystal clear and we can spot large ugly fish swimming around us. Also moored to the wreck is another sailboat, the Maramar, which is larger and aluminium hulled.
That evening we ate a bit more, drank a bit more and learnt about scratching the ass of the mate. In the morning we headed out to explore islands and icebergs in our kayaks and Sjors learnt that you shouldn’t wave at MacGyver with your paddle because you might end up swimming. Polar plunge #1 has arrived a little earlier than expected (don’t worry, he was fine. The rescue operation was, once it realised it was needed, a slick(ish) affair).
In the quiet of the kayaks we hear more and more small ice falls along with low, lingering grumbles coming from the mainland interior that sound more like bombs. We also see and hear ice bergs wobbling, cracking and flipping out at sea. Whether on land or sea, the ice here is constantly on the move, and, without the business of ‘typical’ nature (insects buzzing and trees swaying and animals going about their business) it reveals the slower, incremental – though often suddenly dramatic – movements of the earth and the weather. The glacial mass that squeezes the ice, snow and rock out from the frozen centre.
We see the Maramar leaving and it’s lovely to see the high masts moving on the water through the ice. It feels like something from a different era – Shackleton, Drake, DeGerlach, Magellan, Charcot, Amundsen, Davis and the like.
That evening we head over to a little unnamed island opposite (we’ll call this one Gemmaville), cut steps into the snow up to a slightly flatter part and dig out a space on which we pitch our tent. On a higher ridge line we dig a snow seat and alcove for our stove and watch the ice flow past us and listen to music. That evening brings a spectacular sunset of pinks, oranges, reds and yellow that constantly change and illuminate the mountains around us in new and ever more spectacular ways. With the giant bergs floating in the calm glassy sea and not another person or building in sight it looks like a landscape from another planet. We wait for the sun to dip just about as far as it will go behind the mountains. It never gets fully dark this far south. We ate porcini risotto and mac n greens, ate cheese and crackers and toasted our fine camping spot with sulphite-free cabernet sauvignon. We snuggled down. And we camped. In Antarctica.
Every now and then zodiacs from cruise boats come along to take photos of the wreck and our sailboats – this morning a huge swarm of them came from a giant cruise ship and a big drop of snowfall from a cornice in our bay sent a 6 foot wave forward which flipped a big zodiac filled with passengers. Big drama on an otherwise quiet morning.
Back on the boat MacGyver (Onne) is impressively MacGyvering everything from clamps, sails and winches to transponders and tin openers. He, us, and the boat, are bonding, and I, for one, have come to love the adventurous nature of this little boat and its crew. As Lindsey would sing, and often does, “That’s the spirit!… Of Sydney…”
We headed out into the Gerlach Straight and towards Paradise Harbour. There’s lots of ice to joust and it gets hard to find a way through, so there’s lots of mast climbing, berg poking and general agitated pointing as Jakob picks our way through the sea that is caked, choked and littered with bergs.
Jakob calls the stretch of water we are on ‘Iceberg Ally’. The spread of bergs around us looks a little like an abandoned battlefield. Some bergs are as big as aircraft carriers with their tails in the air like diving ducks. Some poke high out of the water like fallen planes with their wings raised, some are low submarines with just their noses or backs out, others look like messy tug boats and fishing trawlers caught in the crossfire. Probably a bit dramatic, but it gives a sense of the scale of the bergs and the size of the expanse of water in front of us.
We headed into the Arrera Channel and stopped by Cuverville Island but found the ice choking so didn’t stop. We headed onwards towards Paradise Harbour, but in spite of our best ice jousting efforts there was just too much for us to pass, and just a hundred meters away from Paradise Harbour we had to turn back.
After Paradise we tried to anchor at Orme Harbour but couldn’t find a safe enough spot beneath the menace of overhanging ice. A long night and a few whale sightings later, we landed at the Melchior Islands, which are winding and curious and altogether lovely. Next day we explore the icy passages around the islands, visit an abandoned Argentinian base, see gentoos and chinstraps and – our favourite – Antarctic chickens! (otherwise known as Sheathbills) – which were very photogenic and obliging. We hiked the snow crusted roofs of the huts and made a snow Antarctic chicken while watching the view. We battled through ice to get an amazingly close look at a colony of over 30 Weddell seals all lounging in the sun, occasionally scratching their tummy or an itchy fin pit, or rolling over to bake the other side. And glimpsed a few adolescent pups with them too.
That night was our semi-successful pizza night (history rewards the ambitious) and we then prepared for an early start to make our way to Port Lockroy.
The next day, back on the Gerlach Straight, meandering between ice cliffs, bergs, mountains, and ridges, listening to the snow drifts fall, we caught more glimpses of more humpbacks and, as we potter in the Antarctic sunshine, the boat is at peace.
We cruised through the Neumayer Channel which is a beautiful expanse of water with high mountain peaks on all sides and massive glaciers which pour down from the high peaks and high ice walls with deep blue veins and tears overhang us. Everywhere around us the deep piles of ice and snow are cracked and broken in massive pieces. The water is brilliant as a mirror and the weather is just perfect.
A few more MacGyvers have been made as we sail, including a winch for the second outboard and rebuilding the inverter. Some of them probably weren’t even needed – but it keeps Onne busy and happy between taking pics of blue bergs (they’re his favourite). As we sail we heard news that the Netherlands lost against Argentina in the quarter-finals – but football feels so distant from here it didn’t hurt too much (apparently). England lost too and I can honestly say that I forgot about it pretty quickly. And now we can hope Argentina make the final – it would be great to be here for that and the final is due on the day of our arrival back in Ushuaia… Fingers crossed. Still no sign of any orcas, but we have a few days yet and we are all still optimistic.
We stopped at Dorian Bay to visit the Damoy Hut, a former British transfer station active from 1975 to 1993 which has been preserved as a historical site and still contains photos of the teams that lived there, old cooking equipment, tinned supplies, snow shoes and crew clothing. Along with the hut we saw some penguins (of course we did) and looked down on Port Lockroy, where we were due to anchor.
Arriving at Port Lockroy we celebrated with gin and tonics with a twist over glacier ice. The mini bergs were crystal clear except for the trapped air bubbles which popped and fizzed as the hundred year old bubbles burst. We followed G&Ts with hot apple pie empanadas and sort-of ice cream.
In an attempt to woo the island staff over to our boat with us (Jakob and Paula met one of them in Greece just this summer), I managed to invite every boat within 25 miles over for G&Ts and hot apple pie with sort-of ice cream by completely misunderstanding how the radio works. Excellent work.
In the morning we woke up and while we had spend the night before planning elaborate methods of executing polar plunges, we found Kieran and Onne had already taken theirs and Kieran was swimming about the boat like it was a summer pond. The rest of us who were keen had no choice then but to follow. Paula did a backflip and pulled the most impressive face while leaping salmon-like into the icy water. It was cold. But we did it.
We visited the museum on Lockroy Island which is surrounded by penguins which have the right of way and beetle about busily along penguin highways. Seeing them moving amongst the building like busy commuters is an odd sight, but somehow is seems perfectly appropriate to the odd hut and its seasonal inhabitants.
After our visit we set off from Lockroy and head towards Lemaire Channel. As we discover the entrance among the rocks we find a narrow channel with precipitously steep sides. We slide down the channel which is flanked by massive glaciers (i know I mention glaciers a lot. It’s because there are A LOT of them. And they are ridiculously enormous).
We move through an area known as the Iceberg Graveyard because of the massive icebergs which beech themselves here. The huge sleeping giants lay almost on top of each other and are so big we discover that they can even hide one of the bigger cruise ships that can take hundreds of people. As it swings in-and-out of view, we admire the Graveyard artefacts.
The sea is glassy and still, and amongst this strange landscape of stranded ice giants we can sometimes see the ocean disappearing over the horizon and it really feels like we are at the end of the world.
We moored for the night at Hovgaard Island at 65.05 latitude, which is the furthest south our little boat will venture. We take a dingy ride around Pleneau Island which is home to thousands of penguins spread across many colonies. When we move ashore we discover that a farting rock turns out to be a pair of fur seals lounging amongst the penguins. Tomorrow, more antarctic antics…
Blog entry #5, December 13th
Our last day this far south before returning home was filled with joy and happy reflection; until it wasn’t.
Sjors and I went swimming with penguins. Lindsey made a solo kayak expedition to the mainland (hero!). We took our last look at the big bergs in the graveyard and saw one of them roll. We packed, wrapped, stuffed and tied everything up, ready for our departure. I took a midnight kayak around the bay.
And then, the boat caught fire.
Sjors woke to flames and sounded the alarm. Kieran acted very quickly with the fire extinguisher.
Sjors was pulled out through the hatch as Kieran fought the flames and people dashed to help before everyone was sent outside.
We are shaken up, but we are okay. Thankfully.
Small things going wrong can be funny and part of the charm. Big things – like engines and heaters failing – are not. A fire on a 60ft yacht in Antarctica is definitely not funny.
That heater is a foot from where Sjors and I have our heads when sleeping; the cabin is very small. If the fire had caught or Sjors hadn’t reacted or Kieran hadn’t acted as swiftly as he did I dread to think what could have happened. We are very, very, very grateful to Kieran and Sjors, and to our captain and first mate, Paula and Jakob. Thank you. Very sincerely.
We are grateful to be alive, afloat and sailing. After making the boat safe we start moving and Paula, Kieran and Onne cleaned out the cabin (thank you again). Now we have 6 days of continuous sailing ahead of us working in 3-hour shifts to reach and cross the Drake, and return to Ushuaia, with no heater by our bunks.
What should have been a challenging but joyous and reflective return journey has become arduous and nerve-wracking. The mood is, understandably, somber. We want to be home and safe as quickly as possible.
Blog Entry #6, December 16th
The day after the night before. We woke up and most all we could see was the horizon. All the icebergs and mountains and glaciers, gone. Almost all of Antarctica, out of view.
No one is having much fun. The fire blew all the wind out of our sails. It’s cold. It’s damp. The Drake is a washing machine. And with no heater it’s even colder and wetter than it should be.
The whole of our return journey is roughly 650 nautical miles in a direct line. And sailing yachts never sail in direct lines, so you can add a fair chunk to that number.
Everything feels like a chore. Both heaters down now, using the engine to warm the main cabin. Everything is cold and damp. Especially our cabin. Dark, water streaming from faulty seals on the hatch into our bunks and into our things. Everyone is sleep deprived. Not enough places to sleep in the dry. I’ve packed damp things into bin bags so they don’t get worse. Sea still tossing us around like a toy boat in the bath tub. John is particularly sick. Kidney stones plus the medicine which gives him seasickness. My clothes are soaked in diesel, oil and soot flushed by water coming down the mast. Not ideal.
The next day: today is… Thursday… the… 15th. I check it again. Then again. Another three days? Really? BUT, today is better. The mood is lighter, people aren’t forgetting, but they are adjusting.
Water maker failed. Autopilot failed. The Genoa sheet snapped. We were visited by a large pod of pilot whales. Tiny orcas (hourglass dolphins) criss-cross the bow. We are are not far from Diego Ramirez Island and will round Cape Horn sometime this evening.
Jazz music is playing in the kitchen. The closer we get to Ushuaia, the lighter the mood.
Newsflash; land, ho! We’ve spotted Cape Horn at 17.45, December 16th. It’s distant, but there. We will pass it more closely in the night. Also (newsflash part deux, 18.23), we just entered the Pacific Ocean. How about that?
Blog Entry #7, December 18th
Orcas (real ones, not tiny ones, otherwise known as ‘Killer Whales’) aren’t actually whales, they’re dolphins! Massive, vicious, pointy-toothed dolphins. Was I the only one who didn’t know that?
I know its impossible, but I think everyone should have to get to Antarctica on a sailboat. One that works, of course. But a sail boat. The long passage over the Drake makes it feel like you are sailing into another time. Like you have to go through the Bermuda Triangle to get to frozen nirvana, or lost islands, or ….., or whatever they are. It already feels like a dream.
We watched the sun go down as we passed Cape Horne and looked up at that big famous rock. Black Chilean dolphins leaped out of the water. Later, as Kieran, who comes from near Horne where the big rock is named after, came out to give it a final look another pod of tiny orcas (hourglass dolphins) gave us a show and followed us for around 10 minutes.
In the morning Onne and Kieran stay twice their shift and have a lovely time sailing us all the way to the Beagle. The sun shone, the wind dropped, and we opened a beer.
That evening we anchored in Bahia Relegada; a perfectly peaceful little bay surrounded by low mountains stacked with green trees (it’s odd to see green again), and celebrated our final night with a lot of wine, beer, bangers and generally good vibes.
We made the last leg in the morning. Sadly, despite our best efforts and a 14-stack mango mousse pancake cake, we didn’t make it back in time for the world cup final. Sad times. But worse things have happened at sea (actually very recently) and it was only the greatest game of all time (apparently). The Beagle, which, going against the tide, can be about as bad as the Drake, was kind to us and let us motor on calm waters all the way, enjoying the warm sunshine. And we finished our trip pretty much how we started – at Kieran’s cafe with good vibes and a beer in our hands.
Looking back to before we set sail when we had dinner at the weird all-you-can-eat place in Ushuaia, Solange asked us all why we wanted to go to Antarctica. Sjors wanted to visit another planet. Onna and Kieran wanted to sail like heroes and complain like Statler and Waldorf. Jaye & John wanted more of the place they love best (and animals, lots of animals), Lindsey wanted adventure and a bunk full of noodles (did I get that right?) And I wanted stories.
So while we did get set on fire and get a lot more of a lot of some things than perhaps we bargained for… I think we also got what we came for. In abundance.
Love to everyone on board: Chef Sjors, Lindsey, Onne, Kieran, Jaye, John, Paula, Jakob and me (Dan).
PS. Sorry about all the typos, misspellings and general muckups: it was hard writing on a boat.
What goes up 