Estrecho Magallanes
Magellan Straits
The approach to the Magellan straits proved quite the challenge. A constant forty knot headwind teamed up with a confused mix of currents to make for an uncomfortable twenty four hour slog. At this point sleep was not on the agenda, no-one had ever come this far South before and one must remain cautious in unknown territory. Mike and I did not really come off watch but swapped around between us to see that we safely navigated over the shallow bank and in between the petroleum rigs that haunt the area. The industrial colossi survey our lone approach through the morning mist.
The feeling on board changed quite quickly as we neared the mouth of the straits, it may seem trivial now but even those pieces of inhospitable rock and looming metal structures brought rise to a feeling of safety and calm. Naturally, while in the middle of the ocean and so far from any possibility of rapid response to medical emergency, the mind wanders to a small anxiety that your chances of survival in a medical emergency are substantially reduced. Ultimately our job is to get the boat and everyone on board to a predetermined haven, in the process we are putting ourselves at physical risk to make it happen. Granted, these things don’t bear thinking about if there is no other option, but it is an important reflex to keep exercised in order to remain safe at all times, be it going up the rig to repair a leech line or simply walking up the deck on a sunny day. So, these instincts are somewhat alleviated with each mile to land made good.
The pilot was due to meet us at the entrance to the straits, the difficult passage requires any boat travelling this way to have an official escort on board. We maintained a speed of seven knots and the pilot hopped on in a moving embarkation manoeuvre, it felt a little unnecessary considering we could slow the boat down quite easily unlike a tanker, but where is the fun in that! The excitement escalated with a new presence on board, there is an imposter among the tribe. Travelling through the straits was a most interesting ride; in between the hour-long battles against fifty-sixty knot squalls, we would have seven knots of current pushing us to an effortless eighteen-knot SOG. Our new friend Juan enlightened us on all the penguin facts he could remember and pointed out different submarine workstations that littered the passage in this bleak windswept part of the world.
Whispers travelled through the boat as to where all the postcard-picture mountains were, surely they aren’t melting too? It turns out that most of the land along the straits is arid and bleak. The flat brown landscape of Patagonia - which was dubbed ‘Patagon’ by Magellan in 1520 owing to the considerable size of the native population’s feet - shot out the sweeping winds pushing down southwards and hitting our starboard beam. On port side were the distant black lands of Argentinian Tierra del Fuego, the Land of Fire at the bottom of the world, how dramatic! The battle against all manners of tide and wind combinations came to an abrupt end after six hours, the pilot indicated a boundary circle for us to anchor in, the fact that we were not to be alongside a dock came as crushing news to most of the crew after spending so long floating around, something as seemingly insignificant as a five minute morning walk becomes a valuable amenity in these times. Anchor down; about a kilometre away from a mole that hosts Punta Arenas’ local crabbers, this patch of freezing water is to be our home for the coming three weeks.
Punta Arenas
“A great wind is blowing, and that gives you either imagination or a headache.”
- Catherine the Great
Wise words from the enlightened despot and ne’er a truer word has been spoken. We are situated in one of the top five windiest places on earth (fluff science, but you get the idea). The constant barrage of low pressure systems that make Drake’s Passage such a feat to cross are relentless to say the least. There is also an acceleration of the wind through this part of the continent. These wind patterns are completely alien to the Mediterranean/mid-Atlantic sailor, the power that comes with the squalls and gusts is humbling, each time bringing the clawing freeze closer to your body core. Large grey cloud banks race each other over the headland, one eager to overtake the other and claim their victims. Keep in mind, this is summer time. Patagonia is known for its harsh living conditions, in fact the kindness and peace found among the local population is a reflection of the comraderie developed in trying to co-exist in such an environment. Over the three weeks of being stationed here we were fortunate to have a few days of sunshine, this is not to say that the wind would subside in the grey to blue respite but it was welcomed nevertheless. I made friends with a taxi driver who gave me my first ride and he remained our call guy for any trips from the moll into town, Raul is immortalised in the crew logbook as the man who made us all laugh every single day.
Workdays continued on as normal, with the exception that the weather outside affected our planning of certain jobs and extra vigilance was required when leaving anything lying around on deck, the wind could change from 20 knots to 40 knots in a matter of seconds. The tender was launched every day at 17:30 and whoever wanted to spend a couple of hours on land could do so, the tender driving rota was divvied up among the boys which would give everyone a chance at tasting some golden Austral Calafate beer or simply enjoy a walk that lasted longer than thirty seconds.
The words ‘driving the tender ashore’ seem so unthreatening; the tender is a roll-up inflatable, even though it’s large enough to fit nine people and a forty horsepower engine. This means that there is no draft under the boat, making it a prime target for menacing squalls. The rule is that there has to be one able person on the Yacht at all times with no exception, separate from the tender driver. While in the tender all persons are geared to the nines, lifejackets and harnesses on, VHF and UHF in the tender, safety cord on and all hands vigilant. If the thing flipped over, there is a 50/50 chance of survival on the bad days, no one is going to jump in and help you, we count on the reaction time of the pilot vessels in case of emergency, and naturally they would take a minimum of twenty minutes to scramble, enough time for a healthy dousing of pneumonia. Since people would be ferried in one group, the driver had a two return trips to do alone, if the wind exceeded thirty knots. we would have to wait it out before sending the driver out. Review of this paragraph may inspire criticism that I am overdramaticising things for entertainment value; until you are here and experience these conditions it will sound exaggerated... this is all necessary precaution and very real potential outcome.
There is no place I would rather be, not to prove anything, but to continue to grow as a man, to continue to submit to the extreme conditions of the planet. There is something building in my conscience that draws me to find out more about living like this and to pushing more physical and mental boundaries. It is all so much bigger than us, a humbleness is gifted to those at the mercy of the elements, this is just the beginning.