AGAINST THE WIND OF CAPE HORN
“Hey, people, you must have lost your minds if you think you’ll come back alive from Cape Horn in this ten-meter long “through,” said Norman haughtily whom we had just met in the bar of the yacht club of the southernmost Argentinean city Ushuaia. Norman was Australian—a member of the crew of a huge yacht, “Spirit of Sidney”, which nattily swaggered outside in the pier.
“Well, other 35-feet long boats have also managed to go round the cape,” ventured the American, Todd, while Greta and I fell uncertainly silent.
We had met Todd less than twenty-four hours earlier while we were looking for a partner for a sail under canvas that in the sea-faring tradition is considered the Everest of yachting. Cape Horn—a rocky peak, which is the end of the inhabited world in the south before the lifeless spaces of Antarctica are reached—is a symbolical and mystical place burdened with as many stories about ship-wrecks and sailors’ tragedies as numerous as the hydrographic anomalies and perfidious surprises in the waters around it are.
Cabo de Hornos—as the Spanish-speaking people call the cape—is for yachtsman what the ascent of an eight-thousander is for a mountaineer. The objective difficulties and dangers for a small vessel are obvious, as at this point the Pacific and the Atlantic Ocean meet which results in turbulent meteorological conditions. To the south stretches the open expanse of the Drake Passage where—like in an incubator—unforeseeable squalls and low-pressure areas are hatched one after the other. They maintain an almost incessant stormy wind in the area and give rise to the Horn currents and waves that are mythical with their fury. You add the subjective element—the somber fate amassed over the course of centuries—and Cape Horn easily turns into a sailor’s longing.
Although I am in love with seafaring as a kind of adventure I must admit that I am only an armchair yachtsman—I have only been in a yacht twice and I can’t even swim. To make up for that, I have read from cover to cover dozens of descriptions of sailings round Cape Horn: from Joshua Slocum through Chichester to the high-speed clippers, Vito Dumas and the present-day solo sailors of Vendée Globe. I conceived the idea of sailing round Cabo in 1999 when, climbing the mountains of South America, I had the chance to sail with a cargo ship from Punta Arenas to the Chilean port of Puerto Williams on the island Navarino which is only about a hundred nautical miles away of the mysterious cape. Then I spent an afternoon in the local marina and learned from the crews of the yachts berthed there that with a little more organisation and, of course, better finances we could realise such a sailing.
The matter in hand is similar to joining a commercial expedition ascending a Himalayan peak. Australian, New Zealand and British yachts with reliable dimensions of 60 to100 feet (20 to 30 meters) offer the quality you would expect from elite alpine agencies organizing adventures in the Himalayas or Karakorum which include high mountain porters and oxygen masks. The price, of course, corresponds to the level of security and conveniences. For us, however, this was unattainable and we had to look for an operator without Sherpas and satellite telephones. Luckily—after a lot of research—it turned out that there was such an operator in Ushuaia—the Argentinean Julio Brunet with his small aging thirty-year old yacht Unicornio (Unicorn).
“I don’t envy you,” goes on Norman, “the waves there are so big that in this nutshell you’ll have the feeling of sailing among the skyscrapers of Manhattan.”
We hurriedly finished our drinks and silently went out. Todd who was an amateur yachtsman from Seattle and had a yacht more solid and modern than Unicornio also seemed worried. He looked at Greta with unfeigned admiration. His wife, after she saw our vessel, decided to join an Antarctic cruise. But for us there was no going back. The next day we sailed off.
Besides us three, on board were also the skipper Julio and the sailor Mariano. We were to cover almost 300 nautical miles going out and returning—a distance which, wind and weather permitting, could be covered in less than seventy two hours of non-stop sailing, even by Unicornio. However, the weather in these parts of the world is rarely a benevolent accomplice in the ambitions of small vessels. They have to play at hide-and-seek with the winds and the currents, making the best of the brief opportunities for secure advancing. In the rest of the time, which is the larger part of the time, they have to be anchored in the numerous sheltered coves of the islands between Tierra del Fuego and Cape Horn.
The first day, our goal was Puerto Williams where we had to receive permission for entering Chilean territorial waters that are guarded strictly by “Armada chilena”, Chile’s navy. After leaving Ushuaia we sailed with the wind coming from the northwest and quickly advanced along the Beagle Channel. With only staysails, Unicornio was easily moving at a speed of five knots (that is 5 nautical miles per hour). The weather forecast for the day was: variable cloudiness, wind 20-25 knots and waves up to 2 meters. The skipper was confident that under such conditions there was no problem getting even further than Puerto Williams by the evening. However, we had just left the Ushuaia bay, which is surrounded by a string of rocky islands with seals and walruses basking in the sun, when the problems started. Seasickness. Although we had taken preventive medications, our stomachs revolted and the sunny day took on an obscure aspect.
That is why we were indescribably relieved when six hours or forty miles later we went round Punta Gusana and entered the natural harbour of Puerto Williams. We waited quite a lot before representatives of different Chilean offices came on board and stamped their seals, but otherwise they were extremely friendly and kind. They wished us merry holidays and a happy sailing, as they knew we were going to the end of the world.
We didn’t want to continue, but Julio insisted on reaching Puerto Toro—on the eastern coast of Navarino Island—the same evening so that we were in position for the critical crossing of the open waters of Bahia Nassau. The bay—about twenty miles long—is widely open towards the Atlantic Ocean and is thus exposed to the changeable winds, strong currents and heavy ocean waves.
At 7:30 pm we left the marina and with the motor switched on crept past the barracks of Puerto Williams. The town is nothing more than a naval station.
Outside the harbour we were met by the northwest wind. At this point the Beagle Channel dramatically narrows to about 2 or 3 miles. We felt much better than before and the sailing in the falling twilight was fantastic. Later on, when we left the channel and turned to the south, the horizon in front of us got thinner, emanating an opaque radiance as if somewhere there the land really ended. At sunset—a terrific picture in orange and red—we passed by the steel skeleton of a ship stranded in a mud-bank. Sticking out exactly at the crossroad to Cape Horn, the ghostly wreckage of “Logos” served as a kind of warning to the sailors about what was awaiting them as well as a reminder of the tragic fate of hundreds of vessels in these waters.
At 1 am we berthed at the ramshackle pier of Puerto Toro universally recognized (even by the Argentineans) as the southernmost permanent settlement in the world. Seventy miles straight to the south was Cabo de Hornos. The following morning we woke up to a wind from a different direction—from south-southwest. Exactly the opposite of what the weather forecast said and what we needed for a quiet passage of Bahia Nassau.
In anticipation of the promised north wind we went sightseeing in Puerto Toro.
During the day we periodically got in touch on the radio with the local meteorologist who insisted that the wind would turn and start blowing from the north. This, however, didn’t happen. Besides Unicornio, three more boats lay at anchor in the bay: the Chilean cutter boat “Santa Maria”, the New Zealand ketch boat “Darwin Sound” on a commercial trip around Cape Horn, as well as “Miss Molly”—a glossy rich man’s yacht from Great Britain. They all had waited for more than twenty-four hours for the meteorological situation to improve.
At noon “Darwin Sound” couldn’t stand it anymore. They told us on the radio that they were leaving for the near-by island Lennox. The usual procedure in bad weather is to “jump” from island to island in order to at least break the monotony of the waiting. A little bit later “Santa Maria” steered the same course. In the meantime the skipper of “Miss Molly,” a respectable gentleman, was trying to convince his interlocutors on the pier that according to the BBC there was a low-pressure system coming from the south spelling two days of bad weather. The Chilean meteorologist from Punta Arenas, however, insisted that the oncoming front was harmless: with high clouds and moderate northern winds. Whom shall we believe?
In the end Julio decided to trust his intuition and after a consultation with “Santa Maria” that was advancing to the south we departed from Puerto Toro at 3 pm. Several hours later we left the shelter of the islands Navarino and Lennox, and the breath of the ocean grasped us. Chased by the stubborn southwest wind the steady three-meter high waves started swelling towards Unicornio. With the help of the engine we tried to keep the least painless course, but nevertheless the yacht was unavoidably rocking. Trying to meet the waves sidelong we allowed the sideways shaking to increase so much that all free-standing objects in the main cabin and in the galley scattered in all directions. Also, the seasickness returned…
Thus we were advancing in the metal grayness of the falling night, impatiently watching the remote outlines of the island Wollaston, the northernmost island of the archipelago with the same name, part of which is also Isla de Hornos (Hornos Island). Gradually the outlines of the land became clear and in focus appeared a rocky lay—jagged and ominous. While there still was some vegetation up to here—bushes and low-growing trees distorted by the constant storms—from now on there was nothing that could diversify the severe menacing landscape except grass, moss and lichen.
In the meantime the wind didn’t change its direction as we expected, but at sunset it stopped completely. This allowed us to perk up and cook something for dinner. At midnight (we still had twilight in these endmost southern latitudes) we cast anchor at Caleta Marcial—a sheltered cove on the northern coast of the island Herschell. From here to Cabo de Hornos is only eight miles in a beeline. It seemed that the next day was the crucial one. Ominous windlessness reigned outside. Before we went to bed in the front cabin, which resembled a tomb, it started drizzling.
This is what I have written in my diary about the next day:
December 25, Christmas. We wake up under heavy clouds and a ceaseless icy drizzle. Weather just like Cape Horn’s! We congratulate each other on the Nativity but our mood is far from festive. We listlessly eat our breakfast. Luckily the sky clears at about 10 am. After receiving the weather forecast for the next twelve hours, the skipper gives orders for departure. Gentle wind is blowing from the northeast; the sea is calm; visibility—10 to12 miles. We set off to the west along the coastline of the Herschell Island and after leaving at portside its westernmost point we steer a southerly course. Exactly at noon we see the characteristic two-horned rock in front of the northwest coast of Isla de Hornos. A view familiar from so many photographs!
The more we advance to the south, the stronger the northeast wind gets. It already blows at an energetic 20 knots; the waves get white and are over 6 feet high. We sail under all sails at a good speed and soon draw level with the northern cape of Hornos Island. The sky is leaden and it continues to rain, but we are all on deck. Hypnotized, we watch the mighty southern end of the island swelling before our eyes. It looks like a gigantic lion’s head, and the lay and shape of the island as a whole resemble the king of the animals lying between the two oceans.
At 1.30 pm we reach Cabo de Hornos and set off eastwards. The Pacific remains behind us and in front of us is the Atlantic Ocean. We are sailing 200 to 300 yards off the cape. Steep, almost vertical, spotted rocks descend from the solid, 425-meter high peak that fills the horizon into the never-ceasing surf. It gets unusually quiet. The squeaking of the tackle and the swash of the water are the only sounds, as it seems to pay tribute to the known and unknown courageous man who died here.
Bit by bit we pass by and change our point of view but the lion’s head of the Horn remains unchanged. After awhile we draw level with the westernmost point of the island marked by a red lighthouse, whereupon the northeast wind turns into a contrary wind for Unicornio. Cabo de Hornos passes from our view, and we get to the winches and the ropes. With a series of “wet” and “steep” jibes we work our way to the north. From time to time the yacht keels over to more than 45 degrees. “This is real yachting!” ejaculates Todd.
At 5.30 pm we are back at Caleta Marcial. We cast anchor and heave a sigh of relief.
After he had successfully piloted us round Cape Horn the skipper Julio decided to also reveal his culinary skills. He prepared off-hand an Argentinean roast beef and, lo and behold, we had a Christmas dinner. We stayed until late on the deck and contemplated the south sky which all of a sudden decided to clear up at sunset and presented a new magic spectacle of splendid colours. We were grateful—Cabo de Hornas has been exceptionally generous to us.
The next day, however, it showed its usual face—the wind in the bay reached 35 knots and was strenuously spinning Unicornio around its anchor chain. Like wasps, fierce squalls pounced constantly on the boat and fired stinging rain showers carried by a penetrating wind. We were told on the radio that in the open sea a real storm raged. Good thing that we hadn’t staked on cautiousness and had hurried up.
And how long had we to wait now in order to cross back Bahia Nassau? It wasn’t that long. The skipper kept a sharp eye on the changing situation and at the first “chink” that appeared, we sailed the next night with the engine switched on towards Tierra del Fuego.
It was difficult. The small yacht was moaning and jumping like crazy in the churning sea. The seasickness was back and was aggravated by sleeplessness… After 160-hours of uninterrupted sailing—feeling battered–we at last entered Puerto Williams. It was over!
The next day we were surprised to discover in Ushuaia “The Spirit of Sidney” at the same pier where we left it a week earlier.
“I knew that the Australians are fit for nothing… They hang about the pubs and only chatter,” Todd could not refrain from saying. “Let’s go find Norman and tell him how you go round Cape Horn with a 35-foot boat. He’ll become livid with anger.
September 20th, 2012 at 04:04 PM
Чудесен разказ, прочетох го на един дъх…благодаря!:)