Around Cape Horn

Plans always change when one is cruising. That’s the very definition of cruising—if the itinerary were etched in stone it would be called bus driving or some such thing. After returning from the opportunity to earn some very useful cash for the cruising kitty we have resolved to remain in Tierra del Fuego for the Austral winter.

Several factors motivated this sea change. One is that we much prefer real winter to a period of constant rainfall. Here it snows and one can ski. In Puerto Montt we would likely grow webs on our feet.

Another is that we have made some good friends in Ushuaia and Puerto Williams, other cruisers, most with considerable experience in high latitudes. In the cruising world, this is the sharp end. All of this has prompted another decision—to try for Antarctica next season, either with Tamara if we can obtain the terribly difficult to obtain permit from our own government, or on another yacht as crew if we cannot. This is the place where that sort of exchange and planning becomes possible. Such an exchange may include a cruise to the Falkland Islands as well.

Blessed with the luxury of time there was no need to immediately depart for the north. We headed to Puerto Williams, an Armada Chile garrison town, the southern most town in the world. We tied up to the Milcalvi, a 1926 freighter, intentionally grounded by the Armada Chile, to create a haven for yachts, the southern most yacht club in the world. A common site throughout the town is that of horses and cattle roaming free on the streets and grazing in the yards. Located in a spectacular mountain setting, there are numerous hiking opportunities that begin right outside the Micalvi entrance.

What to do with our time? Cape Horn, the Holy Grail to sailors, is but eighty miles away. We’ve come this far, and half of our thirty thousand miles on Tamara has been at latitudes greater than fifty degrees. So a late autumn rounding of the Horn was almost pre-ordained. Trouble is, pre-ordained or not, Cape Horn is still Cape Horn, never a place to be treated lightly.

As we write this, Tamara is anchored in Caleta Martial, six miles north of Cape Horn, caleta being the Spanish for cove, Martial having been a French explorer of the region one hundred twenty five years ago. A herd of southern fur seals had come along side Tamara, jumping out of the water like dolphins, as we entered the anchorage.

A gale roars out of the west, unencumbered for thousands of miles of the empty Southern Ocean, amplified by the topography of the mountains behind which we are sheltered. Rachas, katabatic winds, williwaws we call them, pour down the slopes of the peaks like flood waters down a canyon. Only a few miles further north, rachas blew Hal and Margaret Roth’s Whisper ashore thirty years ago. Tamara heels as another blast spills from the peaks.

We had just rounded Cape Horn and anchored here when the Armada Chile radio forecast fifty knots and more for tonight. We hesitate between feelings of triumph and regret. It’s done—we’ve rounded Cape Horn. The ambition harbored so long has been transformed into the definite past. For our expectations, we’ve only been given one more memory, just a memory. I think with satisfaction, “We’ve done what we setout to do.” But it’s an ambiguous satisfaction. I’m more satisfied to be secured in this safe anchorage.

Ten days later .... It was snowing as we arrived back in Puerto Williams, a new dusting of snow on all the mountains. Winter is fast approaching but fall is still in the air, cool and crisp days.