The route we decided to take was the most difficult one we could undertaken in this area: we would go to Ushuaia, the southern tip of Argentina, and then go up the Chilean channels to Puerto Montt. Rough seas, changing winds, currents and tides. We knew that many ships don't make it, they have to turn around, try again another year, if they still have the time and courage to do so. But the whole crew agreed: however difficult it was, we wanted to try. Those challenging seas, that virgin nature, those passages full of ancient stories. The adventure...the adventure! In Mar del Plata we prepared the boat withour small budget: we installed a new autopilot, we lengthened the anchor chain with a good rope, we bought 200 meters of floating mooring lines, we bought a satellite phone that could be used to receive the forecast, we installed a small heater and we cleaned the diesel tank. We saw familyand friends, wich of course was very nice but my mind was focused on the preparation. We met up with old captains who knew the south very well: we listened to every piece of advice, I noted down every recommended bay. Talking about sailboats and winds was my true language at that time.
con los amigos a bordo de Tortuga A bordo del velero Tango con su tripulación de navegantes Maé y Diego alargnado la cadena con un cabo
leyendo la guía naútica Preparando los 200 metros de cabos para cortarlos y ordenarlos instalando el piloto automático
Los vientos patagónicos son muy cambiantes- Suelen tener una rotación antihoraria; un Norte/ Noroeste que puede ser de menor o mayor fuerza, luego un Oeste, un OSO, un So, SSO,todos esos vientos con fuerzas que pueden ir del leve al huracan. Luego suele entrar un Este muy leve,casi nada, al que le sigue un NE, y vuelta a empezar. Dicen que cuanto más tiempo se cae el viento entre un Norte y un FrenteFrio ( OSO,SO), más tiempo durará el frente. También dicen que el tiempo sin viento entre esos vientos no indica la violencia del Sur. Lo sorprendente es que esa rotación se puede dar sin caída del viento,uno puede pasar de un Norte muy Fuerte a un S muy fuerte casi sin transiciones. Además , se suelen formar corrientes de marea a lo largo de la costa y hay zonas de escarceos o turbulencias, donde las aguas y las corrientes se hacen caóticas. Nos ha pasado no lograr avanzar a más de un nudo por varias horas, hasta que cambiara la corriente. También hemos tenido a veces que buscar un reparo que tenga muy cerca un reparo para el Norte y otro para el Sur, ya que nos teníamos que detener con un norte fuerte para no tener que enfrentar un temporal sur. No siempre eso es posible, claro.
We set out with a nice wind from Mar del Plata, heading south. When the wind changed, we would take shelter while the strong headwind passed and then we would continue. We anchored in Necochea, San Blas, Peninsula Valdes. The Patagonian coasts are usually wide, desert-like, and bright, magnificent in their own way. While we sailed, I was absorbed in navigation, the sea, the winds, the meals, the children, the hours of watch and rest. I trusted the boat, everything took on the tone of the sea cycle. And I faced the challenges with my body, there was no doubt. But at anchor I reviewed the route taken, the errors, what could have been done better and I thought about what was coming - I had a mental map of the route, I reviewed the possible coves, the areas of skirmishes and turbulence, the currents, the miles, I thought again about the forecast and suddenly I saw ourselves in our tiny “Tortuga”, always going down to such low latitudes. And I felt vertigo. Maybe this feeling was fear? I then remembered Slocum, who decided not to anchor anymore and to go down the entire Argentine coast in one stretch, far from the coast because it was when he dropped the anchor that he got scared. To anchor was to open up the possibility of turning around. Yes, that must be it, fear, and I left the anchorages with a great desire to sail, to return to the sea: once the sails were raised, there was nothing left of that vertigo and I gave myself over to the sea.
Oiuna con un gatuzo pescado en SanBlas, antes de liberarlo al mar El equipo Tortuga desembarca en fondeadero Cracker
Up to San Jorge Gulf, it was a navigation with a lot of adrenaline, the surprise of encountering such strong currents, the little races to get to shelter in time from the southern winds, and then go out to sea again. It was in San Jorge Gulf that we had our first storm. It was 30/35 knots and 2,3 meters of waves.
There was very little wind, and we decided not to start the engine, going very slowly, to reach the Gulf, its winds and waves with the dawn. We drifted over that sea of oil, under those still skies. I remember that sunset, with the west and south covered in low, heavy clouds, no wind. The skies at those latitudes are imposing, as majestic as the sea itself. You can feel its immensity. “Look at this sea,” I told the boys. “Tomorrow it will be quite changed.”
We entered San Jorge Gulf at dawn, and the sea was as sublime as it can be: rough and magnificent. Tortuga settled in that rough sea. The waves swept the deck and the cockpit regularly. The children tied themselves up and went on deck, happy with the hustle and bustle of the sea, the adrenaline produced by the ups and downs of the waves, the spectacle of the birds fishing in those rough waters, which are the ones they prefer. Of course it was tiring and the boat was not comfortable for cooking and sleeping, but everything passes and that wind passed too. When night came, I was fascinated by the sky: the night was so black, so deep, full of stars in the sky.
After that West, the South wind that followed was so light that we didn’t feel it, and the North wind took a while to go from a light breeze to a strong one… We knew that a WSW storm was coming in on Saturday afternoon. We were planning to enter Puerto Deseado on Saturday, with the 4am tide, to be protected from a South wind that was expected to come in during the day. In the South, you don’t enter port when you want, you enter when the tide is favorable. The contrary tidal currents make it impossible for a boat like Tortuga to enter. But the West wind rose earlier than expected, so we tried to reach an anchorage near Puerto Deseado. When we were just a few miles from Puerto Deseado, the westerly wind became so violent that we had to move away from land: this time, we had lost the race and would have to pass the southerly wind at sea. We moved away a little from the coast, where some rocks could represent a danger and we heave to which means that the boat floated without sails on the sea, with the tiller tied to leeward, going where the winds and currents took us. Outside, some gusts reached 40 knots, and the boat retreated a total of 20 miles to the NE. We were a cork on the sea. At dusk, a voice echoed in our quiet nest: "Turtle, Turtle, where are you?" It was the prefecture trying to communicate by radio, but we were too far away for our radio to reach.
At night, the south wind dropped, and soon the north wind set in. The challenge then was to return those twenty miles as slowly as possible, arriving at dawn at the time of the tide. It wasn't easy: the currents and the wind were carrying us quickly despite ourselves, and Tortuga seemed to be in a hurry. Early in the following morning, we were able to enter Puerto Deseado. Magellan and his men stopped at this river centuries ago to repair their ships. It is exciting to think that those men saw the same desolate shores and those tortuous rocks sculpted by the violence of the winds. We spent the end of the afternoon with Prefectura, moving the other ships so that Tortuga would be safe and secure, and we tied it up with many mooring lines. The next day, the river was transformed and the south blew furiously over the Deseado River. The wind blew, raising waves on the river. Tortuga danced, calm and safe. The wind blew until it was exhausted.
The night before leaving Puerto Deseado, when the wind had died down, Diego climbed up the mast to check the condition of the rigging. There he found a broken cable in the stay at the bow. We thought that we could not continue like this, with the strong winds from the west and southwest that could blow through. We had a spare cable in the sail locker, a cable that had always been there, which a previous owner had probably taken out to install the furler. It was 10 at night. We had to leave at 5 in the morning, with the tide. We spent the night changing the rigging. At 4 we had finished, we slept for an hour and at the first light of dawn, we cast off the moorings. Tortuga was then in the boat… In front was the storm sail, which we had sometimes used in storms, and the very old staysail. We were descending to latitudes never sailed before, and with a completely different set of sails, another challenge. Our big genoa went into the sail locker.
What a vertigo experience, leaving that last port and heading for “Cabo San Diego” – Those last miles to Cape Le Maire seemed like an immensity. We were accompanied by the overas dolphins that played with the southern dolphins and gave us joy and courage. We dropped anchor twice, once in Bahía del desvelo and once north of Cabo Curioso, leaving a southerly wind as furious as it was short. We stayed about 30 miles from the coast of Puerto Santa Cruz, as the westerly wind prevented us from getting any closer, but that did not present any inconvenience. A little north of the Magellan Channel, a violent storm came in from the west. Tortuga listed, its port side in the water, 40 knots strong and gusting to 45. A violent sea, really, the wind felt thicker, the sea looked whiter, the foam flew over the water. It will pass, I thought, it will tire. And indeed, when we were already south of the Strait of Magellan, the wind diminished and changed. Tortuga continued sailing 30 miles from the coast, always further south, with a gentle northerly wind, on a calm sea. Dawn came and the whole day was so smooth that we even put the spinnaker on for a few hours. We had been a week without going ashore, and when the kids saw me preparing onions to cook with lentils, they went fishing. After a while, they caught two fish weighing 7 kilos, absolutely delicious, and it was a party on board. It was the last evening, the last night before Le Maire Strait. We had to arrive and cross with the noon tide the next day.
There are very exciting moments, very beautiful, that are savored slowly, I am grateful for them, I live them fully knowing that they will stay warming our souls forever, indelible, priceless moments, and in those moments one feels how beautiful it is to be alive, and one is grateful for every step, as difficult as it was, every step that brought us here. That early morning when it dawned 15 miles from the Le Maire Strait on a calm sea with a light northeast breeze, I saw land. And it was no longer a land of plains: it was a land of mountains and clouds, some penguins and albatrosses floated on the water. Those mountains moved me. Diego and I sat on the bow, drank some tea, talked about our steps through these lands 19 years ago, remembered our first adventures together, reflected on the last days of the crossing, which were very intense. We evoked those who passed through here centuries ago, those who study these complex southern currents today, we talked about the geological formations and the joy of loving each other so much. We talked and were silent, and the hot tea, and the mountains and the strait to which we slowly headed, to reach the right moment of the tide, that strait that I was waiting for, excited like a kid waiting for a party, so simple, so wonderful. What infinite gratitude invades me in those moments, what richness to feel so alive, so awake, so anchored in each moment. Since we left 18 years ago, we have walked towards uncertain directions, improvising in the face of unexpected situations every day. I have had an adventurous soul since I was a child, one that wants to experience powerful stories, not knowing what will happen. Going recklessly into the unknown, feeling fear to the core and making fun of it. In Tortuga, latitude 54, prepared with the means on board, which are scarce, my adventurous soul vibrated and laughed.
When Maé got up, he went outside and exclaimed, “Ah! What a beauty! What a beautiful day!” He stood looking at the States Islands in the distance. “It was hard,” he said then with a smile, “that was hard, eh! From Recife.” We all nodded in silence: he was expressing everyone’s thoughts. “Well,” he continued, “but now, we are here… and it was worth it all!” I started to laugh. Yes, it was worth it, without a doubt. I thought again about those thousands of miles, the technical problems that appeared in Tortuga, following one another and that would have stopped more than one. The health problems, our precarious economy, the thousands of miles along the Brazilian coast without a pilot, day and night at the bar, the violent storms that made Tortuga very uncomfortable for sleeping, cooking, moving and kept us alert day and night. I thought that Maé was always smiling, making the crew laugh, always willing to help, to put his body forward, pulling forward with all his will. Steering for several hours a day, trimming the sails, tidying up the house… I remembered the meeting we had in Recife, where I warned that choosing Patagonia would be very, very hard. And Maé and Oiuna nodded, affirming that they were willing to make it so. And from then on, both of them were committed to this intense dance, to this adventure. It was hard, we learned a lot, and that day, so small in our Tortuga, infront of such inmensity, the four of us excited and alert, we entered the Le Maire Strait, between the State Island and Cape San Diego. The four of us sat in the cockpit, amazed by what was in front of our eyes. Some laughter, some words of camaraderie, joy stamped on our faces, we could not feel more united.
I was fascinated by that strait, we crossed it and the sea was changing, hectic, with those waves that splash the sea. I was so amazed that I could not leave the cockpit, I needed to be there, and the tiredness had disappeared. We crossed the strait, the imposing mountains of the States Island were left behind, and the sea became bigger. It was chaotic, the waves that came from different places crashed, rising as if in an embrace and breaking up like a laugh splashing the water. Many currents, and the wind increasing. The weather forecast had marked something strange, 17 of wind, 45 of gusts at the end of the afternoon, and thank goodness we had sailed with the greatest possible speed to find ourselves at that moment south of the strait. On the horizon there were clouds shaped like UFOs, thick, motionless. A sea lion passed by in the opposite direction to where we were going, seemed surprised, raised its head out of the water several times, staring at me, and disappeared. Minutes later the wind had increased considerably. It was now between 38 and 40 knots. The sea was transformed. Tortuga was again submerged on its port side.
Holding on wherever he could and tying up as he went, with the waves crashing over him, Diego went to the mast to reef the mainsail and went forward to raise the staysail while I took in the rope. The struggle with the heeling began, and with the water steadily falling on my face, I didn't think to tie the rope to a mooring cleats. I just left it attached to the winch. After the maneuver, we both found ourselves in the cockpit, partially sheltered by our raincoats. I then observed the albatrosses: they were flapping their wings frantically to get closer to the sea, and before reaching it they were gliding upwards, their wings wide open, ascending at extraordinary speed, sometimes rotating their bodies to an angle of almost 90 degrees with the sea. And then they flapped their wings again to descend. It was beautiful, unusual, fascinating. Diego told me that he had had to use force to lower the mainsail, but that the staysail had almost gone up by itself. Then I understood what was happening to the albatros: the wind was carrying them strongly upwards and they had to fight to stay at a reasonable distance from the land, or the sea. The wind increased, and thestaysail rope came loose. The rope squirmed furiously like a viper, and Diego went forward to fight it. He took several blows before being able to restrain it. We decided to lower the staysail and remain with only the storm jib.It was already five in the afternoon. I had been on the bridge for twelve hours, but there was no time to feel tired: it was pure adrenaline. The wind was furious and when it gave short respites, we would pull up some sail again to continue advancing as quickly as possible: the tide was about to turn, the sea was rough and we wanted to get as far away from the strait as possible and get closer to land. In the mists of the evening we said goodbye to the scandalous peaks of the States Islands.
A few miles from the coast we continued moving forward with that north-northwesterly well established. We thought we would enter Bahía Aguirre to rest and wait for a westerly wind that was forecast before continuing towards Beagle Channel. But when we were close to the eastern entrance of the bay, the northwesterly wind was too strong to enter the bay, and we continued. Tortuga continued, Diego took the watch, since he had taken a nap in Le Maire, and I went to sleep. I must have slept for two hours when Diego woke me up: we weren't making any progress, he announced. That area, between the eastern end of Bahía Aguirre and Punta Falsa, is known for having west/easterly currents of up to three knots. With that current and a headwind, a storm jib in front to tack because the staysail wasn't working properly, it was a lost battle. I looked at the navionics: Tortuga was moving backward at a speed of one knot, one and a half knots. I laughed: I always find the force of the sea extraordinary. “Well,” I said to Diego, “the situation isn’t that complicated. Turn around, we’re heading for Aguirre.” Sure enough, we were just a few miles from the western end of the bay, and with the tack made, Tortuga headed quickly in that direction, carried by the winds and currents. As we entered the bay, there was already that faint light that precedes dawn, and we heard the unmistakable blow of a whale. Then we saw them; there were four of them. Mael woke up; the cold was biting, but he stayed in the bathtub, watching the slow, peaceful passage of the whales.
It was already daylight, and the landscape was incredibly beautiful. Eating well, resting, repairing, and tidying up was what had to be done while the Westerly passed. When we all woke up, we ate a lot and well, and Diego and I set about repairing the boat. I started sewing the raincoat. Our raincoat is old and made of cloth, but it offers invaluable protection. It had been torn in places by the last storm. Diego started bailing out the bilges; we were still taking in water, about 12 liters every 20 engine hours. The kids started inflating the dinghy; they were desperately eager to get ashore.
That night the bay was calm. The forecast told us there were 18 knots NNW outside. It also indicated that at 9am a 40 knot NW wind would blow for an hour before a WSW of about 25 knots came in. The plan was simple: a calm night with the NNW, having passed Punta Falsa before 9am, drifting a little in front of the beagle entrance with the NW storm, and entering the beagle mid-morning with the WSW. It wasn't the best option, and once again everything was very tight. But it was that or being blocked in Aguirre indefinitely. The WSW was coming to settle. And it wasn't a wind that would let us through.
Tortuga set sail; it was a pitch-black night. She glided over the dark waters, accelerating with a gust, losing speed as she passed close to a higher cliff. There were no waves in the bay, a flat sea over which the invisible wake traced by Tortuga could be heard. I opened the sail a little, narrowed the course, I felt my boat as if it were part of me, and the movement of the waters as if I were walking through them: they were thick waters. A dolphin jumped off the stern, once, twice, splashing the night with white. I heard the footsteps of a bird on the starboard side, and the movement of its wings. I thanked the dolphin, I apologized to the bird. The dark mountains were barely visible against the black sky. The breeze on my face, the cold on my hands, I murmured a few words to the sea: So much silence… what could it have in store for us? It was so beautiful. And I suspected that this dream voyage wouldn't last much longer.
That night was hard, very hard. The wind was furious and we had a current against us. How ugly are the dark nights when there is so much wind and a rough sea. The waves passed over the cockpit, Tortuga heeled so much that the port side was submerged most of the time. I did not expect so much wind, nor did I expect waves to form over such a small space, since we had land just a few miles to windward. The staysail broke and stopped working completely. We were heading west south west, with a north west wind and a current against us. We had to gain every degree possible, stay as far north as possible, to be able to enter the Beagle Channel. It was a crazy night. Neither Diego nor I could sleep. We had to get in front of the entrance to the Beagle Channel before the west south west came, and we had to try not to go too far south so we could drift a little with the violent north west of the morning. From time to time I heated water, to warm us a little. Because the cold was part of the night's hardship. Our gloves were already soaked, and we were wet, the wind was cold and there was no way to get warm. There was a lot of tension because our mainsail was already weakened, and we used to use a reef to keep the holes in the sails clean. But with a reef, Tortuga drifted. We then decided to keep the sails up despite the strong wind.
With what relief I saw the dawn. Nothing is so difficult during the day, and although the wind continued to increase, the sea also did and the course was increasingly difficult to steer, dawn broke and the wind gave us a short break. We could not correct the course but the boat was not so stressed and the waves no longer broke on the hull. And then, what a wonder!!!! The Beagle Channel opening up in the distance, the clouds and their scandalous figures, the imposing mountains, and life: the imperial cormorants flying aligned and in flocks with their black and white bodies, porpoises in the air, and their elongated necks, the immense albatrosses, the seagulls, the dolphins doing jumps and pirouettes, the whales throwing their water wherever you looked, the sea lions sticking their heads out... beautiful. And then one forgives the sea. You feel infinite gratitude, extasy before so much beauty.
That moment did not last long, it began to blow stronger again and we continued our struggle to not lose so many degrees. Our course continued southwest, and we waited for the wind to change to enter the channel. We were already in Chilean waters and I was talking on the radio with the prefecture when Diego called me: he was pointing at something to portside, a black mass of low clouds that were coming towards us, the famous southwest that we were waiting for. I have to admit that I didn't expect it to be like this. I was counting on a sunny south-westerly with about twenty knots of wind. But the winds decided that it was time for us to enter the Beagle and quickly. Within minutes the storm was upon us. The boat made a turn, and at the moment when the boat was heeling to the other side in a somewhat chaotic manner, the prefecture called me and asked me what the intention of the current manoeuvre was. It was somewhat comical, the question in the middle of the chaos I was in. Under the rain and the waves, Diego climbed up the mast because the main sail had become stuck in the spreaders. I was at the bar, and I was watching him, when suddenly, with a gust, I saw him fly away. He grabbed a stay with one hand, grabbed the mast again where he remained clinging for a few seconds, hugging the mast...
We were tired. We had been more than 24 hours without sleep. The only thing left for me was the determination to achieve it, the decision to achieve it, the concentration on making it with Tortuga. Once the tack was made, Tortuga settled down and there was no need to use any force on the bar. My only concern was to keep it as far south as possible from the Beagle to have water to leeward: and that was how Tortuga entered the Beagle Channel, with five knots of speed. Soon Picton Island gave us shelter from the waves and a group of dusky dolphins offered us an extraordinary spectacle of coordinated jumps. The birds were also celebrating. “The wind is violent here to be able to be gentle elsewhere,” said Mael. Of course, these are the latitudes of relief. Soon the wind died down and then again, the wonder, the wide channel surrounded by mountains, the snow-capped hills in the distance, the dozens of rorqual whales and their chrome backs perched, the dolphins and the birds, the thick waters, the ecstasy. I forgive the sea and the wind for everything, and I stay with them. Will we have to pay more tributes for having had the audacity to be in this place of indescribable beauty? We will pay them all and remain grateful! Inside the house was as if after an earthquake. The door to the pantry had broken and all kinds of spices, rice, beans had been scattered on the floor, the wooden bar holding the library had come loose and the books were scattered. We cleaned up the mess a little, I cooked something for the crew, and went out again. We expected another westerly, and we were already prepared for the worst, but the wind let us through, and there were no more storms. Between whales and flocks of cormorants, Tortuga entered the channel of Beagle, and two days later we arrived in Ushuaia.
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