March 26: Punta Arenas is a dismal, desolate port, forgotten by the world. I cannot imagine why anyone would want to live here! But many do. With over 100,000 residents, it is the Magallanes Province’s largest city and lays claim to the title of the world’s southernmost city. It is more than 1,300 miles south of Santiago, Chile’s capital.

Overlooking the Strait of Magellan, this port city commands the historic route as the first city before (or after) rounding Cape Horn. The city flourished during the California Gold Rush when it was a haven for steamers rounding the cape. Although the Panama Canal dampened the traffic, the port achieved renewed prosperity as an early 20^th century Chilean wool and mutton center. Modern Punta Arenas reflects a broad cultural mix—from Portuguese sailors to English sheep ranchers. Adventurers head for the Parque Nacional Torres Del Paine, “place of the blue water,” a breathtaking preserve with a primordial ecosystem. Tall granite pillars rise more than 8,500 feet, towering above the Patagonian steppes. Deep valleys are filled with sapphire lakes, gurgling rivers, cascading waterfalls, and massive glaciers. But the park is 275 miles north of the town, and we are here only for the day.  I buy this photo from the Veendam instead.

Torres Del Paine, Chile, taken by Veendam

Günter and I bundle ourselves in lots of layers and take a taxi into the city, swerving around rivers of water flooding the sides of the road. After we are let off downtown, we plod along a dreary main street torn apart by construction and floods, under a drizzly sky.

A muddy main street, Puntas Arenas, Chile

The hardy residents here consider themselves first as Magallanicos, and second as Chileans, which is hardly surprising, since in order to come to this stormy corner of the world, one either has to travel for days by bus across Argentine Patagonia, fly direct, or take a lengthy cruise through the southern seas. Our mission here is to rub the foot of the Magellan statue located in the main square. This is supposed to bring us good luck, which we need after having our backpack stolen in Buenos Aires!

Rubbing the foot of the Magellan statue brings good luck

March 27: Today, we are cruising through the Strait of Magellan, a navigable sea route south of the mainland of South America and north of Tierra del Fuego. Although it is the most important natural passage between the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans, the strait is difficult to navigate because it is subject to high, unpredictable winds and currents. The strait is 570 km long and only 2 km wide at its narrowest point. Ferdinand Magellan was the first European to navigate the strait in 1520, during his global circumnavigation voyage.

Most of the strait is compelling, but the special attraction is the Amanda Glacier. After the disappointment of having to pass through Glacier Alley after sunset, (the ship was held up by the Argentinian port authorities), our captain wants to make sure that all passengers will have an excellent view of this glacier. He makes a 360 degree swing so that it can be viewed from all verandas. Wow! What a glorious sight!

Amanda Glacier

March 25: The Veendam arrives in a moderate gale.

Ushuaia from the Sea

Tierra del Fuego is an archipelago surrounded by the Atlantic Ocean, the Strait of Magellan, and the easternmost part of the Pacific Ocean. Although the city of Ushuaia is in Argentina, most of the main island actually belongs to Chile. At 55° latitude, it holds the distinction of being “the southernmost city in the world.”

Ushuaia, the Southernmost Town in the World

The indigenous people were the Yahgan and Alacalufes (canoe Indians). Surprisingly, despite the inclement weather, they wore little or no clothing. Constant fires kept them warm, hence the region’s name: Tierra del Fuego, land of fire.

I’d always wanted to go to Ushuaia. Stories about the ceaseless wind, the snow-capped Andes, and the magical light had fascinated me.

Even though Günter and I are still not feeling well, and have cancelled our tour here, a catamaran cruise through the Beagle Channel and a ride through the National Park, we bundle up to walk into the town. The wind blasts us so hard it almost knocks us over as we head down the gangplank and onto the pier. We make it to the town’s main drag and then Günter, who now has bronchitis, turns back.

Gunter on the pier near the ship, bundled for the walk

Lois, Bundled for the walk into town.

All the streets climb up the hill from the port, as in San Francisco.  The cross-streets filled with restaurants, bars, tourist and winter apparel shops protect me from the wind.

As I walk along the streets, I begin to fall in love with this southernmost town in the world. Yes, Ushuaia is remote, desolate, and moody as the sun appears and disappears behind the numerous clouds.  Yet the town turns out to be quite charming and picturesque. The colorful buildings are a mixture of architectural designs, from colonial European to ski resort styles with steep roofs. (Ski season here will begin in six weeks.) On the corner is the yellow, multi-storied Horn Hotel. On the facing block is a cozy, blue-shuttered bed-and-breakfast with white fretwork and a garden of struggling blue lupines. Towering over the town is the massive A-framed Albatross Hotel. And behind it all lie the snow-capped Andes. Ushuaia is frontier town with lots of character and a cosmopolitan center of 70,000, all rolled into one.

After exploring the town, I meander over to the sailboat anchorage to take some photos. I cannot imagine the courageous and hardy spirit it takes to sail here! Only 100 years ago, the only people crazy enough to come here were convicts in chains. Prison inmates built the town’s railway, hospital, and port. That prison is now a museum that I pass on the way back to the ship.

Delayed by the port authorities, The Veendam leaves too late to view Glacier Alley, but we do experience a few hours of daylight while winding through Darwin’s famous Beagle Channel.

The Beagle Channel at Sunset Viewed from our Veranda.

The Straits

Writing about Patagonia is one of those rites of passage for adventure travel writers.

Yet, Patagonia is not a specific region on the map. It has never been a separate country. Vast and vague, it is an undefined region that encompasses 900,000 square kilometers of southern Argentina and Chile. Some writers say that it can be effectively defined by its soil—made up of basalt pebbles left behind by glaciers—and its flora, a low bush called jarilla. Other writers, such as Bruce Chatwin, describe Patagonia by its climate, a wind that blows incessantly with terrific force from October to March “stripping men to the raw” and making small planes fly backward rather than forward. Paul Theroux simply refers to Patagonia as “travel book country,” the kind adventurers dream of because it combines wilderness, wide open spaces, and the grassy plains of the pampas with the majestic backdrop of the Andes. To summarize, Patagonia is all about light, space, and wind.

While the Veendam plows through the rough seas surrounding Tierra del Mundo, the end of the world, I read up on the inland areas that we will not see during this cruise. I have plenty of time, since both Günter and I are holed up in our cabin with terrific colds and coughs. I begin with Chatwin’s In Patagonia, and proceed to Simon Worrall’s River of Desire. To wrap it up, I read a novel on my Kindle called See Before You Die: Patagonia, by J.E.Leigh, whose heroine is a travel writer/photographer who takes a trip to—where else?—Patagonia.

Travelers from Darwin on have noted how the very bleakness of Patagonia seizes the imagination. In other words, nothingness supposedly forces the mind on itself. Well, here I can sit out on the balcony of our cabin here and view the nothingness of the sea. And while sailing Pacific Bliss, I remember the nothingness of days at sea, staring at blue on blue underneath the dome of the sky.  I can remember night after night underneath a canopy of stars.  Is nothingness on land any different?

In Patagonia, the writers say, the isolation makes it easy to exaggerate the person you are: the drinker drinks more; the believers pray more and become closer to God; and the lonely become even lonelier, and sometimes commit suicide.  And everywhere, these eccentric personalities with fantastic stories turn up. Anything can happen. It seems to me, they could just as well be describing life at sea!

Perhaps Patagonia is just an ocean passage for landlubbers, substituting a horse for a boat!

Chatwin describes a poet he met who went to Patagonia for a visit and stayed for forty years. He cried, “Patagonia, she is a hard mistress. She casts her spell. An enchantress! She folds you in her arms and never lets you go.”

I could say the same about the sea!

Okay, so now I’ve dutifully written about Patagonia. I doubt that I’ll do it again.

By Guest Blogger, Captain Günter

Be careful what ideas you put into your head; they just might come true!

Back in 1998, Lois and I took a basic-training-for-cruisers course—a 1000-mile voyage from Rarotonga in the Cook Islands to American Samoa—on a 47-foot Hallberg-Rassy monohull.  At the time, we were interested in purchasing this brand of yacht, so this course seemed a good fit. Captain John Neal intentionally left Rarotonga in a gale to practice heavy weather sailing and we were both seasick for the first few days. We decided that sailing such a monohull was not for us.

When I discussed our plans to circumnavigate with John, he advised me that I might be too old to do that. (I was 63 at the time and not yet retired.) “A sailboat might be too difficult to handle for you two.  You should look into buying a trawler, like a Nordhavn. Then you could go around Cape Horn in a bathrobe and slippers!”

After returning home, Lois and I drove to a Nordhavn facility in Dana Point. We decided that a motorboat, no matter how convenient, was just not our bag.  We then checked into catamarans and chartered some. By the end of 1999, we had both retired. We had a Catana catamaran built for us in the south of France.  By the fall of 2000, we began our circumnavigation, always staying close to tropical latitudes. And by 2008, I had proven that I was not too old to sail around the world after all.

But one goal remained: to sail around Cape Horn.

Tradition has it that a sailor can wear a gold hoop earring in the ear that faced the Cape when he sailed around. From then on, he is allowed to put one foot up on the table. If he has also sailed around the Cape of Good Hope, he can put both feet on the table. But I already wear a gold anchor earring. And they would not want us to put a foot up on the white tablecloths of the Rotterdam dining room on the 720-foot Veendam. These traditions are not why I wanted to sail around the Horn.

***

March 24: Captain Frank announces that he intends to circumnavigate the entire island that is called “The Horn” late this afternoon. Lois prepares to go to the Crow’s Nest on the 12^th deck to celebrate with 2-for-1 sangrias. She bundles up in her fleece topped with her Pacific Bliss sailing jacket, ready to take photos from the observation deck. “Why aren’t you getting dressed?” she asks.

“I am dressed for the Horn,” I tell her.

As we sail around the Horn, the most dangerous cape in the world, I walk out on the balcony of our veranda deck cabin—in a bathrobe and slippers.

Cape Horn and Drake Passage

Note: As it turned out, the wind was gusting to 100 knots at the southernmost side of the Horn. Captain Frank took the Veendam to the inside, (the north side of the Horn) and then turned the ship around to proceed back through the Beagle Channel and on to Ushuaia. I returned from the frigid observation deck to see the best view of the Horn, after the ship had turned around, right from our balcony! Lois

I already knew that in one out of every four HA cruises around the southern tip of South America, a landing at the Falklands is not possible. This is not surprising. The Falklands experience some of the worst weather on the planet. Despite its dismal reputation, the climate during the austral summer (Dec-Feb) can be moderate, with temperatures occasionally reaching 75° F. But we are now in the southern autumn.

The total land mass of the islands is roughly equivalent to the state of Connecticut. The capital is Port Stanley, located on the Eastern Falkland Island, where two-thirds of the population of 2,500 live. Nearly everyone else who lives in “the camp,” the term for the countryside, is involved in sheep ranching.

Although we will see some sheep farms, our reason for taking a land tour is to see the penguins. We have observed small yellow and blue penguins in South Island, New Zealand but these are special: large in size and colored in the familiar Patagonia colors: black and white. We look forward to seeing these penguins—with their orange beaks and orange-and-yellow chests. In 1592, Sir Thomas Cavendish, a British explorer, sailed The Desire down the coast of Patagonia in search of the Straits of Magellan. It was in Puerto Deseado, that he described “a curious black-and-white bird that cannot fly but swims like a fish.” A Welshman on board named the bird based on the Welsh word for white head, “pen gwyn.”

I’m reading “River of Desire,” by Simon Worrall, on my Kindle. In Patagonia, Worrall says, people begin counting the speed of the wind from 50 kilometers (about 30 knots) an hour. That’s zero! A “concerning” wind is about 200. To prepare for cold, windy on-shore experiences, Günter and I have packed a duffel with our sailing jackets, fleeces, long silk underwear, gloves and caps.

On Thursday, March 22, Veendam Captain Frank van der Hoeven announces that our ship may or may not land in the Falklands, depending on whether he is able to anchor there: “We are experiencing Force 7 winds, a light SW gale, at 33 knots. If the winds there come from the right direction, we might be sheltered from the long fetch by the land mass of South America. Then we can board using tenders.” Later that day, the Captain orders the stabilizers to be put out. These are 18’ long and 8’ wide. He has to reduce speed to use them, so we will be late in arriving.

On Friday, March 23, at 0805, the captain announces that he is regrettably canceling the stop and proceeding for two days directly to round Cape Horn. Several boats already there are “wallowing in the wind,” he says. They report Force 9 winds, 50+ knots from the SW—not promising. Outside our veranda window, we can see racing whitecaps and spindrift. We do not even want to open our sliding glass door to the balcony! The whining of the wind is constant—sometimes a high whistle, sometimes groaning with the gusts. Surprisingly, with the stabilizers out, the ride on this cruise ship is not too rough. Günter and I can only imagine what it would have been like in our 43’ yacht!

By noon, there is another Captain’s Announcement: The wind is down to Force 8, with swells lessening to 16’. He expects that we will round Cape Horn by 6 p.m. on Saturday. He has altered course directly to the Horn waypoint, proceeding more slowly to ensure our comfort. “Here the warm Brazilian current meets the cold 2.5-knot Falklands current,” he adds, “causing rough seas.” He expects the winds to lessen as we reach the Cape.

Sailing around the world on our own yacht, we have learned to accept the winds and currents and to “go with the flow.”  The political situation in the Falklands, though, has piqued our interest and we continue to follow the news. While in Buenos Aires, the English translation of the local newspapers contained daily headlines about a new conflict between the Brits, who own the Falklands, and the Argentineans, who have been taught in their schools that these desolate islands are rightfully theirs.  The headlines scream, “Malvinas Stand-Off.” Some articles report that by reasserting its claim to the islands, the current government led by liberal President Christina Fernandez Kirchner is gaining the popularity it had lost.

It’s amazing how little we hear about worldwide events in the U.S. I had not heard about any conflict in the Falklands since the struggle for control ended in 1982. This ratcheting up of tensions is the run-up to the 30^th anniversary of that war on April 2, 2012.

Some history here: It was the French navigators who gave the islands their Spanish name, Isla Malvinas. Beginning in the mid-1700s, the Falklands have been the source of many battles between countries fighting for control. The islands themselves were strategically important for those ships rounding The Cape before the Canal was built, but they continued to languish economically until the wool business became lucrative.

Thirty years ago, Argentina seized the Falklands and the U.K. invaded to get them back. Britain claimed that the islanders had a right to self-determination; the British population wanted to remain British, of course. The Argentineans were no match for British troops, although both sides suffered serious losses: 255 U.K. servicemen were killed; 649 Argentineans died in the conflict.

Although there is a lot of talk about Argentinean pride and the islanders” right to self-determination, it is the discovery of oil that has caused current tensions. Three oil companies want to drill in these tempestuous seas, especially because oil is being depleted in the North Sea.

While we were in Buenos Aires, it was reported that a cruise ship that had already stopped in the Falklands was denied entry into Buenos Aires or any Argentinean ports. That problem does not pertain to our ship because we are going the opposite way. The Argentineans are also upset with Peru for conducting standard military exercises with a British ship.

Later during our voyage, the Veendam is two hours late leaving Ushuaia, Argentina because it has been held up by the port captain. Reportedly, our captain was asked to sign a statement saying that the Veendam would never again include the Falklands on her itinerary. He did not have the authority to sign, and had to wait for an answer from the head office. Of course, the corporation would not consent to the request, but the ship agreed to pay a “port fee” to be able to sail away.

Captain Frank apologized again and again that, because of the delay, we would miss viewing much of the fjords and would not reach the world-renowned Ushuaia glaciers before sunset. I could hear the controlled anger in his voice.

On our own yacht, we often repeated the phrase, “Pacific Bliss is not a train, not a plane, and not a cruise ship,” in answer to questions and complaints about schedules. But now, we realize that even a cruise ship can miss scheduled stops because of wind, weather, and geopolitics.

A whip of wind and rain greets us as we leave the ship, docked in Montevideo. Our van driver and guide is waiting at the pier; we rush into the welcome protection of the van, not sure whether we want to brave the elements at all. How different we will be from the usual tourists Montevideo receives from Argentina: they come here in the summer in droves to head for the sandy beaches on Uruguay’s Atlantic coastline. World class resorts on Punta del Este lure the continent’s rich and famous. Across the wide, choppy waters of the Rio de la Plata, Buenos Aires’s shoreline is only a polluted, brackish backwater.

I did not know much about Uruguay before visiting this country. It is one of the smallest in South America, a tiny buffer between Argentina and Brazil, with just over 3 million people. Most of them are of Spanish or Italian origin. In the north, the rolling hills are similar to the Argentine pampas and the gaucho is celebrated like the cowboys in the old American West. But most of the people live in or near Montevideo, the capital. Uruguay is considered the “most European” of the South American countries.

We were scheduled for a wine tour in the hills overlooking the city, but with all the rain, the hill would be impassable and the vineyards would be flooded. We planned a city walking tour, but even that is cut short by the weather.  But we have a creative guide. He offers to treat us to four different kinds of frappe, (a liquor, like schnapps) in a downtown bar. They warm us up in a hurry! Soon, the miserable weather is forgotten.

During a break in the rain, I climb the steps to the parliament building, only to find it pouring again. No visitors are allowed inside. We do manage to stop at a few wonderful metal sculptures of oxcart trains, depicting the way the early immigrants traveled to “tame” their west.

Before ending the tour, we stop at a wine bar and enjoy a wine tasting there. Not bad! We purchase a few bottles of wine from Uruguay for our hotel room—a late harvest chardonnay-viognier for Günter and a Tannet red wine for me. By the time we return to the ms Veendam, we are wet inside and out!

I am left with an impression of Uruguayans as a strong, reliant people who are very proud of their country. During this rainy day, I have heard that they have the best beaches, the best food, the best meat, the best wine, the best health service, the best education (free, including public University), and the least corrupt government in all of South America.

Oh, and I cannot forget their pride in futbol (what Americans call soccer)!  The national team won the first World Cup in 1930 as hosts, defeating Argentina 4–2 in the final. In 1950 they won their second title, upsetting hosts Brazil 2–1 in the final match, with an attendance higher than any futbol match ever.

The names of all the cargo ships of the Holland America line ended in “dijk,” (pronounced dike). But passenger ships were named after dams on rivers, e.g., Amsterdam for the Amster River dam, Maasdam for the Maas River, and Ryndam for the dam on the great river, Rhine. We will sail on a small-to-medium size cruise ship, the Veendam, named after a smaller dam and river.

Buenos Aires, a Capital City with an Edge

Before we board, however, we have scheduled three full days of sightseeing in Buenos Aires, called the “Paris of South America.” We are impressed during our city tour the first day, in a private van with our sailor friends, Joe and Michele. I conclude that Buenos Aires has less sophistication than Paris, but more vibrant colors, a wild, Latin energy, and an undefined edginess that I want to explore further.

In the microcentro, the political and historic center, rust-and-amber cobblestones contrast with shiny steel high-rises. The president comes to work each day to the Casa Rosada, The Pink House, probably along the same Avenida de Mayo that has seen numerous revolutions and bombings. The Plaza here is still the center of a tumultuous political scene, with graffiti and posters and white marks on the concrete where the “women in white,” the mothers of the desaparecidos, (the disappeared ones) still march every Thursday.

The next neighborhood, Puerto Madero, along the riverfront, has rows of restaurants and nightclubs. Farther south, the neighborhoods of La Boca, Monserrat and San Telmo are where the first immigrants arrived from Europe and where the tango originated. (We learn that the tango was originally a lower, working class dance shunned by the elite.)

I am struck by the city’s most European (and exclusive) neighborhood, Recoleta, with its French architecture, tree-lined avenues, and sidewalk cafés. While Günter and Joe sip on cappuccinos and listen to stories about the area’s history told by our guide, Michele and I take a stroll through a charming artisans’ market set up there on Saturdays.

Afterwards, our group spends a couple of hours walking through the city cemetery in Recoleta. Hours? Yes, the cemetery covers four city blocks and Evita is buried there. It is a national treasure where past presidents, war heroes and the elite can continue to show off their wealth.  (It’s important to live in Recoleta during one’s life but even more important to lie there after death.) The graves and mausoleums are adorned by the works of national and international sculptors. The stories our guide tells of the plots, murder and mayhem that occurred in this country defy even the most-active imagination!

Even after touring the other neighborhoods, though, we are always happy to return to our Hotel Mine in pleasant Palermo Sojo. On Friday night, the cafés are filled with yuppies stopping for tapas and drinks after work. Michele set up a marvelous wine tasting here, with a formal dinner afterwards. On Saturday night, we walk around the area, and finally settle on a sidewalk café that is celebrating St. Patrick’s Day by promoting local beers.

On Sunday, all the stores in our neighborhood are closed—even the convenience stores and supermarket. The four of us take a taxi to the 270-stand Sunday antiques and flea market that begins in Plaza Dorrego in San Telmo, Buenos Aire’s oldest neighborhood.

“Watch your money,” warns the driver as he lets us off.

We are at an intersection where almost every sign says something about the tango. I step inside the doorway of a store advertising tango shoes. A pretty woman with long, black hair is trying on a red pair of strappy shoes with heels so high that they resemble Jimmy Choo’s.

How can one dance in these?

We pass more shops and then turn onto the blockaded street jammed with souvenirs: hairpieces, scarves, wooden statues, clothing, woolen hats, bags, jewelry, and containers made of gourds for serving make tea. We walk about eight blocks, all the way to the end, then turn around to walk back to the intersection. I fill Günter’s backpack full of souvenirs for friends and relies, along with my little purse, glasses, everything I have so that my hands are free for shopping. This will be my major shopping in Argentina, I rationalize, because during many port stops, we’ll be taking scenic tours.

The midday sun is burning bright and we have forgotten to bring water. We decide to stop at a sidewalk café to order soft drinks. Günter is seated next to a miniature Eiffel Tower. Tourists keep stopping to take photos. The four of us look at his black backpack wedged between his chair and the statue, wondering whether it is in the way, but the tourists don’t seem to mind. Michele leaves to look at some colorful, woven shoes on a table nearby. She motions for me to come. I leave our table for a minute or so and then return. Soon she returns, and we stand to leave. Günter’s backpack is gone! We notify the waitress and the restaurant’s owner, but of course, the thief is long gone. Everyone is carrying a nondescript black backpack, it seems. A few blocks down, we encounter a couple of policemen. They do not speak English, but we manage to convey what happened.

“Documents?” one of them asks.

Günter shakes his head no. “In hotel safe.”

The policeman nods and smiles his approval. It appears that only stealing someone’s identity would be a crime worth reporting.

Later, back at our hotel, we assess the damage. It could have been much worse, even though everything we both had with us, except for the camera I was carrying, was in that pack—including my camera bag, batteries, and memory cards, Günter’s camera and accessories, my prescription reading glasses, my notes, pens, notebook, purse and contents. Of course, we lost all of our carefully selected souvenirs—as well as a special blouse made entirely of ribbons that I had splurged on. The good news: we had taken no passports, billfolds, credit cards, drivers’ licenses, etc.

Lesson learned: Firmly attach all personal items to your person at all times. 

We board the ship on Monday, ready for our next adventure, but more cautious than ever.

On the ship, one passenger tells another story. This couple had been robbed in Buenos Aires in a more brazen manner: Two men came up to them, brushing off a spray of guano (bird droppings) from their shoulders, as if to help. But soon afterwards, our shipmate realized that his billfold had been stolen right from his pocket! Then, in the same day, another spray of guano mysteriously fell on them. Wiser now, they realized what these men intended, and pushed away.  “Evidently one man sprays the stuff, then brushes it off, while the other steals the billfolds,” she says.

Günter and I realize that we have been fortunate. During our entire eight-year circumnavigation, encompassing 62 countries, we had never been robbed. But then, we’ve never been in edgy Argentina!

We returned on Monday from Puerto Vallarta, safe and sound and very happy.

I think the seminar that the “class of 2002” gave in La Cruz was a roaring success. At the close of the seminar, here’s what we said to the new crop of 2012 Puddle Jumpers:  “This voyage will change you.  You will NOT come back the same person you were when you left. You will stare death in the eye…and survive. All of you will face fear and come back a better and stronger person. You will get closer to God and the universe. You’ll become extremely grateful for the opportunity to have taken this voyage. From now on, you will become more appreciative of all you have and for your many blessings. You’ll come back happy, and most likely, remain happy for the rest of your lives.”

We differed somewhat in our favorite destinations, but ranking among the top was: Vanuatu, Tuomotus, Vavau Group (Tonga) and The Heiva Festival in Huahine.

We advised them to take advantage of cruiser comaraderie and to help out fellow cruisers by carrying plenty of spare parts.

Of course, we 2012 Puddle Jumpers had our own events. One was a sundowner, and what a magnificent sundowner that was! It went on and on. Plans were to attend another event at the Yacht Club, but once the stories got going ’round and ’round, no-one wanted to quit telling them!  So we all stayed into the night. I told two stories from my forthcoming book, SAILING THE SOUTH PACIFIC, one about my most embarrassing moment and another about the international incident.  The Puddle Jumpers kept saying over and over, “We returned home to find that no-one ‘gets it’. A gathering of cruisers is the only place we can tell these stories, laughing ‘til our sides ache!”

Other Highlights:

• Happy Hour at the Vallarta Yacht Club at Paradise Village, followed by a buffet, with roast pig supplied by Harbor Master Dick Markie (Thanks, Dick!)
• Dinner, music & dancing at Philo’s Bar & Restaurant (Thanks to Keith of C’est la Vie for setting this up and to Philo for his music CD).
• Lunch, band, and swimming at Lupe’s Eco Resort 
• Circus on a Sailboat at Paradise Village Marina
• Sundowner and Cruising Stories (Thanks to Clark and Suzy Straw, SV Final Straw)

Finally, A Big Thanks to Andy and Latitude 38 magazine for hosting the Pacific Puddle Jump every year!

From the website: “Ever since Latitude 38 editors coined the phrase ‘Pacific Puddle Jump’ nearly 20 years ago, we’ve taken great pleasure in supporting, and reporting on, the annual migration of cruising sailors from the West Coast of the Americas to French Polynesia.

Boats from many nations register with the rally (currently free of charge), and they depart from various points along the West Coast, with the largest concentration of passage-makers jumping off from Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, and Balboa, Panama. Latitude 38 holds annual send-off parties at both locations: Vallarta YC, Nuevo Vallarta, Mexico; February 29, 2012, 3:00-6:00 p.m.; and Balboa YC, Balboa, Panama, March 10, noon-4:00 p.m.

Although these sailors set sail independently anytime between the late February and early May, they share information on preparation, weather routing, and inter-island cruising via radio nets and electronic communications before, during and after their crossings. Their arrivals in French Polynesia can be anytime in April, May or June. And due to the broad-based nature of the fleet, many crews will meet for the first time when they arrive in the islands.”

Duplicating the "Island Look" with swimsuits and pareus

2002 Puddle Jumpers, Vallarta Yacht Club

For an album of individual photos, refer to my Facebook Page.

The International Incident

“Lois, come up here quick. We have an international incident,” Günter calls.

I scramble topside to see that a new yacht has entered the bay.

“You bloody British!” Jean-Claude is screaming at the boat.

The return salvo is quick: “Typical bloody Frenchman!”

The new yacht had plopped its anchor right in front of Makoko, then pulled back, hooking onto Makoko’s bow anchor.

“They had the nerve to ask me to pull back because they were getting too close,” Jean-Claude fumes.  Claudie just happens to be taking her afternoon swim. She heads for their anchor and tries to untangle the mess, but she can’t do it alone.

“Doug, Armin,” Günter commands. “Launch the dinghy. Quick!  They need a U.S. peacekeeping force out there.”

In a flash, our crew reaches the offending anchor, followed by the Canadian contingent, Ed and Julie, of Free Radical.  The four of them struggle to free the lines and, finally, the British boat slinks away to anchor somewhere else.

The conflict is resolved.  The peacekeeping force returns to Pacific Bliss, and the afternoon is spent rehashing the incident and laughing about French-English hostilities that have been going on since the 17^th century—all with more than one “cold one” in our hands.

Who says cruising is boring?

Beaching the Cat

Before we leave Denarau to go cruising again, we will need to replace the zincs—a maintenance that must be performed every one to two years or whenever they are eaten up by electrolysis. These sacrificial electrodes are not-so-conveniently located on the bottom of the propeller shaft which entails pulling the craft out of the water or simply beaching the boat on an incline that allows access.

At 1000 we pull anchor to head for such an incline. Buried in oozy mud, the anchor makes a giant sucking sound, like the hundreds of U.S. jobs that Ross Perot said would go to Mexico with the implementation of NAFTA.

Now Pacific Bliss sits in the still bay, waiting patiently. Her instruments show Force 0 wind.  The sky is baby blue with white fleece clouds, serene as the scene on a toddler’s pajamas.

Yet Günter and I sit here watching the clock, shaking with trepidation. We are waiting for a certain moment: exactly 45 minutes after high tide. Then we will motor on to the mud bar and attempt to beach our catamaran. We ask God to make sure that our Guardian Angel comes along. Then, together, we let loose with a primal scream, “A-a-ah!” waving our hands above our heads. After sailing over 17,000 miles—one-half way around the world—we will beach Pacific Bliss for the first time.

Günter starts the engines. Events unfold as in a film set in slow motion.  We snake through the well-marked Denarau Marina channel, meeting two excursion yachts, Captain Cook Cruises and Whales Tale.  Their passengers cheerfully wave us on. A pair of moon jellyfish glide along our hull: one floats flat like a purple-rimmed plate, the other puffs open its bell, trailing translucent tentacles. We motor slowly to the row of posts where the workhorse vessels tie and straight for the post bearing the huge sign: an anchor symbol with a red slash running diagonally through it and the words NO ANCHOR.

It goes against my grain to continue to inch forward.

“Nice and easy now,” I caution Günter, who is still at the controls.

We kiss the bank, surrounded by water. No scraping. No scratching. Just a gentle settling in. We are beached.

Günter deploys the dinghy, Petit Bliss. He checks the depths at the props, dagger boards, and rudder. I dutifully mark down the measurements. “She must be resting on her belly,” says Günter.

“Two bellies. Like a pair of beached whales.”

“Piece of cake. Beaching a Cat.”

But beaching the Cat is only part of the story…the worst is yet to come.

Günter calls David, the trusty mechanic at Denarau Marine. He arrives in a small powerboat with his assistant. They get out at the same time and promptly sink up to their knees. David reaches back into his boat for a tarp and lays it down lightly over the mud to catch anything that might fall.

He knows what he’s doing.

But to get at the zincs is not easy. Both struggle to wrench the propeller free.

It’s a race against time. I can’t help holding my breath.

They finish the job before the tide rises again and take off.  Now we must stay here overnight and wait for the rising tide to free Pacific Bliss.

Pacific Bliss on Sandbar

Unbeaching the Cat

I awaken at 0600 after a fitful sleep. The most difficult part of our maneuver is yet to come. Today we must unbeach the Cat!  As I sit at the helm seat with my morning coffee, the sun breaks dramatically over the highlands of Viti Levu. The tide is rising nicely. Pacific Bliss shifts in her muddy cradle, adding a little more weight toward the stern. I see that as a good sign, perhaps she will float off all by herself at high tide!

Captain Günter is not persuaded. His dire ruminations kept him awake most of the night. He fears that we have miscalculated.

“How could that have happened,” I ask, “despite our careful planning? We beached Pacific Bliss at exactly one hour after high tide, so that the high tide the next day would float her off.”

“Here’s the problem,” Günter says. “Every night since the highest tide at the recent full moon, the high tide is less. So for May 20th the tide table forecasts 1.7 meters at 0932.  For May 21^st, it predicts 1.6 meters at 1029. Remember, the evening tide at 2227, which we stayed up for, was a little lower than the daytime tide: 1.5 meters. We didn’t want to float her off in the dark anyway…but when we walked around the top deck at 10:30 p.m., she was clearly not floating.

“What else could we have done?”

“We should have been more conservative. Maybe we should have waited until two hours after high tide. We left little margin to allow for a falling high tide… in fact, to be really conservative, we should have planned this maneuver during a rising high tide, before the full moon.

Waiting on this mud bank for the next full moon, however, was not a viable option. Why bring it up?  But I know better than to talk out loud right now.

“Fortunately we are in mud instead of sand,” Günter continues.  “It should be easy to hire workmen to dig two channels to pull the hulls back.  But that would mean at least another day here…Unfortunately, we are in the mud instead of sand. Pacific Bliss could have settled in with all her weight, nesting comfortably in a cradle of mud. After all, she didn’t budge at high tide last night.”

We decide to tie our extra long “palm-tree line” to one of the poles to which the barges tie up. We winch it tight. The tide rises slowly—much too slowly. Günter takes a measurement at the swim ladder. It is 3.1 feet versus 3.5 feet when we beached. The bottoms of the dagger boards are stuck tight into the mud. Günter has lifted them up as far as they will go.

He starts the engines. “Let’s just give it a little test.” Pacific Bliss does not budge.

“See that barge over there!” I point. Maybe he could help.”

Günter talks to the barge captain on VHF Channel 69. The captain agrees to deploy his powerboat at 1015, 15 minutes before high tide. It has a 30 horsepower outboard motor. If that fails to work, he’ll use the big barge proper. “But I do not think that will be necessary,” he says.

For a five long minutes we agonize over the potential damage to the dagger boards, or worse yet, the rudders. Then we pray again for the safety of Pacific Bliss.

Now it is time for action. Günter deploys a second heavy line to use, if needed, as a towline for the barge. Promptly at 1015 a man motions to me from the barge. I signal for him to come over. Günter offers the captain and crew $50 Fijian to help get us off, money well spent.

Mechanic Changes Zincs on Sandbar

We fashion a bridle to the powerboat and cleat it at each stern hull of Pacific Bliss.  Günter begins to rev both of our 40hp engines in reverse. The men in the boat pull their line taut. We have also winched the long line to the pole taut.

It is 1030, high tide.

“Let her roll!” Günter says.

Engines scream. The reluctant mud makes another giant sucking sound and gives up her prey.  Pacific Bliss leaps back with joy. Her engines purr. She is so happy to be out of the mud!

After all, she is a sailing vessel, not a pig. 

But it’s never over until it’s over. I always find it amazing how fast a positive situation can deteriorate on a boat. The barge crew fails to watch the towline. They let it go slack. Their line begins to drift underneath our prop. Thank God, our engines are back to neutral! Günter quickly dons his mask and fins and dives underneath the hull to free the line.

We have arranged to berth on Denarau Marine’s dock, next to the mega yachts.

But first, we anchor in the bay, wash down the Pacific Bliss decks with our salt-water hose, and share a can of ice cold Fiji Bitter. “To no…more…adventures,” I toast.

“Here’s to no more adventures for a very long time…but I know they’ll come,” Günter adds.