The Brazilian Coast: Buzios to Abrolhos

Part I: Buzios

Our trip consists of passages and landfalls. When we tire of one, we find relief in the other. The short passages take you away from civilization and reduce the world to sea, sky, and the thoughts in your mind. Long passages cut to the quick, find the bottom of your patience, and if you look out at the sea and sky long enough, what once seemed so obvious reveals itself as complex beyond your ability to understand. After a long passage, sighting land, and the details of man and nature that come into view as you draw nearer, allow you to re-enter the world as if seeing it for the first time. Imagine that for many days you are alone on the ocean reacting only to changes in wind, rain, and light, and then you are suddenly standing in the food court of a Brazilian mall watching four men drink nearly frozen beer out of a comically large mug with mini taps mounted on the bottom. Or you are riding in a taxi through a busy market place at a rate of speed ten times faster than a sailboat can move, doing nothing to make it go. This is how we live, you think. How it is at home too. This is the goal of civilization. Our travels in Brazil have brought us to these experiences, but also to the opposite. The experience of approaching a coast that has not been touched by man, an undredged channel, an uninterrupted erosion, a coastline instead of a sea wall, or amber-lit Malecon. Landfall as it must have been in all the great stories of the sea. These are the places that entice me to endure the hardship of long passages.

Buzios juts out from the Brazilian coast like an upturned thumb. This peninsula is pocked with bays on the southern and northern shores. Regardless of the wind direction, which changes throughout the year, there are always calm waters to be found in Buzios. The islands off the peninsula, and the shallow waters, are home to fish, whales, and rays. On our approach the wind and current were coming from the north as is said to be the pattern after May. As we rounded the peninsula the windward shore was awash with spray creating mist that rose up from the indentations in the coast. The ocean was bright cobalt against the granite of the cliffs and the dark sea caves like mouths agape. It was breathtaking. We saw a Whaleshark surface and Rays were doing back flips. In the distant I saw whale spouts. I was sure that my decision to stop here would be commended by Max. And then we turned the corner. The protected waters of the bay, and the small, curved beaches were choked with boats and people. There wasn't room to spread a towel on the sand, and high speed water taxis flew across the water. Terrible music sounded from dozens of motorboats and we could here the loudspeakers coming from the tourist sailboats that never raise a sail. Crap, I thought. Max is not going to like this. We anchored by the yacht club and decided to go ashore and give the place a fair shake. A fishing boat came over to talk to us and took us into town.

Buzios is Nantucket Gone Wild. The streets are a non-stop commercial assault. Each stretch of sidewalk is the territory of a restaurant where waiters must impede your progress with a menu in the face and promises of seafood and cheap Chacaca. Max thought he could find a fishing store, but all you can buy in Buzios is a high enb bikini, very large sunglasses, or one thousand dinners out on the town. Many storefronts are filled with mannequins donning the haute-couture version of the already flamboyant Brazilian bikini. Taken to the next level you may purchase one that has a front but not a back, a back with a minimal front, one that shows only the bottom of your breasts, or just the sides somehow. Real women, well almost entirely real, walk the streets modeling these bikinis, veins like arthritic fingers bulge from their gravity defying assets. If you aren't in the market for this, a pair of sunglasses, or a picture with a bronze statue of Bridget Bardot, Buzios has nothing to offer. We struggled to find a supermarket. We indulged in expensive coffees, checked our emails, and left early the next morning. More than ever I was convinced that our next landfall should be the Abrolhos Archipelago, a place known for its remoteness, healthy reefs, and drastic restrictions on human behavior.

We sailed 250 miles north to Abrolhos dodging the traffic of the oil fields offshore. At this part of the Brazilian coast the weather becomes so much more favorable. It almost snuck up on me that we were in such calm waters, with a light breeze and no squalls on the horizon. Sailing on the southern coast had been characterized by riding depressions northward and accepting that that plan came with capricious weather, intermittent rain, and dark patches on the horizon that could completely reverse the wind direction. We had grown used to that and hoped the sailors who advised us that this would change were right. They were. North of Buzios we found ourselves in what might as well have been the trades, though a weaker wind seemed to prevail. We spent all day outside again, able to use all deck space. No rain, no spray, just ease and comfort for a change.

Part II: Abrolhos

Abrolhos is for the birds. On one island the Brown Booby nests. Another the White Booby defends. The tallest island, and most striking with steep, feces-stained cliffs seen from afar, belongs to the Magnificent Frigate Bird that soars higher than the others, making its living off stealing the freshly caught fish of the Booby. The birds that had gone to sea for food greeted us five miles out, and as we got closer to landfall, we saw black clouds of activity above each island.

The approach to Abrolhos

The reefs of Abrolhos come into view ten miles away as a camouflage pattern of turquoise. These reefs create shallows stretching from the mainland to the archipelago which lies thirty-five miles offshore. These reefs had unpleasantly surprised many navigators giving the islands their name, an evolution of Abra los oyos, open your eyes. Navigating in from the south is preferable because there is a clear path of adequate depth straight to the mooring in front of the largest island, Santa Barbara. We arrived in the morning and called the Abrolhos Lighthouse on 16. They were welcoming and encouraged us to take a mooring in front of the main island. The bright colors of the green water hitting the black, porous coasts of the volcanic islands make the approach to Abrolhos alone worth the trip. Where the islands curved in to create beaches, I saw the now familiar cinnamon colored sands of the Brazilian Coast. The islands were almost free of human influence and I was thrilled to look at them and know that they looked as they always had. It is rare to make landfall and see what a sailor a hundred years ago may have seen.

As soon as we were secured to the mooring, we were surprised to see two people swim out to meet us. They climbed aboard, introduced themselves as volunteers for the Marine Conservancy, and offered us a brief history of Abrolhos, running us through the rules. We were only permitted on two islands and had to be accompanied by a guide at all times. We could move to any of the dozen moorings as we pleased, attaining protection from all winds and easy access to the reefs. In guidebooks these rules are described as Draconian, but I understand them to be necessary to maintain such a pristine environment, especially when Humpback season comes around and the tourists show up in drogues. I enjoyed having the guides with us. One, Guillermo in case he is reading, was thrilled to sail with us around the islands and took us snorkeling to see the different species of turtles. He was able to answer all of my bird questions and tell us about life as a student in Rio where there are frequent student strikes. Maybe we were just excited to hang out with some one other than each other for once. We even tried to take him with us to the next port.

Guillermo points out the nesting Bermuda Longtail

With Guillermo we swam to the lowest island and toured the nesting grounds of the White Booby. There is only a small path along the water where visitors are allowed to walk. We were told that if a bird is in the path, we must always defer to the the ocean side, so as not to threaten the breeding grounds. On the path we saw many adolescent Boobies, seemingly confused by the cowlicks of an advanced state of molting, their masked faces like that of an aged clown, freshly powdered. They stared up at us with yellow, curious eyes, but did not move. Higher up on the island the mothers were looking out to sea, ambivalent to the open and upturned beaks of their hungry and demanding young, awkward puffs of bright white filling the nest. Around the corner of the island we found a pair of the Bermuda Longtail, who prefer the protection of an overhanging cliff to the openness of the Boobies' nests. The Bermuda Longtail mate for life and, all around Abrolhos, the couples swoop trying to out sing one another. You would think that they are all white but closer they are iridescent as pearls with red beaks and dramatic black markings on their cheeks. Unlike the silly looking Booby, they have intelligent eyes that suggest an understanding of the effect their elegant flight and the calligraphic detail of their tail feathers have on admirers.

Bermuda Lontail

A female Magnificent Frigate Bird

The reefs in Abrolhos were the healthiest we have seen, and the diversity and size of the fish the greatest. As each of the islands belongs to a type of bird, each of the reefs is home to a type of turtle, the Hawkbill, the Green, and the Loggerhead turtles being present in great numbers. In the mornings we could see them surfacing all around our boat for a few gulps of oxygen before returning to their rich feeding grounds. We snorkeled as much as we could entertaining ourselves by chasing around fat, blue Parrot Fish or just staring at the neon of Angelfish as big as Thanksgiving platters. Max was lucky enough to see a cloud of Cuddle fish and a Great Barracuda.

In the evenings we sat on the deck and watched the birds, the slipping away of the sun and were the only two voices. We waited to see the lighthouse keeper remove the curtains that protect the lantern from its own ability to magnify light. We turned the lighthouse on one night and were able to look into the rings of glass to see just a regular light bulb turned into one of the brightest lighthouses in the world by the precise alignment of the thick glass gills. We had seen the glow of the lighthouse from 20nm away as it bent around the curvature of the earth. From the deck of our moored boat it looked like a diamond just catching the light of a chandelier, except that it was the only light.

Abrolhos reminded me of the grandeur of nature and the superior parts of man. A place dedicated to a celebration of the ocean beyond that of day drinking and eating treats hawked by sun weary beach vendors from plastic cups that moments later are rolling towards the surf or spilling from garbage cans. A place where the birds fight over struggling silver Needlefish taken to astounding heights, dropped, and caught again, instead of french fries from ketchup stained baskets. Instead of the thonged, tattooed, and silicone enhanced bottoms showcased by flabby beach goers, and preceded at all times by selfie sticks and beers gripped by acrylic talons, there were just the seven inhabitants of Abrolhos, each with a specific duty, treading lightly in flip flops and t-shirts reminiscent of conservancies and projects to which they had dedicated their time. It is the expectation of Abrolhos that visitors will arrive with everything they need. They will not even go ashore unaccompanied, let alone end up sipping Caiprihinas and dancing the Samba with a girl who looks like Gisele. It is a different kind of Brazilian vacation. You may only take away an appreciation for the vibrant life below and above the surface, not even a postcard, which you can even get on Cape Horn.

On approach to Abrolhos we were flanked by a pod of breaching Humpbacks arriving to warmer waters to mate. To think that we had been following them around South America for a year felt surreal. We had seen them in Panama teaching their calves to breach. We had seen them in the Arctic waters of the Beagle Channel getting fat on clouds of Krill. And then they were swimming north at about our speed, launching themselves into the sun and displacing buildings of white spray. They were on their way to Abrolhos where the males would sing to the females and start the process again. We had never intended the migrations of the whales to factor into our trip, in fact I had considered it hazardous, but now that I have seen them I would do this trip again just for that reason.

We left Abrolhos on another bright blue day just as the reef was coming to life. Escorted out by a pod of dolphin, I scanned the surface for the last curry-colored patches of surfacing turtles. We were 300 miles from our next stop in the city of Salvador and the weather looked favorable for days.

Please Poseidon: The Falklands to Brazil

I had wedged myself into the bench in the main salon with my feet braced against the starboard bunk. The boat heeled and surged with the waves. "Do you think I will ever be a beautiful woman again?" I asked Max.

"You're a woman?" he replied.

"I don't know anymore, I just have all these memories of having been a woman."

We laughed at the truth of it. I looked down at my trusty Carhart overalls, stained with oil, fuel, coffee, and other mysteries. My knees were dusted with teal bottom paint, the tops of my shoes had broken free from the soles months ago and the tip of my dirty sock stuck out.

Our last meal of the delicious lamb raised in The Falklands.

One of the great misconceptions about life at sea, or sailing in general, is that it is terrifically romantic. I'm sure that when people imagine us on our adventure, they picture us snuggled with cocktails on the fore-deck, a glowing sunset on the horizon, and Tortuga sailing herself through just windy enough seas. They may imagine us walking along an exotic coast, disclosing our deepest secrets to one another. Though this has occurred, it is extremely rare, and there are no secrets left. We have grown closer to each other than I ever thought possible, but this has mostly to do with head related activities we didn't use to share, or emotional meltdowns we have rescued each other from. That's the bathroom sort of head in case you are wondering.

Another myth about sailing is that life at sea is terrifically exciting. That famous quotation about war, periods of extreme boredom punctuated by moments of terror, or something like that, is applicable to sailing, and particularly applicable to sailing the southern ocean. I imagined so many things that would be difficult about this trip, but I never knew that the sheer boredom of it at times would come to truly challenge me. Another challenge is the utter lack of hygiene. When the boredom and feeling of personal filth coincide, I sit on the rail for hours staring out to sea. Instead of contemplating the horizon, the sea birds, or the cloud formations like a responsible sailor, I just imagine, over and over, taking a hot, pressurized shower, scrubbing my skin red, and then falling asleep in a level bed with fresh sheets. Sometimes in my daydream I focus on the moment when I scrub my scalp with shampoo over and over. Other times it's the sloughing off of skin that excites me.

After twelve days out from The Falklands, only one had brought favorable winds. That was the first day and we put behind us 140nm proudly, jubilantly. We bid farewell to the last huddles of jumping penguins, to the forceful winds of the south, and were on our way to sunny Brazil, ready to shed layers and swim all day. Every day since has brought northerly winds, mostly light, revealing the disappointing truth that our Westsail can only sail 60 degrees off the wind with a opposing sea state. If the wind builds to 20 knots, we become even less efficient. Though, and this almost makes it worse, with long periods of intense focus and concentration, we can manage to improve our progress towards Brazil by going slightly more north of east or west. When the wind picks up, this means sitting at the tiller, pounding into waves and rain, while making 2-3 knots in the wrong direction. Really not fun. My brothers used to play a game with me where they would put their hand on my forehead, lock their elbow, and say, come and get me, come and get me. I would struggle this way and that, but not be able to move towards them. If you're so mad, why don't you come get me? they would taunt. For two weeks sailing felt like that. However, due to those periods of focus, a lot of tiller time (especially after our autopilot broke), and the first day when we had favorable winds, we somehow advanced towards Brazil 800 miles in those two weeks. Normally, we do that in almost half the time.

An Albacore Tuna Max caught on a hand line.

The usual scene of gore that accompanies Max catching a Tuna.

It is very hard to maintain morale under such slow progress. The slightest thing will put a crack in the most resilient optimism. Yesterday, it was a half cabbage flying across the cabin that sent me over the edge into despair. The flying cabbage was preceded by the overflow of waste water from our holding tank out of the toilet and over my feet. Just as I stood up from pumping the toilet dry, a sudden jolt sent my head into the corner of a beam, ear first. After that, the cabbage was more than I could handle. I was soon slumped in the cockpit, rain gathering on my face, with a look of utter melancholy. A dense fog had rolled in as thick as cotton and would stay with us for three days. It reduced visibility to a quarter mile and we took to making announcements on the radio every thirty minutes stating our position and heading.

The cabbage was sent into flight by the irregular waves of a system that halted our progress completely for 12 hrs. It started at 4:30 a.m. during my watch. I had been listening to a podcast outside and ignoring the indications that the boat had too much sail up. The cockpit had been soaked by a few waves, but I thought it would pass. Nothing is worse than changing your whole sail plan to find out that it was just a tiny squall, and all that sail needs to go out or up again. This time it was a persistent squall with winds in the 30s and dump trucks of rain. When that happens you really, really regret not reefing when it first crossed your mind. So Max was up and we were shouting back and forth through the weather and not only reefing, but exchanging our sails for smaller storm versions. I remember feeling my full body weight against the tether that held me to the boat, and just trying to see anything in the rain. By 5 a.m. we had downsized and were sailing into the weather in a slightly more controlled way. Our forward progressed had diminished to 2 knots and we were really getting slammed around. It was obvious that our efforts were useless. We decided to heave-to and go below to sleep. I had been up helping Max during the first night watch and the overall commotion had deprived us both of sleep. So, we heaved-to, and allowed the boat to drift backwards, towards The Falklands, away from Brazil, while we went below and slept. We slept earnestly, completely undaunted by the idea, the fact, that we were floating backwards in dense fog through the southern ocean, being battered by a storm, the howling wind and rain like a battlefield outside, and the occasional wave that threatened to rock us out of our bunk. It will be over by ten and we will be able to sail. For now, let's just sleep, Max said.

By ten we were dressing in our foulies and excited to be underway. By 10:30 we were underway and utterly defeated by the weather. By 11:00 we were hove to, reading in bed. We waited all day and made a few more efforts to move against the weather. It was pointless, and also dangerous to exhaust ourselves with so many miles ahead. By early afternoon we were in bed, eating cheese and crackers, passing a beer back and forth, and watching a movie about Beyonce defending her husband against the advances of a relentless stalker. I bet no one who imagines us on our adventure imagines that.

The storm blew itself out by evening and we were underway for real, enjoying every sign of the weather's growing docility. We had lost 24 hours of progress, drifted backwards 14 miles, but were armored with the renewed optimism a dry cockpit and regular wave pattern can muster. We are going to get there, became the mantra when one of us saw the furrowed brow of the other. This is another thing I am sure no one imagines when they imagine us out here- that we often fall into the dramatized hopelessness reminiscent of childhood tantrums. One of us may flop lifelessly on the bunk and moan out that we are never going to get there, or ramble off a list of complaints- I'm so wet and feel so dirty and my face is so sticky. I just want to shower. I think I hate sailing. The other one will swoop in with encouragement because we both know it is not long before we will switch roles. Max will say to me, It's okay babe. we just need two good days. Remember Colombia to Galapagoes? we were so frustrated because we did 400m in 6 days, but then we did 600m in 4 days.  This is also a perfect time for one of us to talk the other through all the blessings. It's not raining right NOW, I may say. We have plenty of fuel and water still, the engine is doing great, and we still have four carrots.

What provisions start to look like after two weeks at sea.

Not a bad meal made from the provisions above, a few potatoes, and the last of the eggs.

It certainly wasn't all bad aboard Tortuga during this passage. We had our lovely night watches filled with hours of reading outside, star-gazing, and daydreaming. At times the scent of freshly baked bread overtook that of diesel and the cabin turned into the coziest of floating nooks, a flickering pocket of warmth on a vast sea. I'm sure it is a surprise to know that we spend a lot of time apart on passages. When days start clicking past, it is common for us only to interact during meals and cocktail hour. The rest is just turns sleeping, passing off thoughts on wind and sails at the changes of watches, a hand on your shoulder and the whisper of, it's your turn, there's new coffee in the thermos. At cocktail hour we express all our thoughts to each other. We speak at length about literature. If one is reading a book the other recently finished, we discuss the characters in detail expressing our frustration at their decision making. If one of us is reading a new book we deliver mini lectures on the topics of our recent learning. Seal hunting in the southern ocean, the political situation in Venezuela, the experience of a Nigerian immigrant living in NYC. We read a lot out here. A lot.

Two weeks and three books- Americanah, Sophie's World, and The Fountainhead.

Max's Albacore is memorialized on fish print t's for family and friends.

We also experience the ecstasy of shower night every three days. We heat up a kettle of water and pressurize it in a pesticide sprayer (don't worry, never used for that purpose). We spray ourselves down, and scrub away the filth while conserving as much of the water as possible. Shower day is followed by new sheets night and that is when morale skyrockets. There is nothing to improve a passage like a shower and a clean set of sheets.

Though this passage was incredibly challenging, I reminded myself again and again that within 20 days we would go from walking with penguins on the beach in The Falklands to snorkeling and sunbathing in Brazil. In the last month we have been immersed in Chilean culture, reminded of the velvety sounds of Castellano in Argentina, watched Rugby over warm beers with the Falkland Islanders, and in a few days we will be speaking Portuguese and drinking Caiprinhas on one of the most stunning coasts in the world. That's the thing about sailing. It can be miserable. It can require more patience, endurance, and initiative than you ave to offer. It can make walking a challenge, keeping the soup in the bowl impossible, and can slow time down to an unbearable creep, but then you find yourself approaching a new coast overwhelmed by the wonder of it, and you set foot in a new country, with its history, language, food, and you stretch your legs for the first time in weeks to explore, and don't have to worry about being robbed because you look like something a cat threw up.

Though the winds are fickle in the southern Atlantic, the experience of moving away from the southern ocean has eased my mind. The layers of wool and rubber that encumbered our movement in the south have been shed and we have even removed our shoes in the cockpit. The "Furious Fifties" were behind us, as were the "Roaring Forties." We are in the 30s now which to my knowledge lack a terrifying nickname. We made it back to calmer, warmer waters.

In the end it took us seventeen days to reach Rio Grande, Brazil, 1000nm south of our intended landfall in Ilha Grande, Brazil, and 1200nm overall. The weather forced us to shorten the trip and seek a closer port.  We ran very low on fuel by the end, had done pretty well on water, and had run out of fresh food. We were completely out of patience. By the time we reached Rio Grande, an industrial port not frequented by cruisers, it was like arriving in paradise. Just to finally see land was enough to celebrate. This is a low part of the coast where a large river meets the sea and man has done much to modify the landscape. There is a 2km breakwater that extends from the entrance to the port out to sea. Outside, and inside, enormous cargo ships move in slow motion. Turns out, this is one of the biggest ports in South America. We just made it past the breakwater at dusk and, as the big ocean swell flattened out, we found ourselves with all sails up, on flat water, within ten miles of the marina. Hundreds of seals were barking from the boulders of the breakwater and the sun was setting behind the windmills and silos of the industrious landscape. The anxiety of the long, at times seemingly endless, passage was behind us and we felt as if there was nothing to worry us. Darkness came and the landscape turned into a blanket of lights, all colors and sizes. Some guided us and others were on either end of dark hulks that moved towards or away from us, or came silently from behind to overtake us. Little Tortuga sailing upriver amidst ships that could carry hundreds of us. The current picked up and our progress slowed to a creep. Ten miles became an endless stretch. I made coffee and settled in for a long journey. In addition to the sails, we started the engine and pushed as hard as we could against the current. The channel, which is dredged often to compensate for the shifting sandbanks brought on by this vigorous current, was marked every quarter mile, but with so many other lights, it was hard at times to spot our next goal. Just outside the channel I could see that it was shallow enough for egrets to hunt in the light from the container docks where men were working around the clock. Industrial ports are hideous during the day but have a surreal charm at night. Most sailors wouldn't attempt to enter at night, but coming from NYC, we aren't that afraid of city sailing at night.

We entered the breakwater at six, and arrived at a dock near the marina at 9:30. In other words, after doing 1200 in 17 days, which is really slow, we did 10nm in 3.5hrs, which is so much slower. The good news was that there was a dock where we could tie up and friendly sailors to catch our lines. We immediately hopped off the boat and began exchanging stories. Both boats reported similar struggles with the current. One guy gave up after seven hours and anchored for the night. In the end, we decided we had done quite well getting up Rio Grande in the dark.

Rio Grande is not a glamorous location, but offers everything a cruiser needs to rest and provision for the next stretch. The morning after we arrived we skipped into town, taking note of every tropical flower and feeling the warm breeze on our newly exposed skin. We found the practicality of the city charming and appreciated the pastels of the stucco buildings, obviously quite impressive at one time, but currently rather neglected. We found immigration and, as Max handed over our passports, I was daydreaming about an afternoon run along the water, some reading by the pool, and logistics such as getting the laundry done.

Our own private dock in Rio Grande.

Then reality hit. I had arrived in Brazil without the visa necessary for Americans. Max was fine with his German passport, but I was illegal. I found this out a little too late and we decided to take our chances entering Brazil, hoping that they would fine me and allow me to buy a visa at an official port of entry. What happened was that they kicked me out. I had to leave immediately and go to a border town in Uruguay to complete the necessary paperwork. It would take days, as we had arrived on a Friday, and Max would not be able to accompany me. He had to stay with the boat to complete the immigration processes in the appropriate offices Monday morning. And so, after 17 stressful days trying to get to Brazil, I was leaving on the first bus, by myself to a mysterious town where the locals assured me I would be robbed. That story will have to wait until next time...

Our first morning in RG we were invited to a BBQ with this friendly Brazilian family.

The Falkland Islands

I remember when we were living in Brooklyn and planning our trip. We bought a dry erase world map and mounted it on the wall of our room. We spent evenings on the couch opposite with all our sailing books and mapped out the routes we would take, and in which months, to make it around South America in one year. As a joke, after Cape Horn, I drew a squiggly line and wrote, who cares? We were leaving the second half open to possibility. Would we want to go back to NY at that point or would we be game for more? On to Europe? The Cape of Good Hope? Would we be ruined for normal life, or would we miss it?

All of the sudden we found ourselves there. At the squiggly line, but without a hint of the joke's intended nonchalance. We certainly did care. We wanted to get back to New York before the hurricane season hit the Caribbean. We did miss normal life, our friends, families, even our careers. I started to realize that in order to make it to NYC by August 1, we had to cover the amount of miles in four months that we had covered in 6 on the way down. We would have to do longer passages- The Falklands to Brazil 1900nm, Recife, Brazil to The Barbados 2000nm. As we waited in Puerto Williams, checking the wind for our passage to The Falklands and debating all the intricacies involved, I wondered if we had the endurance for such offshore passages in quick succession. It became clear to me that circumnavigating South America in one year is a matter of keeping pace and having the endurance for the constant work it is to maintain the boat, be aware of the weather, not make mistakes anchoring or choosing a window wherein to leave, and accruing knowledge about new areas just as quickly as your mind was packing away the knowledge of whatever geography was fading astern. All of the South American coast- the weather patterns, the high and low systems, the anchorages, yacht clubs, where to get fuel/water, the dramatic tides and currents, the endless provisioning in remote places. All in one year. Were we crazy? Were we missing out on what happens when you slow down?

These were the topics of our conversations in Puerto Williams. We had to come to terms with what such a commitment required from us in the coming months. We reminded ourselves that we could always return to this life in the future if we wanted, or never sail again. If we did decide to cruise again, we would know so much, be so informed in our decision making. However, as much as Cape Horn felt like an end to something, we were still 7000nm from NY and had to get moving. It was time to focus on intricacies of The Falklands passage.

What we learned was that the weather is fickle and changes quickly. Though it is a mere 400nm passage, it requires patience and planning. The low pressure systems that ravage Cape Horn, tend to turn the corner and work their way to The Falklands, making it a notoriously windy place. Sometimes these systems die down considerably, or move out to sea. When they hit, however, they are serious. These systems shift, intensify or diminish with such speed that it is hard to find a perfect window. After a few days of watching, we noticed a large system develop on Windy TV, coming up from the horn with winds of 50-60, and then saw that there were moderate SW winds forecast for 2-3 days after it passed. These winds would help us make swift progress to The Falklands. We decided to leave Puerto Williams and move east towards the exit to the Beagle Channel and wait out the weather in an anchorage on Isla Picton called Caleta Banner. This would get us 25nm closer which felt advantageous. With the Beagle Channel visible from our anchorage, we could watch the system die down and leave right after. We dropped anchor in front of an Armada station and let them know our plans. For 36hrs we hung out inside the boat cleaning, working on projects, playing cards, and listening to the wind outside, which tore across the bay with intensifying force shaking our boat to her core. The local fishermen brought over some delicious crab, the barnacle encrusted Centollita, and we had a great dinner. In the morning it looked like the weather had cleared and we moved into the Beagle Channel to begin our passage.

One difficulty of the passage to The Falklands from the Beagle Channel is deciding what to do about the Lemaire straits, a narrow passage between the eastern tip of the South American continent and a craggy island called Staten Island, or Isla de los Estados. We decided not to go through the Lemaire Straits, and to go around Isla de los Estados. To time the straits correctly would have meant waiting for most of the day, and losing the SW wind for the offshore passage. We also read in Jimmy Cornell's book that it was fine to go outside Staten Island. The other sailors in Puerto Williams offered differing opinions, suggesting that the seas outside can build to considerable heights and that strange currents affect the island. To go through the Straits means that, with perfect timing, one can escape the standing waves that build up during the ebb tide. So we went outside, and in the end, I think it was a mistake.

The first day went well and we made exceptional time in the SW winds. They were sustained at 20-30 and we kept very little sail up. We were sure the weather would subside by the next morning and that we were experiencing the worst of it. The opposite happened, and the next morning found us totally worn out, cold, and facing building seas, intensifying wind gusts, and strange currents. We had given Staten Island a 50 mile berth, so I can not say with any certainty that that was the cause of the trouble, but whatever it was, we were pretty uncomfortable. By afternoon we were surrounded by the infamous graybeards of the southern ocean, waves crashing in long rolls of bubbling foam. The sounds of the wind, the crashing waves, and exertion of the boat combined to a terrifying orchestra that became our soundtrack. We had been hand-steering down the waves, but after several hours, we decided to heave to, a heavy weather sailing technique we had read about and practiced, but never had to use. We back-winded the storm staysail, center-lined the mainsail, and tied the tiller to windward.

It feels strange to let the boat drift through such a scene unaided, to have empty hands and nothing to do in the midst of the worst weather we had ever seen, to go below and shut up the hatches, to not even look. For two hours it gave us enough relief to sleep, the importance of which cannot be understated, and we were able to quickly nod off. We were awoken by a large wave crashing on deck and the sounds of things falling, crashing, breaking. We though we had lost our hard dodger and rushed to see. What we discovered was an even larger sea state with high waves stretching out into troughs as wide and deep as valleys. Our boat raced down the face of each wave, half out of water. A relentless wind kept us heeled over. The crashing sound we though was the dodger was only the crate of potatoes flying across the cabin and emptying into the head, which would've been pretty funny under normal circumstances.

Above deck life was pretty miserable and it was obvious that we would have to steer ourselves downwind while looking back at the breaking waves, handling each one in turn. So we sat outside in the 35 degree weather, taking turns at the helm, looking back as each wave rose to its height and turning Tortuga's stern so that the waves hit a touch astern of the quarter, and then the wild sleigh ride down the face. As with all relentlessly shitty days as sea, we spoke encouragingly to each other and reminded ourselves that the sea never stays one way for too long, and we knew from our forecast that this wasn't going to get much worse. The weather lost its ferocity very slowly throughout the day. The waves smoothed out, the gusts shortened in duration, lost their determination, and the clouds slowly departed from their crowded muster. By evening we were in a reasonable sea state, not calm by any means, but reasonable. The system had exhausted itself and by morning the seas were so calm we had to motor. There was even a pale sun. We were utterly joyful and couldn't stop expressing our gratitude that it was over, that we were fine, and that nothing on us or the boat was broken.

The next day we arrived in Port Stanley just after nightfall. The wind turned in the morning, coming from the north to harass us every last mile. The whole day we motor-sailed at 4 knots against headwinds. We banged up and down over the swell. I was miserable, cursing the sea, so tired of being cold and wet. All I could do was complain. To make the experience even more frustrating, there are swaths of kelp behind every wave and one has to keep a vigilant eye on the coming waves to avoid them. On our boat this means being out in the weather. After 12 hours of kelp watch in 40 degrees and rain, you feel pretty sick of it all, especially since we still hit a lot of kelp. The miles seemed to go so slowly as we rounded the point into Port Stanley harbor, squinting or eyes to make out the curling waves crashing on rocks to port and more rocks to starboard in the dim light. And then we were there, next to the lights of the city, anchor dropped and caught, exhausted, tired, cold, and in a rather wet boat.

We decided that no matter how we felt, we would make a good dinner, heat water for showers, and put new linens on the bet. So, I made fajitas while Max showered. We ate our fill and drank a few beers while reliving our miserable adventure. I kept repeating, man, that passage was horrible! I am so glad we never have to do that again! I could see in Max's eyes that he wasn't entirely in agreement; there was value in that storm for him. He felt like he understood every piece of maritime literature he had ever read a little more, learned that our boat can handle so much and with such grace, and that now we know what a Force 9 gale in the southern ocean looks and feels like. I still struggle to totally agree, because I was quite scared, though deep down I share all those sentiments.

We awoke to sun and wind our first morning in Port Stanley. It was a much warmer day than we were used to, and the absence of the stress that had been with us for days was invigorating. The bay was wide and the land beyond swept away from the water with a gradual slope ending in distant, dusty mountains studded with granite formations. The coast opposite town had the names of famous ships spelled out in white stones. The Endurance, The Beagle...We were among the greats. Around us were a few Asian fishing boats anchored. They were rusty and worn looking, with long steel arms folded up along the sides, black nets hanging down. They looked like ships that had been abandoned or

recently rediscovered after a long absence. We could hear directions broadcast over the loudspeakers in Chinese. The town is rife with rumors about these boats. They are just squid fishing boats from China, but the people in town whisper that the workers are slaves, desperate to escape. We found out that the previous season two workers jumped ship and swam to shore in freezing water. The Falklands government got after them to improve the working conditions aboard. They decided to anchor farther offshore instead.

A Customs boat came early and told us to meet them on a floating dock at noon. We arrived early and began inspecting the life beneath the customs dock. We saw schools of lobster krill shooting themselves backwards, iridescent jellyfish, and the usual abundance of kelp. An inflatable dingy full of sailors approached. Their outboard died and the captain had to do the familiar routine of yanking on the pull cord repeatedly while drifting away. They handled it with a sense of humor and soon they were on the dock and we were all chatting away. The captain was a charismatic Belgian merchant

marine sailing his own boat, a remake of Bernard Moitessier's Joshua, with a slapdash crew of willing adventurers. They had just arrived from Brazil and were continuing on to the Horn. We asked if he had been caught in the same storm we had weathered. He put his hand on his ribs and said, in addition to a broken rib, he had lost his main genoa, broken a spinn pole somehow, and worn through two hanks on his staysail. We became fast friends, and the captain Dimitri, being an extremely gregarious character, suggested that we all barbecue in the evening and said he was on his way to buy two freshly butchered lambs. We decided to reconvene that evening to exchange stories, information, contacts, and data. Sailors crossing paths can be very useful to one another.

When the customs agent arrived, she allowed us off the dock and brought us to her office, which was the hood of a Landrover. In a heavy British accent, she exclaimed, You two are bringing the average age of cruisers down a bit, aren't you? and boomed out a hearty laugh. And you're Americans! This became a much more enjoyable customs experience than we were used to. She told us where to "get fish and chips, and get pissed," where to see the penguins, and provided us with maps of the city, a pamphlet of local minefields to beware of, and a detailed orientation packet for cruisers. So organized, so easy. No carbon copies, and endless going to and fro to have papers stamped and signed. Twenty minutes on the hood of a Landrover and we were off to get pissed over fish n chips at The Victory Pub.

Port Stanley has a particularly British aspect. There is a small stone church, monuments here and there, and even little red phone booths. The buildings and homes lack the eccentric coloring of those in southern Chile, where houses are piled against each other like worn legos, makeshift chimneys stayed to sheet metal rooves, and doors hung at a slant. The homes of Port Stanley are plain-colored and tidy. People are busy trimming their rose bushes and mowing lawns. The streets are clean, clearly marked with names of British captains, and empty of any charismatic herd of wild dogs. I missed the warm Chilean culture, my routine of greeting all the street dogs, but I enjoyed having a map to follow, the labeled streets, and the pubs with real bars.

We really took time off in The Falklands. For two days we did only basic boat work. Laundry, cleaning, and organizing. We moved to the town dock and so did Dimitri and crew. For two days we ate long lunches at Victory Pub, drank our fills of beer, and took long naps. We really needed that to recover from the passage. We barbecued lamb with the crew of Le Grand Jack en Liberte two nights in a row and exchanged everything we could. He gave us more detailed digital charts of the entire world for our Open CPN program that included tidal information. Kind of a big deal. We also traded paper charts of Chile for his of Brazil. We gave his new crew our old foulies and showed him the best anchorages for his next leg. Dimitri is one of those sailors who is the real deal. He crossed the Atlantic twice when he was 25 in a 20 footer. He told us he spent two nights hugging his life raft in a storm, sure that any minute he would deploy it. He was disheveled and unkempt in a way that suggested his only care in the world was the boat and his next passage. It was like meeting one of the great sailors as a young person. A wild, knowledgeable sailor addicted to life at sea, ready to celebrate every hardship and success equally. We were sad to see Le Grand Jack en Liberte depart.

Our third day in Port Stanley we left the boat and went to see the penguins. We rented the time of a local man who drove us two hours off road, across the fields of sheep farms, past ruins of helicopters downed in the 1983 Argentine War, and over stone runs from the ice age to a long, white beach with thousands of penguins. We were the only people there. We spent the day walking among three species of penguins who were unconcerned with our presence. The Magellanic Penguins are small and live in burrows on the upper beach where their young are protected until they reach full growth. They were reserved but curious about us, retreating into their burrows to peak out at us, twisting their heads

around like dogs do when they hear a strange sound. The King Penguins are completely unafraid of humans. They walk along the beach in groups, the iridescence of their pearly chests and the sharp delineations of the orange and black masks on their faces bright in the sun. The adults take turns fishing or pressing eggs up into fatty pouches with their toes. The adolescents enter the ocean in single file and practice surfing and sliding on their stomachs across the beach. Higher up on the beach a tightly packed circle of adults protect the young from vultures that circle. The adults swap out so that half are on the beach and half are huddled tightly squawking at the vultures that are dragging around the bloody carcass of two babies tearing off flesh just ten feet away from the penguins.

A Magallenic Penguin having an existential crisis.

On the ride back we listened to our driver's stories of growing up on he Falklands, what it means to be an islander. We asked him about the War, when Argentine troops occupied the island for a month in 1983. He was on a small island and taken prisoner for 28 days with all the people on the island. They were held in one house together and had one lamb a week to eat, as long as they slaughtered one for the troops. He laughed proudly as he recalled that the soldiers tried to steel the island's motorboat but couldn't because the engine required a one time use glow plug. They kept this a secret and the boat survived as a result. He was a proud Falklander and bragged that they have no income taxes, are rich with oil, and have only two invasive species- earwigs and Argentinians. He added that they have zero unemployment, only 29 unemployables.

The passage to The Falklands was terrifying. I hope to never see a sea state like that again. Arriving in Port Stanley was one of the more jubilant experiences of our adventure. When I recall our first morning there I can feel the crisp wind and the brilliant sun. When I recollect the storm, I ca't feel my frozen toes or the knot that lived in my stomach for three days, I just remember listening to Max tell me it was going to be okay and believing him.

I celebrated every minute we spent in The Falklands as the most gregarious, appreciative version of myself. I loved every penguin we saw, every warm pint of beer, every greasy plate of fish and chips, and wished that we could have stayed longer to see more of the wildlife and anchor in some of the remote locations there. When I think about the discomforts we bear at times, the fear that the southern ocean awakened in me, and then the landfalls in remote, wild places I never thought I would visit, it becomes obvious that the ends don't just justify the means, the means redefine the ends entirely.