SUBTLE ACROSS THE PACIFIC

John Garey

(Last September John and Fay returned from a five-year circumnavigation aboard their Nicholson 35 Subtle. The following passage took place in 1993.)

"You will never leave Chile. You cannot escape!" Our close friend -- a Santiago dentist and fellow yacht owner -- had summed up our love for his country well. "But I have found a way out for you. You can take part in an offshore race from Valparaiso to Coquimbo. And I wish to crew for you."

The Clube Nautico de Chile was pleased to accept our entry, and on Friday 29 January Subtle crossed the start line off Higuerillas YC (Vina del Mar) with Jorge Crignola and Chris Gabriel crewing for Fay and me -- the only foreign yacht among the Chilean fleet.

Escorting the fleet was the Chilean Naval tug Janequeo. Each yacht had been allocated its own charted latitude and longitude and was under instructions to call up the tug every six hours on VHF to give its position as a bearing and distance from this position. In this way the race organisers knew each yacht's position but competitors did not. During the night Chris, with his lack of Spanish, managed to report Subtle's position as being in the middle of the Andes, but this was eventually sorted out!

Winds blew up from the south and all night we carried our cruising chute poled out as a spinnaker, making 7.3 knots for hours on end. The spinnaker halliard block failed in the light of early morning so we stowed the chute and flew a boomed-out genoa which made almost the same speed. Steering was exhilarating!

We raced north during the day and eventually a green and orange Pacific sunset yielded to a starlit night. The wind fell away and the coast close to Coquimbo crept up black and shadowy. For the next four hours we made 1 knot through the water. A Nic 31 in racing trim made slowly to windward of us and despite a desperate fight, including our apparently sailing directly into the wind at one point, they managed to cross the finishing line minutes before us. We followed the leading lights into Herradura (Horseshoe) Bay and went to anchor off the clubhouse.

What fun the next day to find that on handicap we had achieved second place in our class! With a Chilean wine company and a Scotch whisky house as part sponsors, the day's celebrations were quite a riot! In a short speech of thanks for our prize I managed to make a hash of pronouncing the final word (in Spanish). The audience collapsed with laughter and it was a great if unintentional success.

The next morning, after saying goodbye to Jorge who had to return to his dentistry in Santiago, we secured alongside Janequeo and took on fresh water before setting off north up the coast while the other yachts beat down south to windward. After a quiet night at anchor off the beautiful, deserted Isla Damas we headed for Caldera where we anchored close in, only to find ourselves in the clutches of the Hermandad de la Costa -- the Brotherhood of the Coast. This very friendly, and in our experience bibulous, society can be found elsewhere in the world and seems to be a sort of sailors' Rotary Club, started, I believe, in Chile. Chilenos came aboard Subtle bringing their own wine while we offered some of ours. Later we all went ashore for a magnificent meal.

We sampled `piure', a local shellfish speciality with a strong flavour of iodine and therefore rather an acquired taste. However the ceviche was superb, as indeed everywhere on the west coast of South America.

The light winds, mainly from a southerly direction, blew us up to Antofagasta where the yacht club tender kindly escorted us to an anchorage. Although the entrance to the old harbour lies between banks of formidable breakers on both sides, the anchorage is safe in most conditions. Behind the yacht club train-loads of copper ingots are continually shunted into the port for loading on foreign-bound ships. Historically, in this part of the world, eating houses carried the menu item `EI Peyrolle'. This catered for miners who would come down from the mountains on pay-day to blow all their money on a slap-up meal.

We hired a car and drove into the Atacama desert to see Chilean flamingoes in the blazing hot salt pans. These incredible birds with their highly specialised feeding habits must have one of the most esoteric existences on earth. On our way back to Antofagasta we marvelled at the aptly-named landscape of the Valley of the Moon.

Antofagasta lies right on the Tropic of Capricorn and it was pleasing to learn that from here up to the Doldrums (or Inter-Tropical Convergence Zone in the pompous modern parlance) we would not meet any northerly winds. `Northers' occasionally plague the Chilean coast further south, and indeed a northerly storm had driven an ocean-going barge and a freighter ashore in Valparaiso six months previously.

Sadly Chris had to leave us to go back to the UK so Fay and I sailed on north to the border town of Arica. On the way we anchored behind Meillones and watched a flock of about 300 Black Skimmers feeding. These bird have their lower mandible much longer than the top one so as to scoop up food from the surface of the sea.

The usual excellent Chilean hospitality greeted us at the yacht club in Arica with its very well protected harbour. Once ashore, we joined a bus party for a day visit to Lago Chungara -- the highest lake in the world at 14,950ft. It actually snowed while we gazed at the stunning mountains of Bolivia. The driver stopped in a nearby village and asked a couple of young ladies in the bus if they would be interested in marrying the local landlord whose first wife had died not long ago. A dowry of 200 vicunas was offered! Neither of the ladies was impressed. The bus's descent caused some unlucky passengers a severe attack of altitude sickness but fortunately most of us were well when the bus reached Arica and its tropical heat.

After ten months in Chile we got a zarp' from the authorities and sailed off for Peru, more especially for that fabled port of sea-shanties, Callao, which lies on the coast about seven miles from Lima, the capital city. Approaching from the south one comes across La Punta and the yacht club radio of the same name. But there is absolutely no sign of any harbour, yachts or the club. However after rounding the point you suddenly come across literally hundreds of yachts at anchor or on club moorings. The President of Arica YC had personally contacted the Peruano YC by radio to announce our intended visit and we were welcomed by the local club's President in his yacht Bwana. He directed us to use the club's mooring and facilities free for as long as we wished. The Coast Guard called and a young officer enjoyed a beer with us. It was friendly and informal. Peru, like Chile, is not a country where you find it necessary to bribe officials. In fact any such move would likely land you in jail. The mention of this reminds me that Guzman -- the Shining Path terrorist leader -- was at that moment being detained on an island only three miles off Callao. As we had entered the anchorage we had waved at the occupants of a pinnace in our path, only to be answered by sour-faced men brandishing machine-guns and clearly patrolling the area between the island and the mainland.

We went ashore. Once past the enclave of La Punta the poverty of Callao strikes you forcibly, although as you continue into Lima the quality of the parks and buildings are a delight. We never felt troubled or threatened at any time.

Our main purpose in calling at Callao was to top up with diesel. Light winds were to be expected between Callao and Ecuador and then on to Costa Rica. Having put diesel on board, we found the procedure for obtaining a departure zarp' very time-consuming. An official pointed out that departing skippers had to write a letter (in flowery Spanish) begging to be allowed to leave the country and addressed to the Port Captain. The official dryly observed that he would write the letter for us. Having collected it, signed it and delivered it several hours later, we paid some small tax into a nearby bank and were free to leave.

On the way up the coast we had a very pleasant radio exchange with the MV Andes whose duty officer, John Balkwill, arranged to change course to pass close to us and took some photographs of which he later sent copies for our records.

At Salinas, Ecuador, we anchored close to the American yacht Pilot from Maine. Barbara and Greg -- whom we met a second time in Auckland -- explained that the yacht club was really a rich men's social club (which it is) equipped with restaurants, swimming pools, tennis courts and so forth, and that visiting yactsmen were not welcome. However we had a card up our sleeve. Our friend Gutierrez had written a glowing recommendation for us on his Arica YC paper, addressed to the President of Salinas YC. This personage, who appeared likely to come down on us like a ton of bricks when we were shown into his office, took our envelope, held it to the light to check it contained no explosives, opened and read the letter, and then addressing us with a deep sigh said "Please feel free to use all the club's facilities". We did. We then had to travel several miles to the grubby town centre of Salinas where the immigration official, sweating horribly, asked us for some cash. We paid half the bribe on condition he checked us into and out of Ecuador at the same time, which he did.

The 600 miles from Salinas to Golfito in Costa Rica involved much motoring and some quite glassy seas. Distant electrical storms and beautiful displays of lightning illuminated the nights. We were able to set the genoa or the spinnaker but mostly we motored and averaged about a hundred miles a day. By day we saw turtles, sharks, sailfish and even some Pygmy Sperm whales.

We entered the huge natural harbour at Golfito on 31 March, and cleared without fuss into Costa Rica before heading up the harbour a couple a miles to anchor off the pier of the Hotel Las Gaviotas. This moderately tidal anchorage affords excellent holding in about 25ft, mud bottom, even in the very occasional high winds. We were less than a hundred yards off the pier so it was an easy row ashore. The harbour is totally landlocked so there is no fetch for the sea to build up. This was our base for five weeks, during which we laboriously completed about a hundred type-written pages of a guide to the Chilean ports we had visited for the RCC Pilotage Foundation, following which we overhauled the yacht's gear for a trans-Pacific voyage with the aim of arriving in New Zealand around the beginning of December.

Golfito, at 8°37'N 83°09'W, is only about twenty miles from the border with Panama and is hot and sticky with regular torrential thunderstorms in the late afternoon. Even at 0730 sweat drips off onto your typewriter. Across the road the jungle starts and if you are lucky you can see toucans in the tree-tops. One memorably good point about the anchorage was the total lack of mosquitoes -- a real benefit! American yachts, for the most part, tended to congregate at the Jungle Club on the other side of the water about a mile and a half opposite the hotel's pier. This American-run rustic thatched private home offers excellent hospitality to yachtsmen. Drinks are bought on the trust system, home-made bread is available to order on certain days and on other days superb home-made pizzas are available. The place is well away from town and only accessible by boat. Monkeys screaming in the trees round the house add a tropic flavour. Subtle anchored there for a couple of nights in 15ft at high water springs but was aground in 5ft mud at low water.

The hotel Las Gaviotas had friendly and helpful staff, and provided you had a beer at their bar and an occasional meal their pool and facilities were free. Fax messages were cheap and a three digit operation on the phone got you the London operator. Marvellous and efficient.

The banana export industry which was the backbone of the local economy changed overnight when the American owners decided to discontinue their operations. They simply all left. Golfito's economy fell to pieces but was put back on its feet by the establishment of a tax-free shopping zone. People now come from far and wide to buy a large selection of goods, including of course hard liquor. You may buy exactly twelve bottles of spirits in a single purchase in any six monthly period but, with truly Hispanic panache, there is no limit to the size of the bottles! It is not uncommon to see a buyer ordering a dozen 5 litre bottles to be delivered to his car, which must vastly help to tackle the boredom of the ensuing six months.

The local Costa Ricans are fun-loving and helpful, and we made full use of the Spanish we had learned at school in Chile. But corruption at a higher level has allowed some petty local officials to throw their weight around.

Two weeks after our arrival -- at 2330 one evening -- we were awakened by banging on the yacht's side. I sleep naked and simply grabbed a torch and went on deck. A launch alongside contained an official wearing a grimy white T shirt bearing the word POLICIA across the chest. Three other men sat sullenly in the launch. Mr Policia waved his hand in the direction of the deck-mounted gun on a Coast Guard vessel standing off about a hundred yards and demanded to see the yacht's papers and our passports. I returned with them and stood in a commanding position over their launch. Mr Policia hurriedly examined the papers, handed them back and left. Other yachts in the anchorage were physically boarded and searched and one owner was handcuffed for 25 minutes in his own vessel.

Needless to say the local VHF net on Channel 9 fairly buzzed the following morning. Irate yachtsmen demanded blood and formulated plans for a posse to avenge the outrages of the previous night. In due course an angry horde appeared in the Port Captain's office, to be told that the official who was going to take notes of the matter would arrive in an hour or two. Meantime one bright yachtsman phoned his Embassy in San Jose and learned that the villainous activities of the official -- referred to as Rambo -- were well known but that nothing could be done. When this knowledge spread, combined with the waiting, the heat and the flies in the cramped room, yachtsmen began to wilt and most of those present left, their determination having trickled into the hot tarmac of the street outside. Only five eventually put their names to protests. And that was that. Nothing more was ever heard.

David Ford joined us from England, bringing news from home and some goodies for the boat. It was time to set sail for the west. After a major row in the presence of the Port Captain and the mayor of Golfito, and greatly aided by the sustained verbal abuse of a very helpful local foreign restaurateur, I successfully refused to pay the US $20 in cash demanded by the customs official. I collected our stamped passports and we left the bay.

We intended to sail to Isla Cocos at 5°32'N 87°03'W as we had been told of the fabulous diving and wildlife of this remote place. But this was easier said than done. The wind blew hard on the nose and we simply could not lay a satisfactory course. Sharp squalls, heavy rain and some prolonged calms didn't help. Then a split-pin (as it later transpired) failed inside the boom and the internal reefing gear became nearly impossible to control. We would have to remove the boom to effect repairs. So we bore away and laid a course for Wreck Bay on the island of San Cristobal in the Galapagos group. This anchorage is far more comfortable than the more popular Academy Bay being superbly protected and a good place to make repairs.

On 24 May we left Wreck Bay for the Big One -- the crossing to Nuku Hiva in the Marquesas. We were at once in the southeast trades and these winds blew without a pause for the whole voyage. The windvane-operated self-steering worked beautifully and we averaged 5.456 knots for the logged 3038.8 miles. For twenty-three days we had fast but memorably uneventful sailing.

However, not totally unmemorable... During one of my night watches the sky was completely overcast and no horizon could be seen. No bioluminescence illuminated the water. Fverything was absolutely black. Subtle rushed along to the west before the trades. I stood to windward in the cockpit indulging unpleasant thoughts of crooked Costa Rican officials.

Suddenly my neck was gripped tight by something horrible in the darkness! I shivered and cried out loud! Several seconds of complete and utter fright took hold of me. Just as suddenly my neck was released. I touched it with my fingers. Their tips smelled of fish. No doubt about it, a squid or perhaps a flying fish had been thrown up out of the sea and carried over the after deck. It would have passed straight across the cockpit had it not been briefly stopped and wrapped round my neck...

I've since given up thinking about crooked officials.

On 4 June there was an astonishing total eclipse of the full moon, the earth's shadow slowly but completely eliminating the moon from about 0430 until after sunrise. There's still something uncanny about eclipses -- no wonder our predecessors placed such great store by such events.

French Polynesian islands are either `high' (mountainous) or `low' (coral atolls). The Marquesas are high islands and in favourable conditions can be seen from a long way downwind. At Taiohae in Nuku Hiva you could sense the same feeling of exhilaration and personal achievement among arriving yachtsmen that we had felt in Barbados at Christmas 1990 after our first Atlantic crossing from Madeira. We also experienced a big cultural change after being in Spanish-speaking countries for eighteen months. French bread and camembert -- how splendid!