65SOUTH TO 68° NORTH - PART 1

Willy Ker

After our cruise to 65°S on the Antarctic Peninsula (see Flying Fish 1992/2), Lawrence Ormerod OCC and I flew back to England in March 1992, agreeing that he and his wife Gill would meet me for Christmas at Puerto Williams in the Beagle Channel. Assent had been left lying afloat alongside FIPASS, the ex-military port facility in Stanley harbour and now, in November, she was champing at the bit and eager for the next adventure. My friend Andrez Short had taken good care of her and thoughtfully put a heater aboard for me; a necessary luxury since the southern spring had barely arrived and at the Remembrance Day parade we all stood shivering as the snow flurries whirled around us. A busy week and Assent was moderately shipshape, but I still had to scrub her bottom and put on a couple of coats of antifouling.

Assent, a Contessa 32, draws more than 5ft 6in and the nearest place to Stanley with a decent range of tide is at Beaver Island, 150 miles to the west. This is where the Poncets have their sheep farm and it would provide a nice excuse to cruise around West Falkland, a superb cruising area which I had been looking forward to exploring. A call to Sally confirmed that I could lie on their jetty, since Jerome was away in Damien II with the BBC film crew in South Georgia and she said she could do with an extra hand `lamb marking'. As a sheep farmer myself, it sounded like a real busman's holiday!

Warren Brown OCC had kindly lent me a full set of charts and I had Ewen Southby-Tailyour's excellent book, so it was with some confidence that I set off on 19 November, beating into a moderate sou'westerly. After a couple of pleasant stops including a visit to a Gentoo penguin colony, Assent was beating into a very uncomfortable head sea off Cape Meredith, the southernmost point of West Falkland, and I therefore decided to turn back into one of Ewen's secret anchorages. Under Cape Lagoon he says: `... this anchorage does not appear to exist'. It certainly did not seem very likely, as there was thick kelp all the way across the narrow entrance, but nothing venture nothing gain and Assent ground her way in, sending a family of sealions diving pell-mell off the centre islet. Once I had set two anchors in the tiny space, first one sealion and then another swam up to inspect me and soon they were all frolicking around me, while two yearlings played tag just like sheepdog puppies. It must have been nearly two hours before they finally tired and I was allowed to creep into my bunk utterly bewitched and at peace with the world.

I had to make Tea Island Passage, 30 miles up the coast, before the tide turned foul, so I recovered the CQR and weighed the Bruce by 0530. It was a lovely sunny day with a light reaching breeze and I must have got it about right, since I still had 3 1/2 knots with me through Stick-in-the-mud Passage, one of those awkward places where it can run at up to 12 knots! The harbour on Beaver Island is only just around the corner, and as soon as Assent was at anchor I rowed ashore to a sheepdog's tumultuous welcome. I was trailed by a pet lamb as I walked up past the shearing shed to the house and felt very much at home. Sally had a great haunch of roast mutton ready for supper and Bertrand and Leiv came up with 2 litre cartons of excellent Chilean Gato Negro. They had wintered in a mud berth aboard Baltazar, a sistership of Damien II, having been banned from Chilean waters for breaking the Armada's strict rules.

It was a jolly party, with the travelling teacher there as well on one of her regular visits for the two younger Poncet boys, Leiv and Diti. They are experienced Antarctic sailors, spending their holidays aboard Damien II, so after supper I got them to help me get Assent alongside the jetty at high water, ready to dry out. I awoke with a bump at 0400 to find that Assent's keel had slipped into a trench dug by the keel of a larger yacht and she was nose down and askew. This was an effective alarm clock, no damage seemed to have been done, and by breakfast time she was scrubbed and antifouled on the starboard side. We had a working day rounding up sheep and marking lambs and that night carried out the same performance on the other side of the jetty.

I dragged myself away after a couple more busy days and during the next fortnight made my way back to Stanley. Cruising in the Falklands is no rest cure; the pilotage can be quite tricky and the weather unpredictable and often pretty windy -- watch out for the woolies in some passes! However there are plenty of compensations. The wildlife is fascinating, the air as clear as a bell and the welcome at isolated farmhouses in the camp is heartwarming. I climbed up to walk amongst nesting Rockhopper penguins, Black-browed albatross and King shags, scrambled down to look from a distance (they are easily disturbed) at Fur seals pupping on the rocks, collected fat mussels off the beach and caught mullet by the dozen in the creeks. Quite a holiday!

Assent was back in Stanley by 7 December after a difficult sail in thick weather around the rugged north coast of East Falkland. Without radar it would have been prudent to stand offshore, but as usual I was pressed for time and could safely cut the corners. If I was to make my rendezvous with Lawrence in Ushuaia I would have to leave by 12 December, but I had time to fire off faxes in all directions from the Cable & Wireless office. Ann Fraser OCC was to join me at Puerto Montt, Veronica, my wife, at Victoria, British Columbia, and John Gore-Grimes OCC in Alaska -- it all seemed a long way off. I had one further and unpleasant chore. On our return from Antarctica the previous March, Customs had charged me another œ40. I thought this was totally unreasonable, particularly for yachts on passage and only calling at Stanley for just a few days to replenish stores, and I therefore put in a strong plea to Government to have the ruling revoked. (I fear my plea has fallen on deaf ears).

Assent was finally away at 2120 on the 13th. After the friendships I had made it was a pity to leave on a down beat, but I would be calling at Beaver on the way as I had a large packing case to deliver for Sally. The interisland coaster Forrest would not be calling for some time and it would in any case save her the freight. A small favour. This time I did it in one, logging 175 miles in just forty hours, and after a good night's sleep was away again in superb weather, sunny and warm and with a nice easy close fetch in a south-east force 3, backing to give a broad reach. What could be more perfect? 240 miles and forty-eight hours later I was approaching the Estrecho de le Maire with the jagged silhouette of Staten Island brooding to leeward. The strait was kind to me this time, and with a following breeze Assent was able to make against the same 2 knot current off Cabo Buen Sucesso that had caused us so much trouble the previous year.

Unfortunately the Beagle Channel had something else in store for me -- the wind suddenly whipped round into the south-west, I hurriedly put in two reefs and rolled up the jib (thank heavens for roller jibs!). Motor-sailing into miserably cold driving rain I made for Caleta Banner, our old friend and an excellent anchorage, having first called the Armada lookout on VHF omucho viento etc -- marana por la marana vamos   Puerto Williamso which seemed to keep him happy. Once I had got the hook down and was snug below it was wonderful to hear the rain still teeming down and the wind whistling in the rigging. When the sky cleared at about 2000 the hills were covered with fresh snow down to 1000 feet.

The morning of 20 December dawned beautifully fresh and clear. While in Caleta Banner I had been flying the Chilean courtesy flag and now, as I sailed west up the channel, I would be under Argentine regulations. Sure enough, within minutes I was called by the Argentine lookout and hurriedly changed over the flags, whilst assuring him that I was making for Puerto Williams, which of course is in Chile. By 1500 Assent was moored alongside the Club de Yates. Formalities were completed surprisingly quickly (the Capitan de Puerto already had Assent on file from the previous year), and I soon had my zarp' for 0800 next morning to sail to Ushuaia, over in Argentina, where I was to pick up Laurence and Gill. The negotiations for getting permission to sail north up the channels I would leave to Lawrence, since my Spanish was definitely not up to it.

Coming from the Falklands, I wondered how I would be received in Ushuaia. I need not have worried. Calling the Prefectura on VHF (call sign: L3P -- LIMA TRES PAPA) it was suggested that I go alongside the Club Nautico where we could lie gratis overnight and then make my way to the office at my convenience -- all very civilised. Laurence and Gill had just flown in from Rio Gallegos and had spotted me sailing up. It was grand to see them again. Up at the Prefectura, the bureaucracy took a little time to grind its way through the paperwork but it was all very `correct' and then we were clear. This would be our last opportunity to get stores of any description for four or five weeks so we spent a hectic afternoon in the excellent supermercado and came away with two trolley loads of fresh vegetables, fruit, jolly good cheese and salamis as well as all the usual goodies. Prices seemed pretty reasonable and I was even able to use my Visa card. Beef and mutton, as well as good Chilean wine, we knew we could buy more cheaply in Puerto Williams, but precious little else. Ushuaia is something of a tourist resort with several restaurants, so that evening we treated ourselves to a parrilla, a real blow-out and our last chance! Before leaving we met up with some of the skippers of the French charter yachts that sensibly use this as a base, with its good facilities and communications, and were able to pick their brains about the best anchorages in the channels.

Back at Puerto Williams, we set about getting our zarp' to sail up the channels to Puerto Montt. This would require authorisation from Naval HQ in Valpara¡so and Lawrence spent some time closeted with the Capitan de Puerto, Captain Miranda Williams. Basically, one is supposed to follow the main shipping route -- some anchorages and passages are forbidden, some recommended and some permitted. It was the latter which we hoped to negotiate. Added to which, one is supposed to report in by radio periodically and to any lookouts manned by the Navy, and to report in person to the Capitania at every port you go into. ­Qu' pana! The Chilean Navy personnel are invariably polite and friendly, but the system is overpowering.

We had hoped that Hugh Clay OCC in Aratapu would meet us here for Christmas but heard that he had been delayed in Tasmania, which was a great pity. Miraculously our permit came through on Christmas morning, and as soon as we could we cast off and motored away up the channel. The log reads: `Lovely morning, hazy sun, v little wind -- coffee and Christmas cake on the boat-deck'. Kanisaka (54°56'.6S 68°34'.3W), our first anchorage just behind some islands, was one recommended by Oleg in Ushuaia and was a lovely place, but obviously he has a lifting keel for we ran firmly aground at the entrance near high water -- not a very good start. When we eventually found the pool we held ourselves in place with lines ashore and just took the ground at low water. Assent carries a full cable length of 10mm Terylene rope and for the rest of our time in Patagonia we made a practice of anchoring close in with lines ashore to rocks or trees, very seldom in more than 10 metres. The winds are very unpredictable and can come howling down out of nowhere but we always slept soundly and never budged. She also carries a 20 kg Bruce which is perhaps a bit over-the-top for a Contessa 32, but none the worse for that.

Unfortunately Lawrence and Gill only had four weeks and we would have to get within striking distance of Puerto Montt by 18 January, a rather tall order unless we motored a good deal. Every day was memorable in its way. Caleta Olla, where we followed a guanaco trail through a forest and found beavers building their damns. Seno Garibaldi, where we went up a fjord and anchored amongst miniature icebergs behind a small island, while the glacier at the head rumbled and crashed and we had plenty of ice for our pisco sour. Caleta Brecknock, a vast bowl of wind-scoured rock which reminded me of Loch Scavaig and when we climbed up Assent was just a tiny speck below. There were days and even pale nights of utter calm when we motored on till dawn, and even one whole day when the wind was actually behind us. But often we seemed to be beating with two reefs in and the jib rolled down, or the No 4 set on the inner stay, and the fagas would churn the surface of the water into flying spume. Too much of this sort of thing and we'd be looking for a snug anchorage to duck into and, with the lines ashore, batten down and listen gleefully as the frustrated wind rattled our halliards and Assent heeled to the gusts. Then it was time to invent a new hot toddy -- one memorable one was called Golpe de Sarmiento, but apart from large quantities of Gato Negro and Pisco I'm not sure what went into it.

By the time we reached Puerto Eden we had logged over 700 miles and hardly seen a living soul. The people here are mestizo and it is doubtful if there are any pure Alacalufs left. It's not much of a place, but Gill went off to buy some fresh fish while Lawrence checked in at the Armada post and I managed to get some rather suspect diesel (a splendidly primitive system of syphoning out of a 40 gallon drum using a piece of old and very dirty hose -- it is as well that we have a good filter on board).

The Golfo de Pe¤as, our first bit of open sea for a long while, was decidedly lumpy with squally rain showers and wonderful rainbows. The wind being fresh nor'westerly, we were close-hauled under two reefs and we rolled and unrolled the jib as the squalls went through. It is fifty miles across the Golfo de Pe¤as and we could just lay Surgidero Stokes, an anchorage under the lee of Peninsula Tres Montes. It was a relief to get out of the hurly-burly for a couple of hours, and we anchored in 12 metres with very little swell, close in to the shore.

After a hearty breakfast, which we could not possibly have faced outside, we were anxious to press on. It is another 100 miles around Cabo Roper and north to Bahja Anna Pink, where we could re-enter the inner channels and find an anchorage before nightfall. As we rounded Cabo Roper at midnight we were able to ease sheets and romp away on course to clear Cabo Taitao, entering Bahja Anna Pink after lunch next day in hot sun and a following breeze. Although there are some lights, this is not a major entrance and it would be tricky in the dark.

We were now in quite different country, with the odd fishing village and a mass of islands and interesting pilotage. It was a shame to hurry but we realised we would just make Quell¢n on 18 January. Quell¢n is on the south end of Chilo' Island, at the end of the road, and here Lawrence and Gill could get a bus to Puerto Montt and on to Bariloche in Argentina to fly home. Quell¢n has a real frontier atmosphere, with local farmers clad in poncho, sombrero, high leather boots and spurs galloping down the dusty main street on smart ponies. The telephone system is also somewhat horse and cart, but Gill managed to phone home and after being cut off a couple of times I got through to Veronica to ask Ann Fraser to join me at Castro. I was very sad to see Lawrence and Gill go, it had been fun and we vowed that next time we would take twice as long over the trip.

I had time that afternoon to sail around to Canal Queilen and into Estero Pailad (42°53'S 73°35'W). This is a delightful little creek, with small farmsteads on the hills on either side, their pastures reaching down to the water's edge where fishing boats were drawn up on the beach. A little bit of heaven that reminded me of Austria. I put down a running moor with two anchors out of the stream, and in the morning awoke to the creak of oars as a fisherman made his way out to sea, cheating the making tide close in to the bank. Not long after, in the wood just above me, I heard the thonk of an axe and quiet talk as a father and son felled a tree. Perfect peace -- no whining chain saws here!

Lying a few miles short of Castro is Isla Quehui, with a beautiful natural harbour. (According to the Admiralty Pilot: `This is one of the best anchorages of Archipielago de Chiloe'). As I had a day in hand it seemed a good idea to stop off there and then go in to meet Ann. On the way north there was the wonderful sight, in the distance, of two working boats under sail. They were carrying firewood out to the islands from the mainland -- for how much longer, I wonder?. It was almost dark by the time I reached the entrance (the Pilot again: `steer parallel with the shore at a distance of from 70 to 100 feet'). I could just make out the steep bank as I motored in and dropped anchor in the bay.

There was a rather smart, modern day-sailer dried out on the beach in the morning, with somebody adjusting the rigging. As I needed some water I rowed ashore and in my best Spanish asked if I could find some agua potable. "Yes of course, old boy, help yourself from the tap on the side of the house" was the surprising reply! By sheer chance I had stumbled on a near neighbour from Somerset, Nick Asheshov, now living in Chile and spending the summer with his family on Quehui. It is a delightfully unsophisticated island, where everyone is mounted on ponies and the only wheels are of solid wood on bullock carts pulled by splendid Hereford steers. A big party was planned for the weekend when Nick and Maria del Carmen's youngest daughter, Tanya, was to be baptised, and they generously invited Ann and me to join in the fun.

The cruising area to the east of Chilo' must be one of the world's best kept secrets. It is well protected from the westerlies and the archipelago is charmingly unsophisticated. Next morning, sailing amongst the islands and up the winding channel to Castro, I could have been in one of the green coombs of north-west Somerset, with small farmsteads dotting the steep slopes. In Castro harbour, old fishermen's houses on piles -- the famous palafitos -- line the shore and I anchored just off the Hotel Unicornjo Azul. I had barely got the kettle on when Ann was waving from the beach.

Back at Quehui we dropped the hook, dressed overall and were just in time for the service in the historic old wooden church. The kindly Belgian Father said a simple mass and gave a rather long homily in beautifully clear Spanish, pretty little Tanya was duly baptised, and we all trooped out to join a procession around the village. After this marathon the excellent Chilean champagne flowed, we guzzled local oysters and Chilote worthies opened up a curranto, an enormous clam-bake, while the asado sizzled with marinated beef and lamb on long spits. Nick and Maria del Carmen were most generous hosts and the dancing went on all night, so it was with great difficulty that we dragged outselves away to sail north.

Our course took us through the islands, where every bay seemed to have its salmon farm. The insatiable Japanese appetite is fuelling a booming industry, bringing in real money and inevitable change. We were aiming to go out through the Canal de Chacao with the first of the ebb, but had a pretty rough time as the 5 knot tide met the full force of a brisk westerly and the big Pacific swells heaped up on the uneven shelving bottom. We were thankful when we eventually broke clear and could reach away for Valdivia, 100 miles to the north.

Motoring up the Canal de Chacao one enters a different and peaceful world of quiet backwaters and the occasional pleasant house amongst the trees. Yachts can go right upriver and lie alongside the quay by the bustling open market on the waterfront and close to the town centre, all at no charge. I must say I liked Valdivia -- there are very good shops and restaurants and it is a good place to stock up. The yacht club is soon to move a couple of miles downriver, where there will be a marina with better facilities. Next to the new site Alex Wopper runs an efficient yard; he is a keen ocean sailor and very helpful. Standards are very high indeed and I imagine he could fix just about anything. Alex's wife Dagmar has a New Zealand sailmaking franchise and can make new sails fairly quickly. We left Assent safely at the yacht club for a couple of days and hired a car as Ann and I wanted to explore the lake district. It really is very beautiful and well worth the effort.

As usual time was running out and on 5 February we were on our way again. We had a pretty boistrous 400 mile passage to the Juan Fernandez islands, and when we rounded up and anchored in the lee of M*s a Tierra r fagas were howling down off the Cerro el Yunque, making the open roadstead of Bahia Cumberland rather uncomfortable. The island has been renamed Island Robinson Crusoe for perfectly sound reasons of tourism, and after being ferried ashore by a friendly Dane with a powerful outboard we had a delicious lunch of local crayfish at the Hosterja Daniel Defoe! We had first, of course, to do the pilgrimage to Alexander Selkirk's lookout, an 1800 foot climb up a winding mule track through pines and eucalyptus, and felt we had earned our refreshing shower back at the Hosterja.

Easter Island lies 1600 miles to the north-north-west and we hoped soon to be in the south-east trades, but for the first week we had warm and gentle winds accompanied by pretty Red-billed tropicbirds and the occasional albatross. On 21 February I could record in the log: `into the trades at last', and we even had to slow down to avoid arriving in the dark. We followed a German cruise ship into the anchorage at Hanga Roa, the first ship we had seen since leaving the mainland, and anchored uncomfortably in the rolly open roadstead. In response to our call to the Chilean Navy Capitan de Puerto a boatload of cheerful officials came out to clear us.

We enquired about going into the tricky little inner harbour of Hanga Piko, and were told we would need a local pilot and the going rate was US $100. However we had been given the name of the shipping agent, Juan Edmunds, and when I got him on VHF he said he would send his man, Oscar, to take us in for $30. It turned out that Oscar was not a member of the Hanga Piko `mafia', and there was an amusing slanging match as we surged in through the breakers and tied up with the four yachts already there. If not too much swell is running outside it should be possible to take oneself in on the leading line under motor, but there is very little margin for error. Entry into Hanga Piko is not always allowed and permission must first be obtained from the very helpful Capitan de Puerto. There is no charge for lying in Hanga Piko.

Easter Island, or Rapa Nui as the locals call it, is well worth a visit and we had an enjoyable couple of days marvelling at the reputed 600 huge moais scattered about the island, picnicking under the palm trees and bathing in a sheltered sandy bay. There is a scheduled air service from Santiago so Easter Island could be used for a crew change, but landing from a yacht could be awkard if there is a heavy swell running.

We motored out of Hanga Piko on 27 February with 1900 miles to go to Fatu Hiva in the Marquesas. The tropic of Capricorn on 3 March gave us a few days of squalls, thunderstorms and torrential rain. We were really getting rather good at our star and moon sights and talked of switching off the GPS -- the wretched thing must have overheard, for it promptly sulked and `went down' (water in the co-ax, as it turned out). Even so, mountainous Fatu Hiva appeared bang on target on 17 March.

We had a few days before Ann had to fly from Nuku Hiva to Tahitia and on home and could enjoy the special ambience of the Marquesas. The gendarme in Hiva Oa even let us off the infamous `bond' with a Gallic shrug (it turned out that the bank which normally handled the caution had just closed down! I was sorry to see Ann go, for she had been a good companion and an able crew. Ahead was 2000 miles of empty sea to Hawaii and at least another 2000 miles on to Victoria, British Columbia. However singlehanded sailing can be very exhilarating and I was looking forward to the trip. If all went well Assent should be in the Straits of Juan de Fuca by about 10 May, giving me time to sort things out before Veronica joined me.

We had been given a barrow-load of delicious ripe mangoes, but I had been told that I could get limes and fresh vegetables from a garden in Baie de Anaho, on the north-east corner of Nuku Hiva. This was in any case on the way, and proved to be a delight -- books could be written of the beauties of Anaho, as Robert Louis Stephenson wrote many years ago. I set off on 26 March with fresh lettuce, tomatoes and enormous pamplemousse and a splendid reaching breeze from the east. This gradually turned nasty, with squalls and rain, and I was down to bare poles for a while before it all went flat and Assent was left slatting in a hot and sultry calm.

Before leaving Anaho I made the mistake of climbing up through thorn scrub to get a photograph and then swimming for an hour near the coral. I should have known better, for within a day or two all the scratches went badly septic and in spite of a course of antibiotics from the first aid kit they were still giving me trouble six weeks later. Even paradise has its problems and it obviously could have been worse, but it was now imperative to motor on and break through the ITCZ and into the north-east trades. They came in with a bang on 3 April with heavy rain and a north-east force 5 gusting 6, but Assent was making excellent progress, averaging 130 miles a day on the log.

Without GPS I was able to enjoy myself taking sun-run-meridian altitudes which showed that we were getting the benefit of an extra 10 to 15 miles a day from the North Equatorial current. This was good news and I reckoned I should be in Honolulu around the 11th.

As dawn broke on the 10 April the 13,000 foot peak of Mauna Loa appeared above the clouds 75 miles away to the north-east and looking magnificent. Only 160 miles to go to Ala Wai Harbor. At the entrance there is a fuel jetty where you are supposed to call US Customs, but you need a quarter to do that -- fortunately I had one or two with me, given as change for dollars when I shopped at the Irish House in Moscow. Where else?

The Hawaii YC allowed me to use their excellent facilities and I did all my shopping in The Mall close by and found all the chandlery I needed at Ala Wai Marine. Received wisdom is that one should sail due north to 48°N before turning right, but a local Met forecaster reckoned that with the North Pacific High where it was I could follow the Great Circle to Cape Flattery, riding the top of the High and picking up the tail of the storms which were racing across south of the Aleutians. This proved correct and I had an easy trip, logging 2200 miles in twenty days. On 17 April I noted: `wind veering slowly, gybed -- first time on port for 5000 miles!' I was getting into the westerlies, it was much colder and I was quite glad of my longjohns and pullover.

The US Coast Guard radio station (NMC) in San Francisco puts out a weather forecast four times a day for the Eastern Pacific and I listened with some trepidation as deep lows tracked across to the north, with winds up to 60 knots. I must have been lucky, as the last one of the season crossed Vancouver Island just ahead of me. I now had to keep a much better lookout as I was crossing the main shipping lanes from the Santa Barbara Channel and Portland to Japan, and I found that in the big seas my radar detector did not ping until ships were uncomfortably close.

It was a great moment when the impressive snow clad peak of Mount Olympus came up on the starboard bow shining in the sun above the early morning mist, and Cape Flattery showed on the radar just ten miles ahead. Assent rounded Race Rock with the flood at 1730 and soon was alongside the Canadian Customs jetty in Victoria Harbour. The young Customs officer was friendly and efficient and I was cleared in a brace of shakes. Our old friends Terry and Christine Stamper took me to their home and lent me a car for a week, for there was plenty to do -- sails to be repaired, the GPS to be fixed etc, and the Royal Victoria YC could not have been more hospitable. How can one thank them enough?

(The latter half of Willy's account -- the 68°N part -- will appear in the next issue).