The Docks

Greg is from Vancouver, but left five years ago to sail around the world.  He looks about 65.  He told me he bought his first sailboat before I was born, and is on his third.  His wife is with him for a couple of months but will return to Canada in August.  I asked him if I could hitch a ride to Puerto Williams, a Chilean settlement that is the actual Southernmost town in the world.  Trying to be polite but trying to say no, he explained that there is not much space and if the weather is bad he may have to anchor somewhere for several days, in which case I would be stuck with them.  "I can handle that," I said desperately.  "Well," he stuttered, "what I really mean is we would be stuck with you."  

No hard feelings, we continued chatting for a while.  He had crossed the Pacific Ocean from French Polynesia to Chile and is now rounding the Southern tip on his way to the Falkland Islands and then up to Buenos Aires to have some repairs done.  I was curious about Antarctica seeing how Ushuaia is fewer than 700 miles from the polar continent.  "In my younger days I was ballsy," he explained, "but now I'm more careful and the ice just makes me nervous."

I was at the docks with some fellow travelers, Enrico and Casey, looking for a cheaper alternative to the sightseeing trips that take tourists around the Channel.  The city has a dock where people can pay to anchor as they  pass through.  The "club" also has a kitchen, bathrooms, and lounge facilities.  We found a man on shore who said to just go ask around the boats.  Somehow feeling that we were trespassing, we tiptoed onto the docks, marveling at the array of sailboats.  Some were old and basic, some were new and fancy, but all gave the impression that they had known wondrous voyages.

After our chat, Greg told me to check with a Dutchman moored nearby, who has a large, beautiful sailboat all to himself.  To get to the boat I had to walk on another.  It belongs to a French guy and is chartered for 25 day trips to Antarctica.  After a few timid attempts at "hello?", I decided nobody was home and skittered back to the dock.  

We spoke with a local man who keeps a small sailboat at the club.  We told him we wanted to just take a spin around the channel, maybe see the local penguin colony.  He pulled on his cigarette, looking a bit disgusted by our ignorance and a bit confused as to why we did not just go to the tourist agency.  "There aren't any penguins," he said, squinting through his own smoke.  He lightened up after that with some joke about how they didn't like the cold, and suggested we ask Mickey, who goes to Puerto Williams and Cape Horn.  

We couldn't find Mickey, so we took our by then well-practiced query to a sailor on one of the tourist boats.  He had a perfectly formed, silver handlebar moustache and hunched down in his coat as he smoked.  Openly pessimistic about our prospects, he pulled out a cellphone, saying he knew of one person that might help us.  Phone to his ear, we saw his eyes light up as the line connected. "Mickey?!" we heard him say.

After some hefty laughs, a brief explanation of our situation, and friendly banter we didn't understand, he passed the phone to Enrico.  Enrico told him we had heard he might be going to Cape Horn and that we would love to come along if possible.  Casey and I listened with glee as we heard Enrico answer that, yes, we did have raingear, warm clothing, and shoes.  We were convinced we had just scored a free trip to Cape Horn--surely such details would only be discussed at the conclusion of a successful call.  Then we heard Enrico say "1500 dollars?" and sank back to Earth.

The captain of the Antarctic-bound charter boat, a French expat, emerged at that point, and I asked him if he knew anyone going to Puerto Williams.  "This is a really bad time," he explained, with a touch of condescension.  "There are not many people going and you may get stuck."  After a bit of an awkward conversation in which he presented problems which I insisted didn't bother me, he suggested I call Wolf, who would be going in a few days. Thrilled, I waited giddily for the number and off we went.  Wolf's wife Jeanette was lovely on the phone as she explained that yes Wolf would be going soon and could take me, but that he might stay for a week.  "No problem," I answered.  She went on to mention that the cost would be $100 each way.  Too expensive, another defeat.

Our mission, though unsuccessful in terms of finding a cheap excursion, was nevertheless encouraging.  What I learned is that private boats come in and out of the docks going in all directions, and that most of the sailors are happy to talk with visitors.  People like Greg, for example, are also travelers and are not out to gouge anyone.  I am convinced that, if I keep trying, I'll meet someone looking for help or even just company.  If I do meet that person, regardless of where the boat is going, I'm getting on.