We
are sailing west, away from Easter Island and towards Pitcairn. It is the third
day out and the true wind speed has dropped to a mere 10 knots, but, close
hauled and with the jib and the mainsail fully out, our boat speed is 7 knots,
so we are content. We have the traveller holding the boom in the middle of the
main, giving it a bit of twist, so that its top has more effect. The sun is
shining and the sky blue and though it is not quite bikini weather it is very
pleasant sitting out in the cockpit. Ahead of us is a dark cloud which Sven
says might be a front or might just be a cloud. We study the other clouds
hoping to get a hint but neither of us is sure. The cloud of interest,
meanwhile, has been getting closer and darker and is looking far more menacing.
Lisa is down in the galley cooking scallops for lunch, so Sven and I get to
work. We put a reef in the main and put up the running backstay, just in case.
Then, as if on cue, the sky, the water, and even the air itself all turn grey,
whitecaps materialize out of nowhere, and the wind speed jumps to 30 knots. The
boat heels over hard. We release the traveller allowing the main to move into a
more natural position, then furl in the jib a bit, then some more, then take a
second reef in the main, then stop to see how we are doing. The wind speed
increases again so we take in the jib completely and let out part of the stay
sail. We are getting to be a good team. We have been dashing about the boat,
moving up and down the side decks to where the mast is, heading back to the
cockpit to check on wind speed and direction, getting the job done. At some
point it started to rain, heavily, and we are both soaked to the skin but it
has been fun. The wind is still blowing hard, the boat is still heeled over,
but with reduced sail she is fine. And we are flying. We stop, strip off our
clothes, have some lunch, and watch the wind speed drop back down to 10 knots.
Darn, it wasn’t a front, just as cloud, so after lunch, Sven and I undo all the
work we had just done and go back to full sails. We stop again for dessert but
before we have finished another cloud passes over and the wind speed is up to
30 knots again. We sit a bit, wondering if it will pass, if we can just leave
the boat as it is, but Sven decides no (and I agree with him, the rails are in
the water) and so while Lisa does the dishes down below we head back out into
the rain again to reef the sails once more. I quite like day squalls, when you
can see the evil clouds coming, when the captain is awake and taking you
through the steps before you begin, when you can see what is happening with the
sails and the lines and the wind and the waves… Night squalls are just the same
except that, at night, the wind speed jumps 20 knots without notice because you
haven’t seen the dark cloud against the dark sky, at night the captain is
asleep and you have to rouse him and by the time he is awake the wind has risen
higher, it is scary, as opposed to fun, to be out on the front deck being
splashed by sea water and washed by rain, you can’t see the lines as well and
it is more likely you will make a mistake, you can’t see the coming waves as
well and it is more likely you might not anticipate the movement of the boat
and get pitched off your feet, it is more likely you might get spooked and fall
overboard… Day squalls and night squalls
are identical but, at the same time, as different as day and night!
31 May 2014
29 May 2014
Pitcairn Island Tourist Photos
 |
| Lisa, Sven, and I |
 |
| Bounty anchor... when the mutineers got here they BURNED their ship so that they wouldn't be discovered by any passing British ships because they knew they would be hung if found (which also meant that they could never leave) but then all ended up killing each other anyway (except for ONE of them) leaving only the Tahitian wives and their bi-racial kids alive!! |
 |
| At the lookout. :) |
 |
| Emily and Emily... One of us is an 8th generation Canadian, the other an 8th generation Pitcairn Islander, a direct descent of Fletcher Christian the leader of the infamous mutineers from 'Mutiny on the Bounty' the ship captained by Blyth himself. Emily has never been off Pitcairn Island, which is about 2 miles long, but will soon leave her elementary school - 8 kids in it at the moment 4 of them her siblings - and head to high school in New Zealand. She will be gone for 4 years without even summers back home. |
28 May 2014
Moai and more
Moai and more AKA Top 10 Easter Island Pics in no particular order
 |
| Anchorage #3. |
 |
| Horses outnumber cars on the roads. |
 |
| Weird and wonderful lava shore, great for bigger kids to explore. |
 |
| My personal favourite... note recycled old head used as block in wall. |
 |
| Another head. |
 |
| Me - to give perspective. |
 |
| The quarry where 100's of heads have been standing, waiting for centuries to be transported to the ocean shore. Erosion over the years has partially toppled and buried many of them. |
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| Yet another head. |
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| I take a tour of the island... note the toppled heads lying ignominiously on their faces looking almost like paper dolls. |
 |
| Breaking wave. |
Happy Tourist
Easter Island AKA One Happy Tourist At Least
In
the end I get a couple of fantastic days to rush around and be a tourist on
Easter Island. The weather co-operates and I pack my days as full as I can. I
take a guided tour, learn the history both ancient and more recent of the place
its people, see several impressive examples of the Moai, the statues, and the Ahu,
the platforms on which they rest, walk through the ancient villages past stone
chicken houses and garden plots, and marvel at the quarry where the Moai were
carved and where hundreds sit, finished, waiting, still, centuries later, to be
transported to their designated ocean-side sites. I walk along the waterfront in
the town past gift shops and restaurants and I visit the small but excellent museum.
I hike the beach in the other direction, past otherworldly lava landscape, and
then up the volcano itself through fields of tall pink grass, to the edge of
crater rim and peer down with amazement at the very circular pond full of jigsaw-like
floating grass islets reminiscent of ice blocks and visit the adjacent
reconstructed bird-man village. I gaze in awe at the landscapes and at the
archeological remains and I take a gazillion photos. I eat huge hot greasy tuna
empanadas. If where I want to go next is too far to walk I hitch-hike. I talk
to other tourists about their impressions of the island and to locals about their
life here. It is good, better than good, I am an excellent tourist and I love
every minute of it.
(Neither
Sven nor Lisa participate in any tourist activities. Sven drops Lisa and I off
at town each morning telling us he will pick us up again at 5 pm and returns to
the boat where puts his blog together and works on his finances (I don’t know
how rich he is but he did mention that he had to pay $400K in taxes last year)
and studies the weather for the coming week looking for a good window for us to
leave. Lisa seems uncertain why she is being dropped off, doesn’t join me in my
explorations, and always ends up calling Sven by noon each day, telling him who
knows what, resulting in his interrupting what he is doing and coming into town
to have lunch with her… Sven has been to Easter Island before, has seen all the
sights, had mentioned that he would like to see them again, but doesn’t manage
to find a day to so do. Lisa, I just don’t get at all. Is she happy with her
time here? As far as I can tell all she has done is buy postcards and go out to
lunch. Did she really have no desire to see the statues and the quarry and the
volcano craters? I am thrilled with my visit of the island, with how much
‘touristing’ I have fit into my time on land, but are they happy with their
visits here? It is hard to tell, impossible to ask, and will forever remain a
total mystery.)
25 May 2014
24 hours at anchor
May 22 - A typical 24 hours at anchor AKA 4 am when the front comes through till 4 am the next day
We have been sitting anchored around the wrong side of the island for a couple of days waiting for a front to go through because the current wind makes it impossible to anchor elsewhere. (It is the wrong side of the island in the sense that it’s a wee isolated bay far from anywhere - the right side of the island being beside the one and only town, the place you can land your dingy and set off exploring from.) About thirty sailboats visit Easter Island every year and all three that are here right now are anchored in the same bay as us waiting for the weather. One, owned by a Canadian who single-handed from Panama, has checked out already and is just waiting for weather to sail on west, the other, owned by an Australian who single-handed from Costa Rica, is, like us, waiting for a chance to go to the harbour by the town and so to visit the island. (Yesterday evening we had the other two over for a drink, a totally enjoyable time.)
My ‘day’ began at 4 am when the cold front we had been waiting for went through. Holy shit batman! The commotion woke me up and I went up to sit in the pilot house so I could have a good view in all round (I could see blackness in every direction for anyone who cares), listen to the wind and the rain, and, of course, worry a bit. I expected the captain to get up and check on the situation too but apparently he was chilling in his bunk less worried than me. Mostly, I can tell you, I am thrilled that we were not at sea. The front was like a wall. BAM. Three things happened at once: the wind changed direction, its speed went UP, and the hammering rain arrived. Since we are at anchor and all the weather instruments are turned off I can’t tell you exactly what the wind speed was but I can say this, it was howling - a technical term which means freakishly fast – and the rain was beating down as if being ejected from a high pressure hose. Sven’s custom rig, as one calls a made-to-order boat, cost about 3 million to have built (yeah, wow) but for some reason, although he has a large wonderfully enclosed pilot house and a large well-protected cockpit, he didn’t get the halyards and reefing lines led back so every time you want to adjust the main sail, put it up, take in a reef, take it down, etc, you have to do up along the exposed deck at the side of the boat to where the mast is and do the work right there being, if it is very windy, blown about by gusts and drenched in waves sea water, and, if it is raining, rained on. (Even the wee boat Geoff and I bought had lines led back so you could do work safely from the cockpit.) So at 4 am I was listening to the crashing of the waves, the clanging of the rigging, the drumming of the rain, and frankly, as I mentioned above, was thinking how thrilled I was that we were not out at sea. What kind of sailor am I anyway?
Eventually the others got up and the weather settled down to more gentle winds, low nondescript grey clouds, and that steady sort of rain that gives the impression it will go on all day. It felt like a Saturday. We lingered over breakfast, had a second cup of coffee, and then slowly, without any undue stress, started a couple of inside chores. (The captain repaired the grey water pump, Lisa pulled out her sewing machine and made a new clothes peg bag to replace the one that I had let fall over board the day before, and I emptied and cleaned a couple of lockers we had somehow missed before we left whose back walls were growing mold.) Lisa prepared squid for lunch. The Australian, who had left his jacket last night by mistake, came by in his dingy. In the afternoon the captain and I both downloaded our photos to our computers and worked on our respective journals then sat in the pilot house reading for a bit. I had a nap, we all sat together and sipped a glass of wine and watched the sunset, I made supper, we ate, we watched a movie and, finally, we all moseyed off to bed.
At some point in the late afternoon the coast guard had phoned on the VHF radio saying that it was still no good at the anchorage by the town but recommending that we move to a third different anchorage even further round the island. Sven decided not to go so 4 am finds me up again, sitting in the pilot house, and worrying, wondering if we ought to have moved. The winds shifted when the front came through and then calmed down during the day but, now, 24 hours later, have picked up again and big, very big, waves are coming straight at us from out at sea and so the bay, which protected us before, no longer does. The boat’s motion resembles more than anything else a bucking bronco. It is restrained by its anchor and feels it. As each wave hits, WHAM, the bow of the boat seems to hesitate for a second before shuddering violently and then lifting way up, and I mean WAY UP, causing the anchor chain to rattle with a loud clattering that is deep enough it resembles thunder, then plunging back down again, then THUD swhish, the wave passes below and the boat fishtails and rocks dramatically from side to side and finally, WOOOOOSH SPLASH crash, the stern itself splashes spectacularly through the end of the wave. Over this plays the sharp thwang of stays being stresses and released as they restrain the mast which is whipping over and back as the boat rocks, a deep deep BOOM like a Buddhist gong from who knows what, the constant wash splash rush of water past the hull, and a gazillion random loud clanks and rattles and other assorted noises from shackles that have worked their way a little loose or things not lashed down tightly enough or the contents of cupboards not quite full. So I’d crawled out of my bunk and gone up to the pilot house to see what I could see (stars flung across the sky above and the moon rising to the east and the old volcano landscape behind the boat, very dark against the less dark sky, looking like the Little Prince’s snake who had swallowed an elephant) and all the motions of the boat and their associated noises were louder and more dramatic and I found myself thinking exactly the same thing I’d been thinking exactly 24 hours ago, “Man, I’m glad we’re not out to sea (and what kind of sissy sailor ever thinks that)!”
Yep, just another day at anchor.
 |
| A (wee part) of the view from our second anchorage... |
We have been sitting anchored around the wrong side of the island for a couple of days waiting for a front to go through because the current wind makes it impossible to anchor elsewhere. (It is the wrong side of the island in the sense that it’s a wee isolated bay far from anywhere - the right side of the island being beside the one and only town, the place you can land your dingy and set off exploring from.) About thirty sailboats visit Easter Island every year and all three that are here right now are anchored in the same bay as us waiting for the weather. One, owned by a Canadian who single-handed from Panama, has checked out already and is just waiting for weather to sail on west, the other, owned by an Australian who single-handed from Costa Rica, is, like us, waiting for a chance to go to the harbour by the town and so to visit the island. (Yesterday evening we had the other two over for a drink, a totally enjoyable time.)
My ‘day’ began at 4 am when the cold front we had been waiting for went through. Holy shit batman! The commotion woke me up and I went up to sit in the pilot house so I could have a good view in all round (I could see blackness in every direction for anyone who cares), listen to the wind and the rain, and, of course, worry a bit. I expected the captain to get up and check on the situation too but apparently he was chilling in his bunk less worried than me. Mostly, I can tell you, I am thrilled that we were not at sea. The front was like a wall. BAM. Three things happened at once: the wind changed direction, its speed went UP, and the hammering rain arrived. Since we are at anchor and all the weather instruments are turned off I can’t tell you exactly what the wind speed was but I can say this, it was howling - a technical term which means freakishly fast – and the rain was beating down as if being ejected from a high pressure hose. Sven’s custom rig, as one calls a made-to-order boat, cost about 3 million to have built (yeah, wow) but for some reason, although he has a large wonderfully enclosed pilot house and a large well-protected cockpit, he didn’t get the halyards and reefing lines led back so every time you want to adjust the main sail, put it up, take in a reef, take it down, etc, you have to do up along the exposed deck at the side of the boat to where the mast is and do the work right there being, if it is very windy, blown about by gusts and drenched in waves sea water, and, if it is raining, rained on. (Even the wee boat Geoff and I bought had lines led back so you could do work safely from the cockpit.) So at 4 am I was listening to the crashing of the waves, the clanging of the rigging, the drumming of the rain, and frankly, as I mentioned above, was thinking how thrilled I was that we were not out at sea. What kind of sailor am I anyway?
Eventually the others got up and the weather settled down to more gentle winds, low nondescript grey clouds, and that steady sort of rain that gives the impression it will go on all day. It felt like a Saturday. We lingered over breakfast, had a second cup of coffee, and then slowly, without any undue stress, started a couple of inside chores. (The captain repaired the grey water pump, Lisa pulled out her sewing machine and made a new clothes peg bag to replace the one that I had let fall over board the day before, and I emptied and cleaned a couple of lockers we had somehow missed before we left whose back walls were growing mold.) Lisa prepared squid for lunch. The Australian, who had left his jacket last night by mistake, came by in his dingy. In the afternoon the captain and I both downloaded our photos to our computers and worked on our respective journals then sat in the pilot house reading for a bit. I had a nap, we all sat together and sipped a glass of wine and watched the sunset, I made supper, we ate, we watched a movie and, finally, we all moseyed off to bed.
At some point in the late afternoon the coast guard had phoned on the VHF radio saying that it was still no good at the anchorage by the town but recommending that we move to a third different anchorage even further round the island. Sven decided not to go so 4 am finds me up again, sitting in the pilot house, and worrying, wondering if we ought to have moved. The winds shifted when the front came through and then calmed down during the day but, now, 24 hours later, have picked up again and big, very big, waves are coming straight at us from out at sea and so the bay, which protected us before, no longer does. The boat’s motion resembles more than anything else a bucking bronco. It is restrained by its anchor and feels it. As each wave hits, WHAM, the bow of the boat seems to hesitate for a second before shuddering violently and then lifting way up, and I mean WAY UP, causing the anchor chain to rattle with a loud clattering that is deep enough it resembles thunder, then plunging back down again, then THUD swhish, the wave passes below and the boat fishtails and rocks dramatically from side to side and finally, WOOOOOSH SPLASH crash, the stern itself splashes spectacularly through the end of the wave. Over this plays the sharp thwang of stays being stresses and released as they restrain the mast which is whipping over and back as the boat rocks, a deep deep BOOM like a Buddhist gong from who knows what, the constant wash splash rush of water past the hull, and a gazillion random loud clanks and rattles and other assorted noises from shackles that have worked their way a little loose or things not lashed down tightly enough or the contents of cupboards not quite full. So I’d crawled out of my bunk and gone up to the pilot house to see what I could see (stars flung across the sky above and the moon rising to the east and the old volcano landscape behind the boat, very dark against the less dark sky, looking like the Little Prince’s snake who had swallowed an elephant) and all the motions of the boat and their associated noises were louder and more dramatic and I found myself thinking exactly the same thing I’d been thinking exactly 24 hours ago, “Man, I’m glad we’re not out to sea (and what kind of sissy sailor ever thinks that)!”
Yep, just another day at anchor.
Kyboshed
May 20th - On how my anticipated tourist activities are kyboshed, for the second time in a row, by the captain’s misinterpretation of upcoming weather conditions.
I have to preface this entry by stating that we are currently at Easter Island, which one might think is in the South Pacific, but, weatherwise at any rate, is still much more like Patagonia, where the saying, ‘If you don’t like the weather wait five minutes,’ is too close to the truth to be funny.
So… my story starts exactly two weeks ago, on a Monday, the day before we left Robinson Crusoe Island. The airport on RCI, as I will call it for short, is on the far side of the island, and, since there are no roads that go there, there is a ferry, well a wee fishing boat actually, that coordinates with the weekly flight from the mainland by doing a two hour run around the coast taking any outgoing passengers to the airport and then returning with the incoming ones. This happens on a Tuesday. If the seas are too rough for the small boat to make the trip then the airplane doesn’t fly. The ferry is supposed to be for air passengers only, but since I was there on RCI and it seemed like it might be an interesting thing to do, I went into town on Monday to try and find out if there was any way I could sweet talk my way into a ride on the ferry, there and back, just so I could see the other side of the island. I had no idea who to see to set this up but as I passed by the park ranger’s office I decided to stop in and ask if they could tell me. As luck would have it the wasp experts, Rodrigo and Pillar, were there, talking to the head park ranger. They were going to fly out the next day but rather than taking the regular ferry the ranger was going to take them out so he could give them a guided tour of some of the different ecosystems on the far side of the island. Then, after dropping them off, he was going to go to the fur seal colony and do something park rangery there. And, miracle of miracles, when I expressed an interest in the airport ferry he said it was unfortunately not an option, but, instead, he would take me with him for the day! Wow. I was on cloud nine, it sounded like a fantastic once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Obviously, however, from the title of this entry, you will have perceived that this is not how things turned out. I got back to our boat and Sven stated that he was planning to leave at noon the next day, Tuesday, to catch a good weather window that would allow us to get away before a coming high set in. I told him of my planned trip to the other side of the island and asked if he could delay our departure by just a few hours so I could take advantage of it and his answer was an unequivocal NO. I was, needless to say, slightly disappointed (read totally crushed) but, well, what is a lowly crew to do? I’d asked, he had replied, and his reasons almost made sense; he said that the winds were going to be perfect for a short time only and if I got stranded on the other side of the island (something that seemed highly unlikely to me) then it would put off his chance of leaving and, windwise, we’d be totally screwed. So. I didn’t get to go with the park ranger, didn’t get to see the other side of the island, didn’t get to visit the fur seal colony, and, of course, to add insult to injury, rub salt in the wound, or, if you prefer, to make me feel as if I were kicked when I was down, though we did leave at noon the next day as planned, the captain had apparently misinterpreted the weather forecast, or maybe it had merely been wrong, and we ended up stuck in the middle of the high with no wind at all to speak of and, hence, merely motored, instead of sailing, for three whole days. Aargh.
Part two of this story occurs exactly two weeks later. We got to Easter Island on a Monday, anchored, and had the authorities come aboard to check out our paperwork, our passports and visa, our supply of fresh fruit, our garbage, etc., etc.. Then we put the dingy in the water and went into town for lunch. While there I went to the tourist office to inquire about guided tours. Easter Island is such an amazing place anthropologically that I had decided I had to spring for a real guide to take me round and tell me about stuff. (For those who are not familiar with its story - which is perhaps overused today as an ecological parable for what might happen to the world as a whole if we don’t look after our resources a little better – it goes like this… Easter Island was a south pacific paradise when first colonized by Polynesians over 1000 years ago. There were no native animals but the vegetation was amazingly lush. On the geographically isolated Galapagos Islands the turtles had grown to be huge; on the similarly isolated Easter Island the palm trees were 7 feet in diameter! Because they had plenty of food, chickens and vegetable species they had brought with them supplemented by local fish and birds, and were too far away from other islands to expend energy trading or fighting with them, the inhabitants developed a very rich co-operative society composed of 12 tribes, each of whose land had different resources, and proceeded to build the huge (up to 270 ton!) now iconic statues. One day, however, the last tree was cut down. They lost not only the wood they needed to transport and erect any new statues but also fuel for cooking food and for cremating their dead, material for building boats and hence fishing at sea, habitat for land birds and hence that source of food as well, controlled drainage for their fields, and the list goes on. By the time the island had was encountered in the 1700’s by the Europeans the civilization had crashed into complete anarchy with cannibalism rampant.) But, back to my story. On Monday I discovered that there was a guided tour, in English, leaving from the tourist center at 9 am the very next morning. With my experience from Robinson Crusoe Island still relatively fresh in my memory, and, given my knowledge that the wind was due to come up and that we might have to switch to a different anchorage, I was tempted to stay on the island overnight, just get a room in a hostel, grab the iron while it was hot and do this tour right immediately before the opportunity slipped away. We’d only come in to the Island for lunch, so I didn’t have anything with me (no clean underwear or toothbrush for example, and, more importantly to my mind, no extra camera battery) but it seemed like the best, if somewhat dramatic, plan to me. I was stressing more about my camera dying and having to live the Easter Island experience there in the moment without being able to record it on film than anything else. When we all met up at the dingy at the designated time to go back to the sailboat I talked to Sven about my staying on the Island overnight so I could do the tour the next day but he said that that was absolutely unnecessary, that the weather conditions were fantastic, that he’d be happy to run me into town the next morning. By 9 am? Certainly. No problem. No doubt about it at all. So I believed him and went back to the boat for the night. Yes. Well. That evening a call came in from the coast guard recommending that we move to a different anchorage at first light, and, by morning, it was, as my kids would have said when they were younger, a ‘no brainer’. The wind was up to 30 knots, the waves were huge, and we were totally unprotected. There was no discussion at all about going into town, about my lovely English language tour, about anything. Right after breakfast we pulled anchor and sailed – a fantastic day sail as a matter of fact – round to the other side of the island where we proceeded to re-anchor in a picturesque protected spot far from any possible dingy landing. We can see several volcanic cinder cones from where we are anchored, and 15 of the stone statues lined up along the shore, but, but, but… Man, I knew I ought to have stayed on land. I hope I come to really like all the sailing, because, let’s face it, the fates are not interested, at all, in letting me fulfill any of my current touristic aspirations!
I have to preface this entry by stating that we are currently at Easter Island, which one might think is in the South Pacific, but, weatherwise at any rate, is still much more like Patagonia, where the saying, ‘If you don’t like the weather wait five minutes,’ is too close to the truth to be funny.
 |
| We climbed to Alexander Selkirk (AKA Robinson Crusoe) lookout, he climbed there everyday to see the other side of the island to look for ships. |
So… my story starts exactly two weeks ago, on a Monday, the day before we left Robinson Crusoe Island. The airport on RCI, as I will call it for short, is on the far side of the island, and, since there are no roads that go there, there is a ferry, well a wee fishing boat actually, that coordinates with the weekly flight from the mainland by doing a two hour run around the coast taking any outgoing passengers to the airport and then returning with the incoming ones. This happens on a Tuesday. If the seas are too rough for the small boat to make the trip then the airplane doesn’t fly. The ferry is supposed to be for air passengers only, but since I was there on RCI and it seemed like it might be an interesting thing to do, I went into town on Monday to try and find out if there was any way I could sweet talk my way into a ride on the ferry, there and back, just so I could see the other side of the island. I had no idea who to see to set this up but as I passed by the park ranger’s office I decided to stop in and ask if they could tell me. As luck would have it the wasp experts, Rodrigo and Pillar, were there, talking to the head park ranger. They were going to fly out the next day but rather than taking the regular ferry the ranger was going to take them out so he could give them a guided tour of some of the different ecosystems on the far side of the island. Then, after dropping them off, he was going to go to the fur seal colony and do something park rangery there. And, miracle of miracles, when I expressed an interest in the airport ferry he said it was unfortunately not an option, but, instead, he would take me with him for the day! Wow. I was on cloud nine, it sounded like a fantastic once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Obviously, however, from the title of this entry, you will have perceived that this is not how things turned out. I got back to our boat and Sven stated that he was planning to leave at noon the next day, Tuesday, to catch a good weather window that would allow us to get away before a coming high set in. I told him of my planned trip to the other side of the island and asked if he could delay our departure by just a few hours so I could take advantage of it and his answer was an unequivocal NO. I was, needless to say, slightly disappointed (read totally crushed) but, well, what is a lowly crew to do? I’d asked, he had replied, and his reasons almost made sense; he said that the winds were going to be perfect for a short time only and if I got stranded on the other side of the island (something that seemed highly unlikely to me) then it would put off his chance of leaving and, windwise, we’d be totally screwed. So. I didn’t get to go with the park ranger, didn’t get to see the other side of the island, didn’t get to visit the fur seal colony, and, of course, to add insult to injury, rub salt in the wound, or, if you prefer, to make me feel as if I were kicked when I was down, though we did leave at noon the next day as planned, the captain had apparently misinterpreted the weather forecast, or maybe it had merely been wrong, and we ended up stuck in the middle of the high with no wind at all to speak of and, hence, merely motored, instead of sailing, for three whole days. Aargh.
Part two of this story occurs exactly two weeks later. We got to Easter Island on a Monday, anchored, and had the authorities come aboard to check out our paperwork, our passports and visa, our supply of fresh fruit, our garbage, etc., etc.. Then we put the dingy in the water and went into town for lunch. While there I went to the tourist office to inquire about guided tours. Easter Island is such an amazing place anthropologically that I had decided I had to spring for a real guide to take me round and tell me about stuff. (For those who are not familiar with its story - which is perhaps overused today as an ecological parable for what might happen to the world as a whole if we don’t look after our resources a little better – it goes like this… Easter Island was a south pacific paradise when first colonized by Polynesians over 1000 years ago. There were no native animals but the vegetation was amazingly lush. On the geographically isolated Galapagos Islands the turtles had grown to be huge; on the similarly isolated Easter Island the palm trees were 7 feet in diameter! Because they had plenty of food, chickens and vegetable species they had brought with them supplemented by local fish and birds, and were too far away from other islands to expend energy trading or fighting with them, the inhabitants developed a very rich co-operative society composed of 12 tribes, each of whose land had different resources, and proceeded to build the huge (up to 270 ton!) now iconic statues. One day, however, the last tree was cut down. They lost not only the wood they needed to transport and erect any new statues but also fuel for cooking food and for cremating their dead, material for building boats and hence fishing at sea, habitat for land birds and hence that source of food as well, controlled drainage for their fields, and the list goes on. By the time the island had was encountered in the 1700’s by the Europeans the civilization had crashed into complete anarchy with cannibalism rampant.) But, back to my story. On Monday I discovered that there was a guided tour, in English, leaving from the tourist center at 9 am the very next morning. With my experience from Robinson Crusoe Island still relatively fresh in my memory, and, given my knowledge that the wind was due to come up and that we might have to switch to a different anchorage, I was tempted to stay on the island overnight, just get a room in a hostel, grab the iron while it was hot and do this tour right immediately before the opportunity slipped away. We’d only come in to the Island for lunch, so I didn’t have anything with me (no clean underwear or toothbrush for example, and, more importantly to my mind, no extra camera battery) but it seemed like the best, if somewhat dramatic, plan to me. I was stressing more about my camera dying and having to live the Easter Island experience there in the moment without being able to record it on film than anything else. When we all met up at the dingy at the designated time to go back to the sailboat I talked to Sven about my staying on the Island overnight so I could do the tour the next day but he said that that was absolutely unnecessary, that the weather conditions were fantastic, that he’d be happy to run me into town the next morning. By 9 am? Certainly. No problem. No doubt about it at all. So I believed him and went back to the boat for the night. Yes. Well. That evening a call came in from the coast guard recommending that we move to a different anchorage at first light, and, by morning, it was, as my kids would have said when they were younger, a ‘no brainer’. The wind was up to 30 knots, the waves were huge, and we were totally unprotected. There was no discussion at all about going into town, about my lovely English language tour, about anything. Right after breakfast we pulled anchor and sailed – a fantastic day sail as a matter of fact – round to the other side of the island where we proceeded to re-anchor in a picturesque protected spot far from any possible dingy landing. We can see several volcanic cinder cones from where we are anchored, and 15 of the stone statues lined up along the shore, but, but, but… Man, I knew I ought to have stayed on land. I hope I come to really like all the sailing, because, let’s face it, the fates are not interested, at all, in letting me fulfill any of my current touristic aspirations!
10 May 2014
A typical day at sea
May 10 – A typical day at sea…
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| Sailing wing on wing in low winds. |
As the day dawns I am on watch, the 4 am – 8 am watch, my absolute
favourite watch of all, and I can be found outside keeping half an eye on the
wind, the sails, and the nav instruments but the other eye and a half on the
colours slowing emerging from the darkness. It is SO beautiful, in all
directions. At one point before the sun comes up the sky to the east is a
veritable rainbow; red at the bottom and then orange, yellow, green (yes,
green) blue, and, finally a colour that can only be described as mauve though
in fact it is much clearer and purer than that. As the sun continues to
approach the horizon from below the colours shift and there is an amazing swath
of tangerine where the rainbow was and pink and baby blue in the other
direction and then, as the sun actually peeks over the horizon the clouds
closest to it are rimmed with iridescent gold and the ones further away have
their underbellies painted salmon and the shades wash across the sky in a dance
choreographed to take your breath away.
Eventually, after the sun has
risen higher, the early morning rays have finished their waltz through the clouds
as well, and the sky chosen to settle upon blue as its predominant colour for
the day, I spare a glance or two at the sea instead, which has huge wide slow
graceful 6m high swells gently swimming towards the boat and repeatedly lifting
it lovingly up and slowly caressing it back down again. Sven comes out,
inspects the sails, and stops to sit for a minute or two outside as well. We
don’t exchange any words but instead grin back and forth at each other clearly
indicating our mutual appreciation with the situation. The wind is only blowing
about 12 knots but the boat is skimming over the relatively calm seas at 7
knots with the swells so soft that they are not slowing her down at all. After
three days of motoring in too little wind we are both thrilled to be sailing
and sailing so well.
Flash forward to 4 pm, after
I have helped Sven with a bit of maintenance, had a shower out on the back
deck, cooked lunch, done some reading up
on Easter Island, our next destination, and the wind has started to pick up. He
and I put in one reef, then two, into the main, then furl the jib a bit, then
put a third reef into the main then sit in the pilot house and watch the wind
and weather together. It is blowing 28 knots now, which is windy, and the
swells, still 6 m high but much closer together than they were this morning and
made bigger and more formidable by the waves that are building on top of them,
have the boat crashing through them on the way up and then being thrown down
the other side in a jerky jarring juddering movement that is far more
reminiscent of a brutal fist fight than an dance. Up ahead is an ominous dark
cloud. Sven is watching it carefully. He doesn’t know if, when we enter it, it
will come with biting rain and higher squally winds or not. He is thinking
about taking the main down altogether for the night and what happens under this
cloud will help decide that. I wait until we are under the cloud (nothing much
changed so the sails will be left as they are) and then take a long nap.
I am due to start my night
shift at midnight but wake up at 11 pm and come up an hour early to relieve
Sven - I know he will be tired - and the wind is now a steady 24 – 26 knots. It
has swung round to the east a bit and so the swells, still huge, are more
behind us than they were before, causing the boat to roll continuously,
considerably, to one side and then the other.
As expected Sven is happy for me to start my watch early, asks me to
wake him if the wind gets up to 30 knots, and turns in. I go outside into the
cockpit and it seems as if the boat is flying through the darkness. The wind
and waves always appear larger and more forbidding in the dark especially in
menacing weather but fortunately it is not completely black out, the moon is up
and the clouds are patchy so it’s light shines through from time to time, even,
occasionally, leaving a trail of silver sparkles on the angry waves. I know by
now that if the wind does rise to 30 knots the changed motion of the boat will
have Sven up and outside even before I can think to call him so I am here alone
on deck with Mother Nature’s wild side raging gloriously all about me and not a
care in the world. The palate of colours is now dominated by a whole range of
magnificent heavy charcoals, so different from the morning’s light pastels and
gold, but, in its own way, just as grand. Another day in paradise!
05 May 2014
Dana leg 1 and more...
Hmmm.... Three entries in one here with poor internet connection...
April 25 Dana Leg 1 Puerto Montt, Chile to Robinson Crusoe Island, Chile
Day 1 - Amazingly, we followed our departure schedule: we got though our seemingly endless list of chores, filled up on diesel, set out from Puerto Montt on time, and then motored for several hours over calm waters through the bays and channels leading towards the open ocean. Dana, the boat, with her freshly cleaned bottom, was fast and nimble, as was Sven, who, being very attentive to the newly upgraded software on his navigational computer, was leaping about like a mountain goat going from one side of the cockpit to the other and then indoors to the pilot house and then back out again. Lisa and I, after having stowed the dock lines and fenders, had a few hours to relax - I even took a nap – and then, as the sun started to go down and we were still a fair way inland, we found a quiet bay by a tiny fishing village and dropped anchor for the night. It was a lovely gentle start to the trip. I made supper, took some meat out of the freezer for the next day’s lunch, and worried about what the following days would bring.
Day 2 - We woke to pouring rain, and, at 11 am, donned our foul weather gear and headed out on deck to hoist the anchor before motoring through the remaining channels toward the sea. The water was swift and boily, 5 knots of current at times helping push us along and whirlpools all over the place. Seals, curious, poked their heads up to watch us pass and porpoises, black and white all over, jumped and played in the crazy water. As we passed by the last point of land and arrived in the Pacific proper the swell was all of a sudden huge and irregular with waves 3m high crashing in from all directions and the wind was a mess with gentle breezes of 10 knots and gusts going up to 40 (which is quite windy). Within an hour all three of us were mightily seasick vomiting regularly in bowls or overboard depending on whether we were inside or out. At midnight Sven woke me to do my first night shift. The wind and waves were still fitful. I brought my bowl with me and tried to listen to his instructions but what should have been a quick 2 minute update on the situation took 15 because I was forever interrupting him caterwauling as I spewed vomit and bile into my bowl or dashing to the head to void my other end. He was so tired that he let me stand watch for two of the four hours I was scheduled to do but then he sent me below to sleep again, because, as he put it, ‘I don’t trust you to be able to make coherent decisions in your condition and I can’t sleep anyway with all the vomiting you are doing.’ Gratefully I went back below and curled up in the foetal position on my bunk cradling my bowl for when I would need it next.
And then the days start to slide slowly into one another… - Eventually we get far enough from shore that the seas are calmer and the wind is light and steady and the swells, while still huge, are at least regular. My nightshifts tend to be totally uneventful (which is good). A few boats pass by like ghosts, visible on the instruments but too far away to be seen by the naked eye, there are sea birds all over the place, wee tiny things that flit about mere inches above the waves and albatrosses that soar somewhat higher and there are huge white jellyfish floating close to the surface, but apart from all these we are alone. Sven looks after the electronics, Lisa and I cook, and we all stand watch. During the afternoons we read the stories of the first men to circumnavigate the world, of the pirates and privateers that came after them, and of course, of Alexander Selkirk who was so famously marooned alone, from 1704 to 1709, on the first island that we will visit, and we try to fathom how different their experiences were than ours. Dana is long and streamlined enough that she flies along happily regardless of the lighter breezes and to encourage her we slowly shake all 3 reefs out of the main. One morning as the sun rises and we are out on deck putting up a pole to hold the gib out to run wing on wing a couple of whales come and swim beside the boat. Huge, dark, and graceful they shadow us for half an hour. A mother and calf, Sei whales we decide after examining the field guide, likely heading north to warmer waters for the winter. A digital display on one of the nav instruments continuously counts down the days, hours, and minutes until Dana reaches her next theoretical anchorage but I feel I have already arrived at my destination. It is here, right here, with open ocean extending in all directions. This is exactly where I want to be. And I am tempted to put a piece of electrical tape over the countdown display, to hide it, like people will put over their check engine light. I don’t want to be reminded that this leg will come to an end, that this trip will come to an end, or that time exists at all.
April 30 Arriving at Juan Fernandez
As the day dawns with small pink clouds beautiful on the horizon but clear blue sky above all is good; we have been close hauled for a while with a steady 15 knots and have been ‘following the wind’ as opposed to a compass direction and through the night the wind shifted so that we are now well placed to pass the islands, do one tack, and then sail right into the harbour. After breakfast Sven sets me to hand steering, just for practice, and I manage to impress him which pleases both of us. The wind picks up to 20 knots, Dana heels over, and I stay on the wheel as long as Sven will allow, the boat and I happy with each other. The island is visible ahead shrouded in mist giving it a very mysterious air. It is bigger, greener, and more mountainous than expected. When we are 2 nautical miles out we furl the jib and Sven goes to start the engine, which - is this the story of my life or what - doesn’t start. The wind picks up again to 25 knots and we head into the mist, which is actually biting rain, and the island looms large right in front of us and we will have to drop anchor under sail. Lisa and I don our foul weather gear, unfurl the jib again, and prepare to lower the main. Sven, on the helm, heads us into the wind but Dana, with a mind of her own, decides to do a pirouette of joy for some reason and with the main-sheet pulled in tight to center the boom this means that we heel over very hard first in one direction and then in the other. I am on top of the pilot house at this point ready to flake the main when it is lowered and hang on for dear life. The morning, having started off so benignly, is suddenly alarmingly intimidating. Lisa makes a mistake. Sven gets curt. The wind picks up yet again. Me, I am merely glad that I am not trained up enough yet to have any real responsibility other than blindly following Sven’s orders, which, fortunately, I am good at.
A few hours later, having successfully anchored, put the dingy in the water, been to shore to sign in with the authorities, ascertained that we are currently the only tourists on the island, and talked with some fishermen about the possibility of buying fresh lobster off them for tomorrow’s supper, we are back on the boat having a drink with steep deep green valleys rising up close beside us and several days exploring the island in front of us and, once again, all is good.
May 3rd Robinson Crusoe Island - Even tiny towns have interesting people in them…
The two main islands in the Juan Fernandez Archipelago are named Alexander Selkirk after the mariner who was marooned here alone from 1704 – 1709 and Robinson Crusoe after the fictional character whose adventures were very loosely based on his experience. They are almost as isolated as the Galapagos and have just as pristine an environment with as many endemic species though it is ferns that have tended to proliferate here which are somewhat less romantic than turtles. Sven, Lisa, and I go ashore to have an ice-cream, or, as Sven puts it, ‘The first of many ice-creams.’ We wander round the little town on Robinson Crusoe Island, population 600 - called San Juan Baptista, and, technically, the capital city - with the soccer pitch built right by the beach on the only flat land, the main street curving along the bay and the side streets going steeply up. The town was devastated by the tsunami of 2010 and you can tell how high the wave reached because the first three rows of houses are all brand new, replacing ones that were destroyed, and those further uphill are decidedly older-looking. We come across a flock of the noisy endangered hummingbirds, with bright red males and blue/green/white females, the largest hummingbirds in existence, living only on this tiny island nowhere else in the world, and spend several minutes trying in vain to get a good photo of one. Then we tour a superb tiny museum (which I am sure was closed but had had its door blown wide open) and learn much of the geology, history, biology, and culture of the island. Finally we stop for our ice-cream and happen across a young man who is in all likelihood the most interesting character who lives here. He runs a restaurant out of his living room, a dive shop out of his back shed, and before I know it Sven has convinced him to show us a couple of home videos he has made. (I abide home videos.) The first, however, is fascinating. It is the story of how he built, by hand, a traditional whaling boat, a small open dory, and then sailed it across the ocean to the mainland - an incredible feat. The second is just as remarkable and tells how he has worked to update various traditions making them more geographically relevant, like, for example, transforming Santa into a pirate and dressing up and sailing to all the islands (OK so there are only 2) and delivering presents to all the children from out of a treasure chest each Christmas.
My father loved to talk to random people, waitresses who served us in coffee shops along the highway while we were on road trips for example, and could always manage both to find something in common with them and get them to share a notable story in the few minutes while they filled his cup and brought him cream. Sven is like this too. Had I come here on my own I might have ordered an ice-cream from this same person but I would have been unlikely to have heard about any of his exploits.
The next time we go to town we visit an old Spanish fort with cannons lined up along the wall, the site of a wounded German ship which hid out here during WWII and then sunk itself on purpose rather than be taken by the British, some caves built in the 18th century, and then we stop in at a little restaurant for some lunch. None of us, to our shame, speak any Spanish and so the couple at the only other table translate the oral menu for us (lobster for $26 or crab for $6) and after we have all finished our meals Sven invites them back to the boat for coffee. They are Chilean co-workers, agronomists specializing in insects, contracted by the UN to study an infestation of German yellow-jacket wasps which arrived on the island several years ago, likely hidden hibernating in some packaging, and to suggest to the national park rangers possible biological or chemical methods of eradicating them. It is a very agreeable afternoon, and, once again, I am amazed that Sven, who on our first visit to town managed to meet and engage in conversation the most interesting local, has, on our second visit managed to meet and engage in conversation the most interesting visitors!
April 25 Dana Leg 1 Puerto Montt, Chile to Robinson Crusoe Island, Chile
Day 1 - Amazingly, we followed our departure schedule: we got though our seemingly endless list of chores, filled up on diesel, set out from Puerto Montt on time, and then motored for several hours over calm waters through the bays and channels leading towards the open ocean. Dana, the boat, with her freshly cleaned bottom, was fast and nimble, as was Sven, who, being very attentive to the newly upgraded software on his navigational computer, was leaping about like a mountain goat going from one side of the cockpit to the other and then indoors to the pilot house and then back out again. Lisa and I, after having stowed the dock lines and fenders, had a few hours to relax - I even took a nap – and then, as the sun started to go down and we were still a fair way inland, we found a quiet bay by a tiny fishing village and dropped anchor for the night. It was a lovely gentle start to the trip. I made supper, took some meat out of the freezer for the next day’s lunch, and worried about what the following days would bring.
Day 2 - We woke to pouring rain, and, at 11 am, donned our foul weather gear and headed out on deck to hoist the anchor before motoring through the remaining channels toward the sea. The water was swift and boily, 5 knots of current at times helping push us along and whirlpools all over the place. Seals, curious, poked their heads up to watch us pass and porpoises, black and white all over, jumped and played in the crazy water. As we passed by the last point of land and arrived in the Pacific proper the swell was all of a sudden huge and irregular with waves 3m high crashing in from all directions and the wind was a mess with gentle breezes of 10 knots and gusts going up to 40 (which is quite windy). Within an hour all three of us were mightily seasick vomiting regularly in bowls or overboard depending on whether we were inside or out. At midnight Sven woke me to do my first night shift. The wind and waves were still fitful. I brought my bowl with me and tried to listen to his instructions but what should have been a quick 2 minute update on the situation took 15 because I was forever interrupting him caterwauling as I spewed vomit and bile into my bowl or dashing to the head to void my other end. He was so tired that he let me stand watch for two of the four hours I was scheduled to do but then he sent me below to sleep again, because, as he put it, ‘I don’t trust you to be able to make coherent decisions in your condition and I can’t sleep anyway with all the vomiting you are doing.’ Gratefully I went back below and curled up in the foetal position on my bunk cradling my bowl for when I would need it next.
And then the days start to slide slowly into one another… - Eventually we get far enough from shore that the seas are calmer and the wind is light and steady and the swells, while still huge, are at least regular. My nightshifts tend to be totally uneventful (which is good). A few boats pass by like ghosts, visible on the instruments but too far away to be seen by the naked eye, there are sea birds all over the place, wee tiny things that flit about mere inches above the waves and albatrosses that soar somewhat higher and there are huge white jellyfish floating close to the surface, but apart from all these we are alone. Sven looks after the electronics, Lisa and I cook, and we all stand watch. During the afternoons we read the stories of the first men to circumnavigate the world, of the pirates and privateers that came after them, and of course, of Alexander Selkirk who was so famously marooned alone, from 1704 to 1709, on the first island that we will visit, and we try to fathom how different their experiences were than ours. Dana is long and streamlined enough that she flies along happily regardless of the lighter breezes and to encourage her we slowly shake all 3 reefs out of the main. One morning as the sun rises and we are out on deck putting up a pole to hold the gib out to run wing on wing a couple of whales come and swim beside the boat. Huge, dark, and graceful they shadow us for half an hour. A mother and calf, Sei whales we decide after examining the field guide, likely heading north to warmer waters for the winter. A digital display on one of the nav instruments continuously counts down the days, hours, and minutes until Dana reaches her next theoretical anchorage but I feel I have already arrived at my destination. It is here, right here, with open ocean extending in all directions. This is exactly where I want to be. And I am tempted to put a piece of electrical tape over the countdown display, to hide it, like people will put over their check engine light. I don’t want to be reminded that this leg will come to an end, that this trip will come to an end, or that time exists at all.
April 30 Arriving at Juan Fernandez
 |
| Dana at Robinson Crusoe Island |
As the day dawns with small pink clouds beautiful on the horizon but clear blue sky above all is good; we have been close hauled for a while with a steady 15 knots and have been ‘following the wind’ as opposed to a compass direction and through the night the wind shifted so that we are now well placed to pass the islands, do one tack, and then sail right into the harbour. After breakfast Sven sets me to hand steering, just for practice, and I manage to impress him which pleases both of us. The wind picks up to 20 knots, Dana heels over, and I stay on the wheel as long as Sven will allow, the boat and I happy with each other. The island is visible ahead shrouded in mist giving it a very mysterious air. It is bigger, greener, and more mountainous than expected. When we are 2 nautical miles out we furl the jib and Sven goes to start the engine, which - is this the story of my life or what - doesn’t start. The wind picks up again to 25 knots and we head into the mist, which is actually biting rain, and the island looms large right in front of us and we will have to drop anchor under sail. Lisa and I don our foul weather gear, unfurl the jib again, and prepare to lower the main. Sven, on the helm, heads us into the wind but Dana, with a mind of her own, decides to do a pirouette of joy for some reason and with the main-sheet pulled in tight to center the boom this means that we heel over very hard first in one direction and then in the other. I am on top of the pilot house at this point ready to flake the main when it is lowered and hang on for dear life. The morning, having started off so benignly, is suddenly alarmingly intimidating. Lisa makes a mistake. Sven gets curt. The wind picks up yet again. Me, I am merely glad that I am not trained up enough yet to have any real responsibility other than blindly following Sven’s orders, which, fortunately, I am good at.
A few hours later, having successfully anchored, put the dingy in the water, been to shore to sign in with the authorities, ascertained that we are currently the only tourists on the island, and talked with some fishermen about the possibility of buying fresh lobster off them for tomorrow’s supper, we are back on the boat having a drink with steep deep green valleys rising up close beside us and several days exploring the island in front of us and, once again, all is good.
May 3rd Robinson Crusoe Island - Even tiny towns have interesting people in them…
 |
| Giant ferns... almost as romantic as giant turtles! |
The two main islands in the Juan Fernandez Archipelago are named Alexander Selkirk after the mariner who was marooned here alone from 1704 – 1709 and Robinson Crusoe after the fictional character whose adventures were very loosely based on his experience. They are almost as isolated as the Galapagos and have just as pristine an environment with as many endemic species though it is ferns that have tended to proliferate here which are somewhat less romantic than turtles. Sven, Lisa, and I go ashore to have an ice-cream, or, as Sven puts it, ‘The first of many ice-creams.’ We wander round the little town on Robinson Crusoe Island, population 600 - called San Juan Baptista, and, technically, the capital city - with the soccer pitch built right by the beach on the only flat land, the main street curving along the bay and the side streets going steeply up. The town was devastated by the tsunami of 2010 and you can tell how high the wave reached because the first three rows of houses are all brand new, replacing ones that were destroyed, and those further uphill are decidedly older-looking. We come across a flock of the noisy endangered hummingbirds, with bright red males and blue/green/white females, the largest hummingbirds in existence, living only on this tiny island nowhere else in the world, and spend several minutes trying in vain to get a good photo of one. Then we tour a superb tiny museum (which I am sure was closed but had had its door blown wide open) and learn much of the geology, history, biology, and culture of the island. Finally we stop for our ice-cream and happen across a young man who is in all likelihood the most interesting character who lives here. He runs a restaurant out of his living room, a dive shop out of his back shed, and before I know it Sven has convinced him to show us a couple of home videos he has made. (I abide home videos.) The first, however, is fascinating. It is the story of how he built, by hand, a traditional whaling boat, a small open dory, and then sailed it across the ocean to the mainland - an incredible feat. The second is just as remarkable and tells how he has worked to update various traditions making them more geographically relevant, like, for example, transforming Santa into a pirate and dressing up and sailing to all the islands (OK so there are only 2) and delivering presents to all the children from out of a treasure chest each Christmas.
 |
| Edwardo shows us his boat. |
My father loved to talk to random people, waitresses who served us in coffee shops along the highway while we were on road trips for example, and could always manage both to find something in common with them and get them to share a notable story in the few minutes while they filled his cup and brought him cream. Sven is like this too. Had I come here on my own I might have ordered an ice-cream from this same person but I would have been unlikely to have heard about any of his exploits.
The next time we go to town we visit an old Spanish fort with cannons lined up along the wall, the site of a wounded German ship which hid out here during WWII and then sunk itself on purpose rather than be taken by the British, some caves built in the 18th century, and then we stop in at a little restaurant for some lunch. None of us, to our shame, speak any Spanish and so the couple at the only other table translate the oral menu for us (lobster for $26 or crab for $6) and after we have all finished our meals Sven invites them back to the boat for coffee. They are Chilean co-workers, agronomists specializing in insects, contracted by the UN to study an infestation of German yellow-jacket wasps which arrived on the island several years ago, likely hidden hibernating in some packaging, and to suggest to the national park rangers possible biological or chemical methods of eradicating them. It is a very agreeable afternoon, and, once again, I am amazed that Sven, who on our first visit to town managed to meet and engage in conversation the most interesting local, has, on our second visit managed to meet and engage in conversation the most interesting visitors!
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| Out for a walk with Pillar and Rodrigo... they see a wasp, get all excited, and Pillar whips out a petri dish of bait in the hopes of snagging one, but, unfortunately without success. |
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