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!
 |
| 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. |
