Crew Log 171 – Getting Strait

January 20, 2010 – Bahia Aguirre, Argentina
By Herb McCormick

At 0300 today, 3 a.m. in the morning, the first purplish hint of dawn was visible to the southeast, and the looming, inaugural presence of Isla de los Estados – Staten Island – was cloaked in shadowy mist to the northwest. Here and there: light and land. For the crew of Ocean Watch, it was the start of a long day, and an important one. It was the day we’d cross under the Strait of Le Maire, enter the Beagle Channel, and begin the task of negotiating what had been one of the express goals of the Around the Americas expedition – one of the primary points of the entire exercise – since leaving Seattle last May. Namely, it was the real, honest-to-goodness start to a rounding of Cape Horn.

But first we had to “get strait.” In other words, we needed to get beyond the short, narrow, and potentially highly hostile Strait of Le Maire, the 16-nautical mile entranceway to the wonders of Tierra del Fuego and beyond.

Isla de los Estados, or Staten Island, was given its name by the Dutch merchant mariner Willem Schouten, master of a ship called Eeendracht, in 1616, who named the isle and the surrounding territory Her Staten Land (literally: the Land of their Lords) after his sovereign patrons and benefactors. (One can assume the New York City borough that shares the title was tagged for similar reasons.) Likewise, the Strait of Le Maire was named for another backer of the same expedition, ship owner Isaac Le Maire. Schouten will also go down in history as the man who gave Cape Horn its handle: the Hoorn was one of the ships in his armada, and was also the name of the town from which he’d departed eight months before.

But Cape Horn is still on the figurative horizon, whereas Staten Island was right there off the bow.

We’d made pretty fair time on the trip from East Falkland Island to the eastern flank of Staten, but that was about to end. By 0430, we were pounding dead upwind in a sneaky westerly of 30-knots; bucking a foul current of a half-knot or more; and making just over three knots through the water and two-something over the ground. We passed beneath a big, dark cloud and the breeze eased somewhat, but the numbers still weren’t famous – 4’s and 5’s through the water, 3’s and 4’s on velocity made good (VMG).

Yes, it was the beginning of a very long day.

Skipper Mark Schrader and mate Dave Logan had concocted a plan to hug the southern shore of Staten, relatively speaking, as opposed to sailing around the more exposed northern shoreline. The immediate upshot was that we got a good, close look at the 33-mile long island in the emerging morning light.

“Craggy,” said Logan. I was thinking more along the lines of “saw-toothed,” but you get the idea. By whatever description, there was a good bit more elevation compared to our most recent visuals at East Falkland; on the chart, we identified a peak of some 2,500 feet, but it had yet to peek out from the clouds. In any event, compared to Stanley, we were now in the Himalayas. The bad news was, we weren’t making much headway towards the Strait (which, technically speaking, we weren’t sailing “through,” but just to its south). The good news was, at least we had something to check out, even if the view wasn’t changing very fast.

Still, looking at the bright side, it was getting brighter out. I mentioned to Logan that pounding to weather in 30 knots in sunshine is better than pounding to weather in 30 knots in rain.

He answered, rather obliquely, “We’re making 3.3 knots against 2.5 knots of current.” Well, yes; anyway, so much for optimism.

Whatever one’s outlook, sunrise was rather spectacular. The reflected light on the jagged mountains cast a rosy hue across their peaks, some of which were flecked with patches of snow. Our latest crewmember is Sailors for the Sea boardmember Ned Cabot, who has sailed his own yacht, a J/46 called Cielita, across the Atlantic and into the high latitudes. Staten Island reminded him of certain ranges in Western Newfoundland, also around the 50th parallel, in the Northern Hemisphere summer.

“If it wasn’t for the fact we weren’t moving, I’d think this was kind of pretty,” he said. “I think I’ll go get my camera to cheer me up.”

Yesterday, while poring over the charts, Mark had looked at our next port of call in Puerto Williams, Chile, and said, “We’ve got a very interesting 150 miles ahead.” We were now just over halfway there. Extremely short, steep, breaking waves were foaming all around Ocean Watch. The deck was awash, awesome sheets of spray were flying over the boat, and solid walls of water were crashing into the windshield of the hard dodger. The motion down below was horrendous. At 0600, at the change of watch, I fell into my pitching bunk, thinking it must be what it feels like to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel. It was all so interesting, in fact, that I was reminded of that old Chinese proverb: “May you live in interesting times.” I’ve been told it’s actually a curse, not a blessing.

Interesting.

Three hours later, I blinked awake after my longest snooze since leaving the Falklands. Sometimes on a passage you need a watch change to change the energy. But there was more than a psychic change here: It was calm.

David Thoreson was at the nav station studying the computer, and summed up the situation succinctly: “No wind. But it’s coming.” He pointed at the Strait. “Right here. Right about the time we get there.”

On another screen he’d called up the forecast from www.buoyweather.com. At that precise moment, the prediction was spot on: “Light winds with a slight chop. Small short-period waves. Winds: NNW 9 to 12 knots. Seas: WNW 4 feet @ 6 seconds.”

It was the afternoon report that was troublesome: “Gale warning with dangerous seas. Small craft advisory. Use extreme caution. Moderate short-period wind waves. Winds: NNW 27 to 36 knots. Seas: NNW 6 feet @ 5 seconds.”

In the still conditions, Staten was an arresting visage; tiny penguins of a variety we hadn’t seen before bobbed in and out of the water, while our new friends, the albatrosses, were everywhere in sight. David correctly noted that it looked like a wild place to explore. “The climbing and hiking would be pretty rugged,” he said. “First ascents. Big walls. But how do you get there?” The safe anchorages that do exist, we knew, were on the northern side of Staten, nowhere in sight.

David explained that while I was sleeping they’d cut inside a trio of rocky outcroppings right at the moment our ever-reliable Lugger diesel showed slight signs of overheating. They’d shut it down and sailed out of trouble while Logan worked his magic and got it purring once again. All was well: we’d just lost some valuable time.

“We were hoping we’d be across by now,” said David. “We were one oomph short.”

Back on deck, the sky to the west was beginning to look bleak. The barometer was falling, now registering a low 991 millibars. But we could see the end of west Staten Island – it looked like a mini Cape Horn – and a gray promontory farther beyond.

“There’s the other side,” said David. “The Beagle Channel. Tierra del Fuego. Let’s get there.”

By 1115, with breath bated, we were clear of Staten Island and finally getting into the Strait.

Once out of the lee of Staten, we unrolled the jib and stuck our toe in. The wind was building but from a good direction, to the north of west, permitting a fast reach. About a third of the way across, the breeze had risen into the mid-20s and we were careening along at a somewhat frantic 10-knots, so we rolled up the genoa in what was now a cold rain and replaced it with the staysail. We were, as we’re wont to say here on Ocean Watch, hauling the mail.

For most of the trip across the Strait, a big cell of precipitation that hovered right over us followed our track. On the radar screen, it was bright yellow and symmetrical, and looked exactly like the cover of an old Iron Butterfly album. Inna-gada-davida, baby.

Meanwhile, the land to the west – South America! – loomed larger and larger. “An hour and ten minutes to go,” said Logan. “Fifty minutes to the forecast gale,” said Ned. “If we make it out of here in this…” said the skipper, letting the thought dangle for a moment, and then, “…I’ll be quite pleased.”

An hour later, I was down in the cabin with Mark when David’s head appeared in the companionway. “A couple of shots of breeze rolling down the coast,” he said. “Just an FYI.”

Seconds later, the boat lurched on its side and I had to grab my computer before it flew off the table. “Third reef!” called David.

Down went the staysail, in went the third reef in the main. On deck, the breeze was now in the mid-30s, the air was cold and wet. The well-known Patagonian williwaws, powerful gusts of wind that rocket down the face of the steep mountains were coursing down the channel just as we tucked out of the Strait of Le Maire and into the shadow of the peninsula. We’d just sailed south of 55º S. “One way or the other, we were going to get our gale,” said David.

The last hour, naturally, was the wildest. A Force 9 gale came pummeling down the channel, blowing the tops of waves sideways in estimated gusts of 50-knots, the most breeze we’d seen in seven months and 18,000 miles of sailing. We yanked down the main and made for a deep cove recommended by seasoned Patagonia cruisers David and Candy Masters, who we met in the Falklands. In the small-world department, the Masters had sailed their purposeful 46-ketch, Endeavor, all the way from – where else? – Seattle.

We had one last bit of drama when the engine again sputtered and coughed, but the skipper and mate changed the fuel filter on the fly and Ocean Watch was again a seriously going concern. At the end of the day, literally, the sun broke through, revealing a vast, arresting landscape of hills and estancias, as we motored into the bay, escorted by a quartet of dolphins. Sweet.

For every one of the four permanent crew on the boat – Mark, Dave, David and I – we were returning to a place where he had some personal history, a place we weren’t sure we’d ever see again. David T summed up it up for all of us: “This is big. I appreciate it more now that I’m older. I’m not so naïve.”

I was hankering for some old Mark Knopfler, some old Dire Straits. It was time for a brief celebration, and it seemed appropriate. On a long, strange, wonderful day, we’d gotten past the dire Straits of Le Maire.

- Herb McCormick with photographs by David Thoreson

This crew log submitted by Iridium OpenPort and Stratos