Crew Log 190 – Back from the Land of the Giants

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February 9, 2010 – At Sea, 42º 51’S, 073º 14’W
By Herb McCormick

I’m not saying that not much goes on in the small, pretty and rustic fishing village of Quellon deep in Southern Chile, but when Ocean Watch pulled up to the city pier this morning a group of old women – as well as about half the town – sidled by to have a look. We were a genuine attraction, a wondrous curiosity! A group of particularly distinguished ladies, along with quite a few others, went so far as to have their photograph taken in front of the boat. They were, how should we put it, aromatic.

Dave Logan and I were busy fueling the boat – he on the hose, me watching the vents – when the smell hit us, simultaneously. Mind you, it was blowing 30-knots, but we were on the opposite side of the vessel, both well to leeward.

“Whoa,” I said.

“Old ladies perfume,” sniffed Logan. “What day is it?”

“Tuesday,” I replied. No, church wasn’t the answer here.

A few moments later, my eyes began to water. I sneezed. Twice. I could actually taste the stuff. Was the air a different color, or was I just imagining that? Good golly, and all due respect, but those gals reeked.

“Well, I can’t smell the diesel anymore,” said Logan, philosophically. “At least there’s that.”

Well, yes – ah-choo! – at least there was that.

This afternoon, after a brief, olfactory layover, Ocean Watch had departed Quellon and was within – finally, at last, and let me hear an alleluia – the long-awaited port of Puerto Montt. We pulled into Quellon late last evening, dazzled by the lights and the dozens of workboats at anchor. There isn’t really all that much to the place, as we discovered come morning, but after several weeks in the remote, wild Chilean channels, it didn’t take much to impress us. In fact, Quellon was, without a doubt, the most hustling, bustling place we’d seen since Stanley, in the Falkland Islands, which will never be mistaken for New York City. Or even Toledo.

“It’s a veritable metropolis,” said David Thoreson, once the anchor was down. Why, it certainly was. There was a car!

“Yup, it’s huge,” said Logan. “We’re back from the land of the giants.”

We sure were, even if it smelled like the fragrance counter at a J.C. Penney.

The last few days into Quellon were memorable, for mostly all the wrong reasons. Coming down the east coast of South America, we’d enjoyed a blessed run through the Roaring Forties, with several days of fast, fun sailing after a sole, nasty storm right at 40ºS. But it was a different story rolling up the “Forties” on the west side of the continent. As powerful westerly winds stacked up and stalled against the wall of mountains known as the Andes, we endured some of the most miserable seaways we’ve seen on the entire voyage Around the Americas – Logan said the waves “had holes” in them, and we fell into dozens of them with a shudder and a crash. Now we know were the Roar came in Roaring.

Once into Quellon, we did learn that the big fishing fleet there – in fact, all vessels under 50 tons – had been ordered by Chilean maritime authorities to remain in harbor the last week due to the severity of the wind and seas south of the city (which, as mentioned, is precisely where the crew of Ocean Watch was, bashing our way north). I must admit, there was some small consolation in discovering that my rather upset tummy was the result of weather that officialdom deemed not fit for man or boat.

The last couple of nights, after negotiating the brutal Gulfo de Penas and wending our way back into the channels – blustery as well, but not as bouncy – we began to see signs of impending civilization, mostly in the form of big salmon farms tucked into every possible nook and cranny. Once in Quellon, we heard that the season’s take had just been harvested, putting 800 folks out of work until next September. No wonder they all had time to gawk at the gringos and their sailboat.

The good news for Quellon is that the new president-elect in Chile just purchased huge tracts of land outside the city, supposedly in advance of injecting the economy with more tourists dollars, for the whale watching and outdoor attractions are reputed to be off the charts. It’s not a big burg, but the main drag was hopping today, as was the adjacent harbor, and it was all a little overwhelming after nearly three weeks in the vast, gorgeous wilderness – an outsized land of towering peaks, gliding albatrosses, big glaciers and wide channels, a land where a giant could hide undiscovered – following our rounding of Cape Horn.

People!

Boats!

Cars!

Yikes!

We’re now bound for Puerto Montt, just over a hundred miles up the track. On the VHF-radio, skipper Mark Schrader chatted with a Dutch cruising couple that plan on spending the next two months to get there, poking along through the little villages and the hundreds of quiet anchorages along the way.

We’ll be there tomorrow.

Puerto Montt is a true city – at least in this part of the world – with over 150,000 residents. We’re taking deep breaths as we approach. This afternoon, leaving Quellon, we had one more gracious moment before we re-enter the Real World.

The sun was shining (the forecast for the next few days is too good to be true) as we set sail but soon a dark squall appeared over our quarter and in almost seconds flat the black sky was upon us and we had to scramble to roll up the genoa. But it passed quickly, followed by radiant sunshine and a low rainbow, squatting atop the horizon like a causeway bridge.

“That was exciting,” said Logan. “Like the trade-winds. Maybe that’s the line squall before two weeks of beautiful weather.”

We’ll see.

Back in the distance, we could just make out Quellon, fading into memory. But the sweet smell of its matriarchs lingered in the air.

-Herb McCormick with photographs by David Thoreson

*This crew log submitted by Iridium OpenPort and Stratos

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