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February 25, 2010 – At Sea, 30º 29’S, 072º 35’W
By Herb McCormick
There’s something about Chile. The mountains and coastline are breathtaking. The people are handsome and charming. The standard of living, at least in the many parts of the country that we had the privilege of visiting, is gracious and very civilized. In short, Chile is a fantastic place, our time there was rich and memorable, and we’ve all vowed to return at some time in the hopefully not-too-distant future.
By then, with any luck, we’ll have gotten over the paperwork.
In our travels Around the Americas, we’ve met our fair share of bureaucrats. Dealing with customs and immigration officials comes part and parcel with long-range voyaging, and the sooner one learns to deal with it, the less anxious their life will be. But of all the paper pushers and stamp wielders in all the countries of the world, none, and we mean nada, put anywhere near the exasperating, endless and infuriating effort of dotting i’s, crossing t’s, making lists, issuing papers, offering instructions – in triplicate! – as your basic badge-wearing Chilean.
We understood (sort of) the rampant paranoia bordering on obsession that the Chilean Armada, or Navy, exercises on poor sailors wandering through their vast Patagonian channels, where sailing plans must be filed beforehand and the military has set up endless posts and stations all over the map that monitor the movement of all vessels, which in turn are required to file position reports twice a day. After all, this is a nation that borders Argentina, the leaders of which still believe they own sovereign rights to the Falklands, despite the fact that not a single Falkland islander understands a syllable of Spanish. For goodness sakes, the last time Chile and Argentina had a serious border dispute, in the not-so-distant year of 1982, the Pope felt the need to intervene. He did not rule in favor of the Argentines. So, you know, the Chileans may be on to something.
The trouble here is that this blizzard of paper and insanity – in triplicate! – extend beyond the hallowed halls of government offices, where the art of keeping oneself busy at any menial task, therefore ensuring that you do not work yourself out of a job, is a skill that knows no international boundaries. In Chile, however, you run into barriers of making it through a day unscathed, without the need for more aspirin, just about everywhere. Take, for instance, the supermarket.
Yesterday, before Ocean Watch set sail for its next port-of-call, the Peruvian coastal city of Callao, near Lima, a group of us went shopping for provisions. This is a chore we’ve now undertaken in numerous cities, and our standard way to pay is a boat credit card under the name of mate Dave Logan. Yesterday, David Thoreson; his best mate, Kirsty Moen; our new crew for the leg to Lima, Sam Treadway, son of Sailors for the Sea co-founder, David Treadway; and I went to the store. Among the many things I didn’t have with me was a document identifying me as Dave Logan. None of us – other than Logan, of course – has such an item. This may surprise you, as it continuously surprises us, but this doesn’t seem to matter to anyone when it comes to making transactions.
Until yesterday.
As the last of the groceries churned down the check-out aisle, I swiped the card, there was a flurry of Spanish from the clerk, then silence all around. Another clerk was summoned. A passport was required. I did not have a passport. Kirsty did. This was great! The clerk eyed the passport, gave Kirsty the once over, wrote the passport number down on one of the three receipts – in triplicate! – and asked Kirsty to sign. This she did: D-A-V-E-L-O-G-A-N. Everyone smiled: Only in Chile.
Today, Ocean Watch is making rapid progress out of the Horse Latitudes, the band of latitude from 30º-35º in both hemispheres. Legend has it that the name was derived by old sailing captains for the equine cargo they once shipped aboard, and supposedly jettisoned in this region when becalmed for weeks on end en route to new horizons and enterprises. Now, as then, the winds are light, and Ocean Watch is motor-sailing with full main and the throttle down. We are finally officially out of Chile. But as skipper Mark Schrader notes in his captain’s log, it took some doing. Here’s an excerpt from Mark’s report on yesterday’s escape from Valparaiso:
“In our combined travels to various parts of the world we’ve discovered a few key words and phrases that usually mean just the opposite of what is said. In Australia, for instance, when some helpful bloke says ‘no worries mate,’ the safe reaction is to hit the floor, now, and expect nothing good to happen. In my experience, close to one-hundred percent of the time, worry should start immediately when hearing that phrase. With officialdom in Chile, similar but less colorful phrases can signal the unexpected.
“When we arrived to the very nice Marina Higuerillas we had a work and shopping list already started. Before he left for his home in Argentina, friend Horacio helped us arrange fuel for our day of departure (via truck, 0900 on the 24th); a return of the rental cars (0900 on the 24th); customs clearing (on the 23rd) and a host of other, smaller details. Only the rental car company seemed to take note of the previous arrangements, they promptly appeared at the appointed time, with the right paperwork and billing, and all went according to plan.
“The day before leaving I completed a pile of forms at the marina office, information that gets formalized into a ‘zarpe’ and filed with the Navy. I was assured that all was in order and I was ‘finished with all paperwork’ and the signed clearance would be faxed in the morning. Silly me, I believed it all and happily left the office thinking we were done.
“The first clue that we weren’t came shortly after nine the next morning when two youngish women wearing loads of makeup and police jackets strolled down the dock and stopped in front of OW. ‘We are here to inspect the crew’ one of them said, so I invited both to climb aboard over the bow using our makeshift, dangerous looking vertical ladder. ‘Is it safe?’ she asked, I said no, but up they came anyway, in shoes more suitable for anything other than boat work.
“They were polite, looked at our passports and ship’s papers, and then stamped them all. The one who had the least comfortable looking shoes, wearing the most makeup and speaking the best English informed me that we would be visited by the Navy for a vessel inspection, then the agricultural quarantine officer and then the Port Captain—but not to worry, it would all happen during the day—so much for our planned morning departure. While helping them off the boat and walking with them toward the port office I attempted some small talk, asking how long she had been a police officer and where did she learn to speak English.
“Her answers were short, but complete. ‘I teach English at the University, I’ve been a police officer for one year, I work in immigration and I love it . . . so you see, I’m a complete woman, and I’m beautiful!’ It’s hard to know what to say, in situations like this, and I was regretting my feeble effort at small-talk. Thank heavens the marina manager appeared and off they went, looking for our paperwork.
I went back to the boat, expecting the fuel truck to arrive. Little did I know that when the fuel company said they would be at the marina at 0900 they really meant 1600; and when they confirmed they would accept a credit card, they really meant, no, we won’t – we only accept cash. Obviously, I had missed several verbal cues.
“Sometime between the police inspection and the fueling operation, the Navy arrived. Two very young Navy midshipmen drew the short straws for the day and were assigned boat inspection duty for visiting yachts. They climbed aboard wearing slightly better shoes but just as suspicious of our boarding ladder, sat down, opened up their books and proceeded down the list. Horacio had given me some great advice for dealing with South American officials – never, ever let them see you being irritated at the process, always smile, produce some refreshments, take a breath and somehow figure out how to enjoy the experience. Sometimes tough duty, but great advice.
“Yes, here are the eight survival suits; okay, let’s count the fire extinguishers; here are the life raft inspection forms; no, we don’t carry cargo; yes, we have food and water for 30 days; no, please don’t pull the inflate tab on the life vests; yes, we’ve been out seven months and 20,000 miles; what’s our range under power—unlimited, we’re a sailboat . . . all with a smile.
“At the end of it all, the fuel truck finally arrived and we moved the boat to the fueling area. Just when it was time to pay attention to that activity an affable looking man in a green vest with official logos all over it arrived – agricultural inspection. ‘Do we have any fruits or vegetables from Argentina onboard?’ Argentina? We left Argentina six weeks and a few thousand miles ago! And, the only Argentine on board left after eating all of the cookies. I smiled; he was patient while looking through his forms for the appropriate ones. With Roxanne’s translating help and my gesturing he eventually said all was ‘okay’ – one of those trigger words that made me wince – but he closed his book and left.
“Eventually the fueling was complete, the driver paid in cash and now, finally, we seemed to be free to go. Nope. My presence was required in the marina office to clear out with the Port Captain. It was a short walk, the Port Captain turned out to be the marina manager’s secretary, Paula. She needed to copy all of our official papers using the slowest copy machine still working on this planet, thirty minutes for six pages. I continued to smile while watching the clock approach 1700, the time when everyone in South America officialdom disappears and offices are locked. We were either going to make it out very soon or have dinner and breakfast in the marina. Happily, Paula finished, put the final stamps on the documents, smiled and waved me out of the office.”
So, early this evening, Ocean Watch will officially slip out of the Horse Latitudes, and symbolically put behind our days of horsing around with Chilean authorities. One of them left us with a wink and some sage advice: “Watch out for those Peruvian customs agents,” he said. “They can be real trouble.”
-Herb McCormick and Mark Schrader with photographs by David Thoreson
*This crew log submitted by Iridium OpenPort and Stratos
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