Sailing into Patagonia Written and Photographed by Alison Aitken
The idea of sailing nearly 1000 miles due south at the onset
of the Patagonian winter was a chilly yet thrilling prospect.
The 4-day 3-night odyssey would see us sail through fjords, and
out into the Pacific, before crossing back into the windswept
wilderness of the Northern edge of Chilean Antarctica. The fact
that our vessel was to be a semi-converted freight ship only added
to the intrigue. Would there really be cows on board? Would the
sea be rough? Would we see a whale?
Shortly before departure, we assembled in the departure hanger
for a good-natured safety briefing, which focused on an attention-grabbing
mix of cause and effect - not drinking to excess, and dealing
with man overboard situations. Those of us with large quantities
of robust Chilean red stuffed in our bags smiled broadly and tried
to look responsible.
As we waited to board the nearby vessel, conversations struck
up around the room. Driving rain, whistling winds across the bows
and stunning scenery were broadly anticipated. Murmured hopes
of “some nice weather” were accompanied by wry smiles
and theatrically superstitious knocks on the plywood tables. Boarding
cards and cabin numbers were also compared, in tentative efforts
to establish exactly who among us were destined to share our 4-berth
cabins. As our enquiries yielded no obvious roommates, we resigned
ourselves to probable intimacy with a pair of Chilean truckers.
Human Cargo
Our collective sense of anticipation and curiosity rose as our
two legged herd was shepherded from the dock onto a hydraulic
cargo platform aboard the Puerto Eden, one of two regional ferries
operated by Navimag. We gently ascended from the bowels of the
ship to the upper cargo deck from where we directed to our various
berths. As budget travellers we didn’t have far to go. As
most of the 19 other passengers climbed the stairs to the upper
cabins, we ducked under the stairs, round the back of an empty
cattle truck and into our neat little cabin. To our delight, there
was no one else there. And we had a porthole! After scattering
our possessions gleefully across each of the four bunks in the
2x4 metre space, we hurried upstairs to explore the rest of the
ship.
With just 21 passengers aboard, the space offered by the two
medium-sized open air decks on the upper level was more than plentiful.
Our shared conclusion was that the full peak-season load of 180
passengers would likely be a little more claustrophobic. The combined
canteen, bar and lounge space provided a sheltered alternative
from which to take in the enormity of the scenery, sip on a Pisco
Sour or play cards. We were also pleasantly surprised to find
this functional but comfortable space kitted out with a projector
screen on which movies and informative regional documentaries
were screened throughout the voyage. This was also the area where
we assembled for practical daily morning briefings about our route,
significant sights and the weather conditions. We soon learned
it wasn’t called “The Rainy Maritime Region”
for nothing.
As we left Puerto Montt behind and the ship slipped across bays,
through channels and fjords, it was all too easy to fall into
the on-board routine of a steady stream of hearty meals, punctuated
by sorties onto the deserted decks for a blast of fresh air before
ducking back inside to warm up or watch a film. Whether on deck
or in the lounge, eyes strayed repeatedly to the restless grey
waters around us, in pursuit of a glimpse of some of the marine
wildlife native to the area. After dinner on the first evening,
more optimistic eyes strained in a vain attempt to catch sight
of the mysterious Chaiten volcano, which we knew was smoking ominously
somewhere in the now enveloping darkness. It was not until our
second day at sea that we caught sight of a sleek black form arcing
gracefully through the waves a few meters off the starboard side
of the vessel. The consensus was that it was probably a seal,
but possibly a sea otter. Heartened, our drizzly vigil continued
and we were rewarded with many more sightings, as these playful
creatures escorted us for short bursts on our long journey South.
Shipwrecks and rough seas
A further highlight of the journey was the passage alongside
the ‘Captain Leonidas’, a so-called “ghost ship”.
The ship was wrecked in the 1960’s as part of a foiled insurance
scam for which the scheming captain was sent to jail. The rusting
hulk of the ship remains perched eerily on top of a treacherous
pile of submerged rocks, from where it serves not only as a narrative
aid for tourist guides but also as an arresting navigational aid
to passing sailors.
Our tranquil course through sheltered waters came to a rolling
conclusion by early evening on the second day. In anticipation
of our transit into Pacific waters, our tour guide had cheerily
announced that it was “time to take the pill” some
hours earlier. At this point, our smiling barman–paramedic
had seen a roaring trade as those who had boarded unprepared made
a last minute dash for preventative measures. Unmarked white bags
had also discreetly appeared at conspicuous points around the
ship. In spite of best efforts, the number of passengers in attendance
at dinner that evening was cut by half. Those who made it lurched
carefully around the canteen clutching at furniture for support.
The noticeable swell continued well into the wee small hours,
but fortunately by morning we had been returned to calmer waters.
At the daily briefing it was announced that the conditions were
judged to have been a fairly tame ‘3’ on a scale that
crested at the unthinkably nauseous heights of 12.
Into deepest Patagonia
A brief foray onto deck quickly erased all remnants of queasiness.
Once ashen faces rapidly regained a rugged rosiness as our gore-tex
clad group braved the lashing rain and icy winds to absorb the
breathtaking vistas of snow-capped peaks that now encircled us.
At some point in the turmoil of the previous evening, we had been
carried to the edge of the wild and often desolate heart of Patagonia.
As luck would have it the storm soon subsided, and after a brief
stop in the bay of the colourful but remote settlement of Puerto
Eden, we upped anchor and sailed into the horizon of the final
leg of our journey. Our last evening on board was marked by a
general air of festivity, encouraged by our tireless guide and
a few of the crew.
Early the following morning, we were expertly guided through
the surging black waters of the narrowest point of the journey
– a winding channel which at one point measured a mere 80
metres in width. The escorting sunrise cast suitably spectacular
rays of colour across the sky, and within a few hours we sailed
into the sparkling blue waters of the bay of Puerto Natales and
a stunningly clear day. As we stepped onto the lift for our descent
to the dock, I couldn’t help but wish for one more day on
board. And perhaps just a glimpse of a passing whale.
Alison Aitken
escaped from her job in London 10 months ago and has been
on the road ever since. Somewhere in the blur of overnight
buses and overstuffed trains, it occurred to her to take a
shot at writing - if only to keep track of herself.
