South Atlantic Sailing Lesson

Some adventures can start in the most mundane surroundings, in this case a shopping aisle in the closest thing the Falkland Islands had to a supermarket. I looked up from tourist trinkets to see a French yachtsman I had briefly met before. After a quick hello, over the sound of elevator music, Pascal explained that the following morning he was sailing on his yacht, “Scherzo”, to Ushuaia, a port in southern Argentina, accompanied by his two kittens and an upright piano but would like somebody to crew for him. Despite never having sailed before I convinced him I’d be fine and at least I could manage to cook if nothing else. So, despite his scepticism, I packed my bags and next morning found myself under sail for the first time.

It all seemed so idyllic, a sunny day, strong breeze filling the sails, pushing us across the flat seas of Port Stanley's natural harbour and then out into the Southern Ocean. As we left the safety of the harbour the capitals multi-coloured steel clad buildings grew steadily smaller as the waves, wind and rumbling of my stomach increased. Within the hour I had passed through several shades of green and my first sailing experience was spent bent over the side donating my breakfast to the sea.

As the weather deteriorated it was decided we needed to find a safe port to wait for the storm to pass. We headed for a small settlement on West Point Island, a tiny speck off West Falkland Island (Port Stanley is on the east coast of East Falkland). As we approached West Falkland, sails were lowered and we motored through the archipelago keeping one eye on the rocks and on the depth meter. With the stars of the southern sky lighting our way, we cruised passed the black silhouettes of the islands and rocks before eventually arriving to drop anchor.

In the morning we untied a small dinghy from the front deck and rowed across to the island where the only inhabitants were an elderly couple and their eight year old grand-daughter who between them ran a sheep farm.

Our brief stop-over eventually lasted several wind swept days, the treeless island with towering cliffs was as beautiful and barren as it was remote. A daily brief walk from the bay took me to the steep cliffs which bore the full brunt of the Southern Atlantic gales, and was the location of a black browed albatross colony providing stunning views of the birds battling the winds and surfing the thermals before nesting to feed their young.

After a couple of days sheltering we decided that it was safe to leave our sanctuary, to make the crossing across one of the most treacherous areas of the southern oceans, seas overflowing with wrecks of boats that had tried and failed to make similar crossings.

As soon as we left the sheltered bay the waves increased dramatically in size. A naval frigate came to see who we were, and the sight of its hull crashing through the waves with a backdrop of the receding cliffs gave a terrifying scale to the storm. A moment of doubt hit me. My host dug out a sextant from an ageing box and let me know that the satellite navigation and radio had stopped working but all would be fine as long as we kept heading west until we spotted South America.

We took three hour watches, my only tasks were trying to keep us heading in the right direction from the compass and occasionally adjusting the sails. The wind gradually increased as a new storm arrived and the size of the waves started to dwarf us. Mountainous seas blocking out the light before pushing us up for a glimpse of the horizon. When not on watch I lay imprisoned in my sleeping bag at the front of the boat, the pounding of the waves in the nautical drum preventing any sleep as I anticipated disaster, imagining only the floating debris of the battered yacht marking our passing.

In the middle of the night, whilst I tried to grab my three hours rest, I could feel we had come to a total halt from the sound of the flapping sales and the bobbing motion as we rode the waves like a cork, then the light came on on the main deck, lighting up the cabin through its hatch. The doorway was flung open and a voice bellowed for my help.

Dragging myself up the steps to the rolling deck, the dinghy we had used for getting ashore had come untied from the front deck and needed to be secured before either disappearing overboard or damaging the boat. Pascal, with years of sailing experience, sprinted along one side of the yacht whilst I stumbled along the other gripping the hand rails with all my strength as the boat pitched and rolled. Whilst my frozen fingers were struggling with the soaking ropes a massive wave crashed over the deck, the dinghy was pulled loose, and the force of the water threw me back dragging me under the safety perimeter wire and into flimsy green netting. I turned and stared into the pitch black cold South Atlantic waters below me.

Pulling myself back onto the deck I could see Pascal still trying to tie the dingy down, after managing to secure my side I made my way back to the helm to wait for him wondering how long I would have lasted, with no life jacket or safety line, if I had not landed in the netting. The remainder of the night was spent staring at the storm and tracking the occasional albatross in our wake.

As dawn broke, so did the storm. The cliffs of the Argentinian coast eventually appeared and we sailed south before finally heading into the Beagle channel escorted by dolphins and watched with amusement by snow-capped mountains, before finally arriving at Ushuaia.