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San martin de los andes
Bariloche
Lago puelo
Puerto madryn
El calafate
Ushuaia

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 ocean, before crossing back into the windswept wilderness of the Northern edge of Chilean Antartica. 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 and our co-passengers 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.

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 (all non-smoking) 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. 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.

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- cum –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. 

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.