Cape Horn to Ushuaia
First light found us on the last and wildest leg of the Drake Passage crossing. Tumbled out of bed by the rolling swell, we lurched up onto the bridge to check our progress. The horizon was tipping, buckling and occasionally disappearing altogether behind the swells. Elegant black-browed albatrosses swept by over the waves and blue petrels zig-zagged in jagged, jinking arcs high above them. Cross-trains of heaving swells overlapped to form sudden conical peaks, their summits whipped into white foam by the wind. In the space of half an hour the sea thrashed itself into a broken jumble of convulsed ridges and gaping canyons. A glance at the chart showed the sea had suddenly shelved from 2,200m to 100m, causing deepwater upwellings to collide with strong surface currents. For an hour it was like riding a bucking bronco, while the malevolent eye of Cape Horn rose over the horizon like the waking eye of some ancient lizard. To mark the boundary of richer feeding waters, five huge albatrosses appeared to escort us inshore, wheeling in slow motion, the white crosses of their backs tracing clean trajectories against the dark sea. As the spiky crest of the Horn came into focus, we all came up to gaze at this legendary landmark. Each paid homage in their own way, either by lens, lip service or libation. For myself, I patted the rail of our ship, whose solid steel and stalwart engines have brought us safely back from Antarctica to the world we once knew. I thought of a man who, over two hundred years ago, was brave enough to venture into the same world of icebergs, a world for which he had no training, no charts, no radio, and no precedent, in a tiny ship of wood, canvas and rope and a crew with hearts of oak. His name was Captain Cook and his ship bore the name we are proud to share: Endeavour.
I thought too of all the sailors for whom these waters are a final resting place. In those days of sail, the passage round the Horn could take weeks, and men had a one in twenty chance of being killed on the voyage. Little wonder that expedition cruising never quite caught on in the 19th century! These men have their own fitting memorial on the crest of the island now, recalling the losses of the great Age of Sail. It is in the shape of a giant albatross, clearly visible from the sea. Its reads:
Soy el albatross que te espera en final del mundo
Soy el alma olvidada de los marinos muertos que cruzaron el Cabo de Hornos...
“I am the Albatross who awaits you at the end of the earth,
I am the forgotten soul of the dead mariners who rounded Cape Horn”
As we crossed from Pacific to Atlantic and into the sheltered waters that lead to the Beagle Channel, it was a moment to reflect, and give thanks for a safe ending to our own epic voyage.
First light found us on the last and wildest leg of the Drake Passage crossing. Tumbled out of bed by the rolling swell, we lurched up onto the bridge to check our progress. The horizon was tipping, buckling and occasionally disappearing altogether behind the swells. Elegant black-browed albatrosses swept by over the waves and blue petrels zig-zagged in jagged, jinking arcs high above them. Cross-trains of heaving swells overlapped to form sudden conical peaks, their summits whipped into white foam by the wind. In the space of half an hour the sea thrashed itself into a broken jumble of convulsed ridges and gaping canyons. A glance at the chart showed the sea had suddenly shelved from 2,200m to 100m, causing deepwater upwellings to collide with strong surface currents. For an hour it was like riding a bucking bronco, while the malevolent eye of Cape Horn rose over the horizon like the waking eye of some ancient lizard. To mark the boundary of richer feeding waters, five huge albatrosses appeared to escort us inshore, wheeling in slow motion, the white crosses of their backs tracing clean trajectories against the dark sea. As the spiky crest of the Horn came into focus, we all came up to gaze at this legendary landmark. Each paid homage in their own way, either by lens, lip service or libation. For myself, I patted the rail of our ship, whose solid steel and stalwart engines have brought us safely back from Antarctica to the world we once knew. I thought of a man who, over two hundred years ago, was brave enough to venture into the same world of icebergs, a world for which he had no training, no charts, no radio, and no precedent, in a tiny ship of wood, canvas and rope and a crew with hearts of oak. His name was Captain Cook and his ship bore the name we are proud to share: Endeavour.
I thought too of all the sailors for whom these waters are a final resting place. In those days of sail, the passage round the Horn could take weeks, and men had a one in twenty chance of being killed on the voyage. Little wonder that expedition cruising never quite caught on in the 19th century! These men have their own fitting memorial on the crest of the island now, recalling the losses of the great Age of Sail. It is in the shape of a giant albatross, clearly visible from the sea. Its reads:
Soy el albatross que te espera en final del mundo
Soy el alma olvidada de los marinos muertos que cruzaron el Cabo de Hornos...
“I am the Albatross who awaits you at the end of the earth,
I am the forgotten soul of the dead mariners who rounded Cape Horn”
As we crossed from Pacific to Atlantic and into the sheltered waters that lead to the Beagle Channel, it was a moment to reflect, and give thanks for a safe ending to our own epic voyage.
