Final Frame
Latitude 55º 58.5" South. Longitude 67º 16.3" West. Cape Horn stands at the very bottom of the South American continent. It serves as the terminus for the mighty chain of the Andes Mountains and separates the Atlantic Ocean from the Pacific. It is a smallish island, just a few square miles yet it has for centuries loomed large in history and in the minds of all who venture to the extreme southern latitudes. Sailors have long refered to this region as the screaming fifties for the strong winds that frequently blow from the west. Mountainous seas called Graybeards threatened to overwhelm all but the most able ships. In the waterfront bars around the world the mention of having been around ‘Cape Stiff’ entitled you to some level of respect. The Cape Horners, or cargo sailing ships, that worked their way from one ocean to the other often battled for weeks or even months to round the Cape. There is an account of a ship that finally gave up the battle and simply sailed completely around the world to reach their destination on the coast of Chile. Many ships perished while attempting to ‘double the cape’ (sail from 50º South in the Atlantic to 50º South in the Pacific). Ashore there is a lighthouse, a small weather station and at the crest of the hill a sculpture of an albatross. The tablet beneath it reads:
I am the albatross who awaits you
at the end of the world.
I am the soul of ancient mariners
who rounded Cape Horn
They did not perish in the furious waves.
Today they fly on my wings
for all eternity
in the ultimate embrace
of the Antarctic winds.
Sara Vial December, 1992
On the M.S. Endeavour we cruise past the Horn in the afternoon sunlight of a cloudless sky. In the comfort of our ship we expose the last of our film from our Photo Expedition. Reflecting back upon our voyage to the White Continent we can focus our thoughts on another photographer, Herbert Ponting, who accompanied earlier explorers to these high latitudes. When Ponting died at age sixty-four in 1935 his friend Apsley Cherry-Garrard wrote these words of his photos, “Here in these pictures is beauty…and the beauty is inconceivable for it is endless and runs through eternity.”
Latitude 55º 58.5" South. Longitude 67º 16.3" West. Cape Horn stands at the very bottom of the South American continent. It serves as the terminus for the mighty chain of the Andes Mountains and separates the Atlantic Ocean from the Pacific. It is a smallish island, just a few square miles yet it has for centuries loomed large in history and in the minds of all who venture to the extreme southern latitudes. Sailors have long refered to this region as the screaming fifties for the strong winds that frequently blow from the west. Mountainous seas called Graybeards threatened to overwhelm all but the most able ships. In the waterfront bars around the world the mention of having been around ‘Cape Stiff’ entitled you to some level of respect. The Cape Horners, or cargo sailing ships, that worked their way from one ocean to the other often battled for weeks or even months to round the Cape. There is an account of a ship that finally gave up the battle and simply sailed completely around the world to reach their destination on the coast of Chile. Many ships perished while attempting to ‘double the cape’ (sail from 50º South in the Atlantic to 50º South in the Pacific). Ashore there is a lighthouse, a small weather station and at the crest of the hill a sculpture of an albatross. The tablet beneath it reads:
I am the albatross who awaits you
at the end of the world.
I am the soul of ancient mariners
who rounded Cape Horn
They did not perish in the furious waves.
Today they fly on my wings
for all eternity
in the ultimate embrace
of the Antarctic winds.
Sara Vial December, 1992
On the M.S. Endeavour we cruise past the Horn in the afternoon sunlight of a cloudless sky. In the comfort of our ship we expose the last of our film from our Photo Expedition. Reflecting back upon our voyage to the White Continent we can focus our thoughts on another photographer, Herbert Ponting, who accompanied earlier explorers to these high latitudes. When Ponting died at age sixty-four in 1935 his friend Apsley Cherry-Garrard wrote these words of his photos, “Here in these pictures is beauty…and the beauty is inconceivable for it is endless and runs through eternity.”
