Stanley, Falkland Islands
We scattered to the four winds today, although the dominant breeze came from the northwest. Falklanders might have considered it to be a calm day for the anemometer showed the velocity to be only slightly above the average 15 knots. However we were reminded of its significance frequently.
The breezes blew warm across the land as the dawn light crept into the sky. Lights twinkled along the shoreline. Our senses were confused. After so many days in the southern ocean we were used to cold and solitude. Not loneliness though, as wildlife had accompanied us each step of the way. Even as we crept towards the narrow harbour entrance on East Falkland flocks of sooty shearwaters swirled about riding updrafts from the waves. Squadrons of Magellanic penguins seemed to escort us through the narrows, disappearing only when civilization was sighted. The town of Stanley at first glance blended into a mosaic of colorful rooftops scattered the length of the bay. Later it would take on a reality.
The wind blew cold at Gypsy Cove where dolphins frolicked and shorebirds probed. It nipped our noses as we stood and stared at the wreck of the Lady Elizabeth. The furious fifties had been cruel to her, beating and breaking her soul. And even when she no longer could unfurl her sails the gales had driven her to the rocks. There she rests today at the end of a protected harbour serving as a reminder of nature's violent temper.
Fuschia flowers dripped from shrubby branches dancing in the wind. Native boxwood stood its ground, its branches stout and sturdy. Here and there dense and spiky gorse substituted for garden walls protecting delicate herbaceous plants from the drying winds of a blustery day. Gray skies seemed to intensify the abundant array of color in the town, found not only in the flora but in the houses too. Green, red, blue, mustard yellow or fluorescent pink were all repeated shades.
The green of the “camp,” the surrounding land was washed clean by a misting rain. Frost-fractured ridges were painted with lichens and edged with lacy ferns or densely packed balsam bog. To walk up a mountain trail with the wind at your back is as pleasurable as sailing with a following sea. Mists swirled about the peaks of Tumbledown Mountain above the town alternately revealing and concealing its separate faces.
As if attempting to hold us here, short choppy waves beat against the side of the ship as we inched away from the pier. Low clouds were scattered and swirled about, opening windows to the sky and the billowing cumulus clouds above. Sei whales sent out misty smoke signals teasing our observational powers as evening closed about us. As a finale, the sun burst through painting the land golden and the sky a deep dense rose. As evening proceeds to night the seas respond to the winds and we rise and fall rhythmically.
We scattered to the four winds today, although the dominant breeze came from the northwest. Falklanders might have considered it to be a calm day for the anemometer showed the velocity to be only slightly above the average 15 knots. However we were reminded of its significance frequently.
The breezes blew warm across the land as the dawn light crept into the sky. Lights twinkled along the shoreline. Our senses were confused. After so many days in the southern ocean we were used to cold and solitude. Not loneliness though, as wildlife had accompanied us each step of the way. Even as we crept towards the narrow harbour entrance on East Falkland flocks of sooty shearwaters swirled about riding updrafts from the waves. Squadrons of Magellanic penguins seemed to escort us through the narrows, disappearing only when civilization was sighted. The town of Stanley at first glance blended into a mosaic of colorful rooftops scattered the length of the bay. Later it would take on a reality.
The wind blew cold at Gypsy Cove where dolphins frolicked and shorebirds probed. It nipped our noses as we stood and stared at the wreck of the Lady Elizabeth. The furious fifties had been cruel to her, beating and breaking her soul. And even when she no longer could unfurl her sails the gales had driven her to the rocks. There she rests today at the end of a protected harbour serving as a reminder of nature's violent temper.
Fuschia flowers dripped from shrubby branches dancing in the wind. Native boxwood stood its ground, its branches stout and sturdy. Here and there dense and spiky gorse substituted for garden walls protecting delicate herbaceous plants from the drying winds of a blustery day. Gray skies seemed to intensify the abundant array of color in the town, found not only in the flora but in the houses too. Green, red, blue, mustard yellow or fluorescent pink were all repeated shades.
The green of the “camp,” the surrounding land was washed clean by a misting rain. Frost-fractured ridges were painted with lichens and edged with lacy ferns or densely packed balsam bog. To walk up a mountain trail with the wind at your back is as pleasurable as sailing with a following sea. Mists swirled about the peaks of Tumbledown Mountain above the town alternately revealing and concealing its separate faces.
As if attempting to hold us here, short choppy waves beat against the side of the ship as we inched away from the pier. Low clouds were scattered and swirled about, opening windows to the sky and the billowing cumulus clouds above. Sei whales sent out misty smoke signals teasing our observational powers as evening closed about us. As a finale, the sun burst through painting the land golden and the sky a deep dense rose. As evening proceeds to night the seas respond to the winds and we rise and fall rhythmically.
