To the Uttermost Part of the World

The great ice ages have left us with some magnificent cruising grounds. The enormous ice fields and glaciers that once covered most parts of the high-latitude landmasses eroded deep fjord-like inlets and created huge moraines that became strings of islands along the coastlines.

The author’s steel ketch Terra Nova glides deeper into the Estero de las Montañas, a 30-mile-long fjord in Patagonian Chile.

Around the world there are a few places where these islands create an inshore passage, sheltered from the impact of the oceans: the west coast of Norway, southeast Alaska/British Columbia and the south coast of Chile. Of these three, Chile’s Pacific coastline is the least visited by yachts. It is definitely off the beaten track, and the climate is less inviting than in the two areas in the Northern Hemisphere. The distance between Valdivia and Cape Horn is 1,100 miles, as the condor flies. Following the winding waterways, however, the distance is more than double that.

We decided to make this voyage in wintertime aboard our steel ketch Terra Nova, because, opposed to the general expectations, the weather is much more stable; there is less rain and, most important, less fog and better visibility. Sailing in winter in the southern latitudes equivalent to New York to Labrador means that the days are short. Since most of the stretch would be daysailing, it was important to plan for nightly anchorages. The possibilities for getting fuel and supplies on the way were limited; of the few settlements, only one, Puerto Eden, about halfway, was on the main route. The other towns were as much as 60 miles out of the way. Keeping this all in mind, we stocked up with provisions for six months and an extra 80 gallons of fuel in cans; we left Valdivia in the beginning of April.

It was early in the morning as we approached the seaward entrance of Canal de Chacao, gateway to the sheltered waterways of Patagonia. Timing in this narrow passage between the island of Chiloé and the mainland is essential: The tidal difference of at least 16 feet creates a strong current. We entered the winding passage at slack and spotted the bleak leading marks in the morning mist. Before long, Terra Nova was washed into the inland sea of the Golfo de Ancud with a ground speed of 12 knots.

The landscape of north Chiloé reminded us so much of Nova Scotia that, when coming ashore, we almost expected the people to speak English and not Spanish! Chiloé is about 100 miles long, and with its numberless bays and inlets and many small off-lying islands, it is a cruising destination on its own. Although, over the last years, many of the sheltered anchorages have been taken up by salmoneras, salmon farms, there is still abundant room to find a quiet spot for the night.

Most of the fishing villages could be called picturesque with their palafitos and the distinctive Chiloé churches. Palafitos are houses built on long stilts along the waterfront. From the street, there is nothing to distinguish them from normal houses, but from the water, they stand high and dry on their stakes or almost have their floors in the water, depending on the state of the 16- to 19-foot tide. The famous wooden churches of Chiloé, with their faded pastel colors and corrugated iron roofs, are best viewed from a distance. Many of them are in disrepair and no longer in use. Fishing boats spend the low tides on the mud flats, because being dried out for half the time is the only way to fight the devastating toredo worms.

About halfway along the east coast is Castro, the capital of Chiloé. Situated on a high peninsula in a deep, winding bay, this is a place where you have to climb up a long stairway or a steep street in order to go “downtown.€VbCrLf We anchored close to the Chilean navy station, and the armada let us use their floating pontoon to moor our dinghy. One of the radio officers explained to us the Spanish meteorological terms used in the weather forecasts that are transmitted by the armada twice a day.

At the Capitanía – the port captain’s office – we obtained a new zarpe, a sailing permit for a dedicated stretch of the coast. Because the Chilean navy wants to keep track of all shipping in their waters, everybody, not only foreign boats, has to give a proposed route and an estimated time of arrival at the port of destination. As we gave an ETA for Puerto Eden – some 800 miles to the south – of three months, it raised some questions. Only after we explained that Terra Nova is a velero, a sailboat, and that we intended to stop at many places along the way to do some hiking and sometimes wait for better weather, was our permit granted.

The landscape of north Chiloé reminded us so much of Nova Scotia that, when coming ashore, we almost expected the people to speak English and not Spanish! Chiloé is about 100 miles long, and with its numberless bays and inlets and many small off-lying islands, it is a cruising destination on its own. Although, over the last years, many of the sheltered anchorages have been taken up by salmoneras, salmon farms, there is still abundant room to find a quiet spot for the night.

Most of the fishing villages could be called picturesque with their palafitos and the distinctive Chiloé churches. Palafitos are houses built on long stilts along the waterfront. From the street, there is nothing to distinguish them from normal houses, but from the water, they stand high and dry on their stakes or almost have their floors in the water, depending on the state of the 16- to 19-foot tide. The famous wooden churches of Chiloé, with their faded pastel colors and corrugated iron roofs, are best viewed from a distance. Many of them are in disrepair and no longer in use. Fishing boats spend the low tides on the mud flats, because being dried out for half the time is the only way to fight the devastating toredo worms.

About halfway along the east coast is Castro, the capital of Chiloé. Situated on a high peninsula in a deep, winding bay, this is a place where you have to climb up a long stairway or a steep street in order to go “downtown.” We anchored close to the Chilean navy station, and the armada let us use their floating pontoon to moor our dinghy. One of the radio officers explained to us the Spanish meteorological terms used in the weather forecasts that are transmitted by the armada twice a day.

At the Capitania — the port captain’s office — we obtained a new zarpe, a sailing permit for a dedicated stretch of the coast. Because the Chilean navy wants to keep track of all shipping in their waters, everybody, not only foreign boats, has to give a proposed route and an estimated time of arrival at the port of destination. As we gave an ETA for Puerto Eden — some 800 miles to the south — of three months, it raised some questions. Only after we explained that Terra Nova is a velero, a sailboat, and that we intended to stop at many places along the way to do some hiking and sometimes wait for better weather, was our permit granted.

Snow-layered mountains

South of Chiloé lies the Chonos Archipelago, an almost uninhabited area of islands crossed by numerous channels, in general running east-west. We decided not to follow Canal Moraleda, the 10-mile-wide stretch of water that separates the Chonos from the mainland, but to wander through the archipelago. The snow level on the mountains around us came down to 150 feet, indicating that winter was on its way. At daybreak, we often saw fresh snow covering the bare mountains and trees like a layer of powdered sugar.

In this area, we gained our first experience with rachas, the Chilean name for williwaws, the fierce winds that suddenly come tumbling down the mountains and can hit from unexpected directions. Soon we learned what to look for when selecting a safe spot for the night: a narrow inlet where strong and healthy-looking trees indicate that this is a racha-free spot. Mostly the water was deep enough to creep in until we were almost under the trees.

It wasn’t long before the following drill became second nature onboard Terra Nova. After a possible anchorage had been selected from the chart or from our invaluable cruising guide, we did a reconnaissance by going in slowly, and while one person at the bow looked for covered rocks, the helmsman kept an eye at the echo sounder. Patches of kelp often betrayed the existence of hidden rocks. We went as far in as our intended position, then turned around, moved to the spot where we dropped anchor and backed up to let the anchor set. Then we launched the dinghy, and I rowed the long floating lines to the shore and tied them to strong trees while my wife and sailing partner, Corri, kept the boat in position and paid out the cable.

At many anchorages, we ended up as a spider in its web: two stern lines, two bowlines and our anchor. Using this method, we always felt safe and slept well, even when it was blowing 65 knots outside our anchorage. For this method of mooring, we carried five polypropylene lines: one of 160 feet and two of 200 feet, all three 1 inch in diameter and two 3/4-inch-thick lines 330 feet long. A few times, we had to use all of them, even together with some of our long warps that we have onboard as standard.

We left the sheltered waters of the Chonos Archipelago by Bahia Anna Pink. This bay, strewn with rocks and islands, is reasonably well marked and is sometimes used by small freighters and army vessels. The name Anna Pink goes back to the days when the first Europeans explored this coast, and a small British sailing vessel, called a pink, sought refuge here. Puerto Refugio, the inlet where Anna Pink found a good shelter is still a reasonably safe anchorage on the south side of Anna Pink. When we left Bahia Anna Pink, the weather was kind to us. Our destination for that day was Caleta Suarez, close to the western tip of the Taitao Peninsula.

Here starts the Golfo de Penas, a smaller version of the infamous Bay of Biscay, which has an equally bad reputation among Chilean seafarers. On the charts, there is some confusion about the name: Sometimes it’s written as “Pe�as,” which means rocks or reefs, while on other charts it says “Penas,” meaning pain, grief, sorrow.

Without too much trouble, we found the entrance to Estero Cono (estero is Spanish for sound). This deep, narrow inlet runs northwest/southeast, and a high island right in the entrance blocks most of the swell that rolls in from the ocean. We were amazed to find so many trees close to this wind-beaten coast. On the exposed parts, the trees were smaller, and it looked like a huge comb had brushed them all in the same direction. Caleta Suarez is a little notch at the very end of Estero Cono, giving us all-winds protection, and soon we had the blessings of a four-point tie-up. For two days, we enjoyed the lush vegetation of our private garden: many of the plants and bushes that we know from gardens and indoor back home grow wild here.

Across the bay

After a depression passed, we were ready for our jump across the bay. Until we reached Cabo Raper, the westernmost point of the peninsula, we had a hard beat, but then we eased off and started a nice run across the Golfo de Penas.

We reported our intentions to the lighthouse keepers on Cabo Raper. After requesting our current speed and course, they wanted our ETA at San Pedro lighthouse at the south side of the bay, some 60 miles away. For a while, we tried to tell them that we were on a sailing boat, dependent on the wind, so we could not give an exact ETA. At the end, we gave up and set the next morning at 0900 as our arrival time. Just as we thought the reporting procedure was over, they wanted our passport numbers and wished us buena navegaci�n, a good trip.

The passage of the Golfo de Penas turned out to be an anticlimax. Late in the evening the wind died, and we motored during most of the night. Ten miles off the entrance of Canal Messier, the light of Faro San Pedro started winking at us, and with the help of our indispensable radar, we spotted the dangerous rocks all around us. Definitely not a coast to approach in bad weather!

Puerto Francisco looked like a good place to stop and catch up with some sleep. Along the coast many puertos can be found; these are not necessarily harbors, but mostly bays in which to anchor. So was Puerto Francisco. After an entrance less than 30 feet wide, we came into a lagoon with a choice of small caletas to make a secure mooring. Two days later, we almost regretted anchoring in this freshwater bay, because we were nearly frozen in! The biggest struggle was to get ashore in the inflatable dingy to untie our lines. We feared for our dinghy, but it survived the dragging through the ice without a scratch. Slowly we moved Terra Nova out of the lagoon, happy that she has a heavy steel hull.

From then on, we had to be even more selective when choosing an anchorage, not only looking for good shelter, but also trying to avoid fresh water, especially during days of easterlies when the cold air would be coming down from the huge ice fields in the Andes.

Strange encounter

Farther down Canal Messier, we had a strange encounter. Over the horizon, the hulk of a freighter hung in the air, lifted up like a mirage. When we got close, it did not seem to move, and soon it became obvious why: The ship was stuck on a rock in the middle of the channel. It must have been there for quite a while, still in one piece but all rusty. We could see that the Chilean navy had used it as a gunnery target.

Just north of Puerto Eden is Angostura Inglesa, the English Narrows, a winding passage where, according to the sailing directions, a current of 3 to 7 knots could be expected. We passed during slack tide and hardly noticed any current. Navigation didn’t require all our attention, and we had some time left to pay a tribute to la Virgen, a big white statue of the Holy Mary that was placed there to guard the seafarers.

Puerto Eden looked to us like a place without much happiness. The houses and boardwalks were in disrepair, and in general, there was an atmosphere of sadness. Among many mestizos (half native stock/half European ancestry) in the town, the last 20 Alacaluf Indians live here. Once a large tribe that covered a huge area along the shores of west Patagonia, they are now almost extinguished. Could that be a reason for sadness?

As long as we listened to the weather forecasts and navigational warnings, we heard about the floating ice in Canal Ice and Canal Wide. This ice comes from one of the biggest glaciers of the Patagonian ice cap: Ventisquero Pio XI. We met lots of ice floes and little growlers, but there was always open water to be found, and by zigzagging, we got through without problems. By the time we got to Caleta Refugio, our stop for that day, some 25 miles down Canal Wide, we had left the worst of the ice behind us.

So far, we had not seen much of the strong northerly winds that are a hassle to yachts that come up north during the summer. Instead, we had used a lot of our precious diesel fuel. From then on, this changed, and we had many nice sailing days, covering between 25 and 50 miles a day. It was the beginning of July, and the days were getting longer.

Puerto Natales is situated on the eastern slopes of the Andes, and consequently, the waters that lead there cut through this high mountain ridge. It is clear how Angostura White got its name. Except for a short period around slack tide, the water in this narrow passage is a maze of eddies and overfalls. When we came out of Angostura White, we were amazed by the change in scenery. Ahead of us lay the lowlands of eastern Patagonia, the Pampas. The open roadstead of Puerto Natales did not give any shelter, and in a northeasterly gale, a short, steep sea set up. To make things worse, the anchorage was not very secure in a bottom of soft mud. Terra Nova’s bowsprit dipped into the wave crests as we changed from our standard single anchor to tandem anchors. A second anchor with 15 meters of chain was connected to the crown of the main anchor, and this kept us in place.

Reporting in

Where Canal Smyth enters the western waters of the Magellan Strait is Faro Fairway, one of the places along the way where we had to report our position. After a friendly VHF conversation with the lighthouse keeper, he invited us to visit “his” island. Because it was a calm day, we decided to give it a try and moored Terra Nova to the almost vertical rock face that, with the help of some huge truck tires and heavy steel bollards, acts as the quay for the navy supply vessel. A man in jeans and jacket came down: “Welcome to Fairway Lighthouse; my name is Rodolfo. Come up with me and meet my wife and daughter; we are just having lunch.” After we negotiated the many steps to the summit of the island, we came to a roomy and well-organized house and met Ximena and their five-year-old daughter. Rodolfo is in the navy, and together with his family, he’s stationed here for one year. During the lunch of delicious tortillas, we heard about life on the island.

We were shown around the generator sets, the little lighthouse, the meteorological instruments and the chickens. “Yes, we recently got these 12 chickens from the lighthouse at Evangelistas, some 40 miles to the west. They were sent over to us by helicopter,” Rodolfo explained.

Next morning, we said goodbye to this happy family that seemed so content with their lives at such a remote place. Twelve Fairway eggs and a bag of deep-frozen squid were placed on our deck before Rodolfo pushed us off.

Sailing down the Magellan Strait in fine weather and a good northwesterly breeze, we always kept a good eye on the barometer and to the weathermaps that we received daily. A nasty front was expected, so we moved on to Caleta Mostyn, a real hurricane hole, where we stayed put for three days and let the bad weather pass. Tucked in almost under the trees and secured with our 110-lb anchor and six lines, we stayed belowdecks with our books and our daily game of chess. Looking out toward the more open waters, there were all whitecaps, and the williwaws made the water into a boiling mass.

As soon as we left our dugout and sailed via the doglegged inlet back into the Magellan Strait, we saw a small fishing boat pottering about close to the shore. When they saw us, they came alongside to hand us five big centollas crabs and said, “We saw you going in there some days ago and knew you were going to be safe in Mostyn.” During the winter months, the centolla, closely related to the king crab, is the main source of income for the Patagonian fishers.

Especially when low clouds were racing between the high mountains at both shores of the Strait of Magellan, we tried to imagine how it must have been in the days of Magellan and the explorers, struggling against the persisting west winds in ships that would hardly go to windward. Sailing in uncharted waters with poor provisions, scurvy and little chance ever to see the home port again.

“Do you see a big cross on top of that cape ahead?” I asked Corri as we approached Cape Froward. And indeed, even at more than 10 miles away, the binoculars revealed the immense metal cross that marks the southernmost point of the American continent, and at the horizon was Tierra del Fuego.

Here we left the Magellan Strait and turned south to reach Canal Cockburn, which opens to the Pacific and can be a nasty stretch of water. Once again, we were lucky: A light northeasterly helped us get into the shelter of Seno Occasion. This part of the coast is weather-beaten, and the gray, rocky mountains are all round, smoothly polished by glaciers.

Caleta Brecknock is a snug anchorage at the head of the 1.5-mile-long Seno Occasion. Here we spent one week and did a lot of hiking in the glaciated mountains. Sometimes we had to abandon our climbing because the wind was so strong that we had to go on all fours in order not to be blown off the mountain. From our anchorage, we had a good view of a high waterfall, and often the strong wind blew the falling water up again before it evaporated in a haze.

Glaciers and fjords

Turning our backs to the Pacific Ocean, we sailed into the Beagle Channel, along the southern shores of Tierra del Fuego. Ahead and along our port side, the high peeks of the Cordillera Darwin towered up between ice fields and glaciers. In this 30-mile stretch of the Beagle Channel, we spent three weeks hopping from one anchorage to another. Here are four fjords, or senos, all pointing about 10 miles north into Tierra del Fuego. Each of them has glaciers ending at sea level and sometimes disposing lots of ice into the seno. Into Seno Pia, the ice stopped us about halfway, and we were just able to make it into a little notch where we moored out of the ice stream. Next day most of the ice was gone, and we moved on toward the glacier at the end of the seno. The weather was clear, and a light breeze rippled the surface of the water. In the dinghy, I rowed away from Terra Nova to take some pictures. Just as I found a good composition, the wind dropped completely, and the sails were hanging down as dead sheets. Even before I overcame my disappointment, a racha came tumbling down the ice river and attacked Terra Nova with such a force that it heeled its rails under. Then all of a sudden, it was over and there was silence, as if the racha absorbed all the energy for the next attack. What a struggle it was to get back onboard and get four sails down in a rush!

We found a good anchorage in the horseshoe-shaped bay of Caleta Olla. A picture taken from Caleta Olla toward the Holanda Glacier in the book Second Chance by Maurice and Maralyn Bailey shows a remarkably shaped tree and the snout of the glacier in the background. It was not difficult to retrace the point from which this photograph was shot. In 25 years, the tree had hardly grown, but the snout of the glacier had withdrawn from the view. In order to see the Holanda Glacier, we followed a small river for two hours. Underway, there were many beaver activities to be seen — dams built to block the stream and create flooded areas where big dens had been built.

Occupied with all the intriguing beaver works, we were startled by a rustle of wings over our heads. And there, almost at eye height, was a condor. Unmistakably an adult with the white collar and a wingspan of 10 feet. We were standing there as two dwarves surrounded by grandiose nature, while three condors circled around, higher and higher, without a single movement of their wings, their heads bent down to spy for prey.

With a 30-knot wind on our tail, we started toward Puerto Williams, Chile’s stronghold in the Cape Horn region. Here we found a good sheltered berth at the Micalvi Yacht Club. In a narrow creek, the hulk of the navy supply vessel Micalvi acts as base for the southernmost yacht club in the world.

Most of the 1,800 people living in Puerto Williams are navy personnel and their families. Back in the 1980s, three islands at the eastern entrance of Beagle Channel were claimed by Argentina, and the threatened war was only prevented by the Pope, who decided that the islands should remain Chilean territory.

From Puerto Williams to Cape Horn is less than 100 miles, but the sailing is totally different from the sheltered sailing in the canales. Isla de Hornos is the southernmost island of the Wollaston group that can be reached after crossing the Bahia Nassau, an open stretch of water that is directly under the influence of the strong winds and furious seas that seem to be the trademarks of Cape Horn.

Dutch names

Many Dutch names in this area reminded us of our ancestors, who came here in the year 1616 in the ship Eendracht and were the first European seafarers to sight the tip of the American continent. Capt. Willem Schouten named the cape after the Dutch town of Hoorn, where they had sailed from, and the surname of Holland’s Royal Family was given to Bahia Nassau.

We had a beam reach in a 25-knot breeze when we crossed Bahia Nassau, and just as we expected to come into sheltered waters under the lee of Isla Wollaston, a fierce williwaw came down from the mountains. Soon, under staysail only, we negotiated the small channel between Isla Wollaston and Isla Freycinet. Coming out of this channel, it was only eight miles into the wind to our intended anchorage of Puerto Maxwell, where we should find a small notch to anchor and tie up to trees and boulders. In the meantime, the wind was howling through the rigging, and under engine the progress was slow, very slow and wet, very wet. Terra Nova pierced its bowsprit into every fifth steep-crested wave, which resulted in a horizontal cascade flowing over our decks. After an hour, we gave up and returned to Isla Herschel, where, in Caleta Martial, we knew that there was a strong mooring buoy sometimes used by big Chilean navy vessels. Early next morning, the wind had abated, and we started our circumnavigation of Cape Horn Island.

The channel where we struggled the day before was still dead into the wind, but as soon as we rounded the western point of Isla Herschel, the sails came up, and we headed south toward the Horn. After we passed Isla Hall, the black triangular shape of Kaap Hoorn came into view. To make everything even more dramatic, a black, squally sky drifted in from the west, and we were glad for the two reefs that we had pulled into our mainsail.

Ever since leaving Valdivia, we spotted black-browed albatross, but here they seemed to be at home, gliding effortlessly on a strong breeze, and without a wingbeat, they circled around Terra Nova as if to inspect the strange red creature. Two miles south of the Cape, we gybed and steered NE to round the peninsula, where we could see a few low buildings and antennas.

We reported our position to the lighthouse keeper, and he invited us to come and visit him and his family. How much we would have liked to do that, but the anchorage at Isla de Hornos is exposed, and like most afternoons, the wind was increasing. So we thanked him for his invitation and moved on, back to Caleta Martial, where we had spent the previous night.

We had reached the southernmost point of our voyage and covered 2,350 miles since leaving Valdivia six months before.

After Patagonia, Dutch sailors Willem and Corri Stein voyaged on Terra Nova to South Georgia and then to Cape Town. They are now at Port Owen, 100 miles NW of Cape Town.

By Ocean Navigator