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25.1.10here we are again. I feel like we're at home; even the wind, gusting at 85 kilometres per hour, feels familiar and comforting. the marvel of a good night's sleep. Claudia joins us. centolla and pisco sours by Sotito; airport. tonight, Rapel.
24.1.10 bahia azul in the early evening. i'm thrilled to approach the strait from the tierra del fuego side and can barely wait to get on the ferry. the water is aquamarine blue and covered end to end in whitecaps swelling up to seven feet. the ferries are nowhere to be seen, and buses, sheep-carrying trucks, cars and people line the road leading to the beach. shell-seeking, we climb over massive piles of kelp, walking back to revisit our landing. terns fish at the water's edge. the currents are clearly delineated by spots of rough chop, places of calm, and color differentiations in the water. a few of our tonhina friends swim by. back at the restaurant, an elderly, indigenous-looking woman sits alone in a chair pulled up against the window, hands folded calmly in her lap, gazing at the wind-tossed water. finally, after a couple of hours' wait, the red ferry lopes across the Strait from Punta Delgada, tossing and swaying, sprayed with massive waves. it's terrifying and takes way too long. despite being loaded with ten buses, many cars and several hundred people, the boat teeters and rolls in the powerful chop. El Estrecho de Magallanes is a body of water to be reckoned with. I'm impressed by the distance that we swam last year-- probably more than four miles-- and also filled with immense respect for the Strait, having been let across.
24.1.10 tierra del fuego got its name from the heavy mists that cover the island, making it look confused and ablaze. i think tierra del humo might have been more apt.this route is endless and crosses back and forth from Argentina to Chile. how we all wish we could have flown, or gotten on the boat. my passport is riddled with stamps; I can only laugh at the absurdity of all this exchanging of information. perhaps we might exchange hats instead. or pleasantries.we've gone from a place so far at the end of the earth that it can only be peaceful and protected, to the commercial 'end of the earth', to the wild expanse of Tierra del Fuego, where the wind blows over 100 miles per hour. standing in the midst of it, wholly aware of spinning through space, I feel like this place, of all the southern wilderness, is the one that actually merits the name.
24.1.10
goodbyes on the old Macalvi-- the Club de Yates, where our immigration-inspector friend joins us for a last goodbye and some more stamps in our passports. it seems, at this point, as if we know everyone in the town, both in uniform and office, and in street clothes with families. all are there to see us off, even fluffy Luli, who gets into trouble with another small dog running around the deck of the Macalvi. Gaby shuts her in the van. a few minutes later, there is a persistent honking, then a long, desperate beeeeeeeeep! and we all look up to see Luli at the wheel of the white van, leaning on the wheel. a speedy ride in a covered zodiac, extremely choppy at first, like a mechanical bull-ride, then calmer, and progressively colder as we head west. after more than an hour, we dock incongruously next to a massive cruise ship in the port of ushuaia. I gape at the activity: shipping crates, planes, catamarans, ships of all nationalities and sizes. the clear kelpy water is glazed with oil and scum. exhaust fumes sting in my nostrils. refugees from the wilderness, having left the anachronism of the tiny, peaceful comun naval, we've landed up in what seems to be one of the busiest ports of international tourism. there are a striking number of people over sixty. it seems that traveling to the extreme southern hemisphere is even more of a craze than i'd envisioned. the streets teem with people, cars, flatbed trucks, antarctic tourist offices, pictures of penguins and seals, glossy shopping bags. I see a single black dog traipse across the square with a giant piece of bloody red meat swinging from its jaw. the distance across to Puerto Navarino is massive. Lynne Cox is a superheroine. I feel our little there-and-back shrink in comparison with her six-mile, three-hour channel charge.
23.1.10leaving this little town in a few minutes for ushuaia. yesterday as we spoke at the threshold with a fellow hostel-guest-- in town to install a meteorological antenna-- huge horses wandered through the adjoining yards, irreverently eating tall grass over fences. the small labrador puppy cavorts, looking for our attention. it approaches a cat playfully and is sent off with a harsh hiss. Lulita runs out to join the other puppies in this local gang, some of whom playfully jump up on the old sheepdog. looking around, dogscatshorseschickens, I'm once again floored by the intimacy and simplicity of this tiny settlement. animals and people-- many of the former abandoned by the latter-- are a tight community here. there's not much to worry about, at least in the summertime. yards are piled with quartered logs, many hairy with wintergreen lichen. in the living room of our hosts, large photographs of lichen and fungus adorn the walls. press calling again. El Pinguino and La Prensa Austral. we're huge in Patagonia. tomorrow, El Mercurio.
22.1.10our plans to ride the ferry to punta arenas thwarted, we've just fixed up an alternate situation, which includes a boat to and an evening in Ushuaia. comings and goings are not easy here in Puerto Williams. high winds will prevent air traffic for the next couple of days. I'm looking forward to seeing more of Argentina than just a wild beach, although what a beach it was! throughout today, flashes of yesterday's swim keep going through my mind: a panorama of snowcapped mountains, wild birds above a choppy green foreground, breathing to my left en route to argentina; strange blue-brown jellyfish-like sea creatures in the emerald clear below me mid-channel on the return leg; the rocky shallows teeming with sealife on the approach to each beach; the flaming-june orange of the argentinian's oversized drysuits; olive kelp bathed in filtered sunlight. the sound of wind against my ears. the whole swim, windswept and sunblinded, was beautifully disorienting. without perspective to judge the distance of land, and without human landmarks, I seldom knew where I was. I sighted until my neck hurt, just to be there. it was only near the end of the swim, when I was cold and tired and my mind had checked out, that Captain Elvis and Jose another armada sailor appeared, tiny beneath the wooly cliffs. i've never been so relieved to see a sailor. as I started to realise how far we still had to swim, and as minor hypothermia began to cloud my awareness, I screamed a couple of times underwater, just to release the frustration of momentarily losing my humanity. it made me feel better, almost as much as the double-thumbs-up the armada men kept throwing my way, under encouraging grins. our stopover in Argentina at Punta McKinley, where Cristian and I concurred that we felt warm, great-- dude, we're in Argentina!-- was a little too long. getting back in the water was a bit of a shock for all of us. I have a new appreciation for those who swim Channel doubles and triples. the drastic difference between the water temperature and the air causes the body to almost immediately shift gears and start re-warming. the second leg of this swim was mentally and physically tough. luckily, we were all determined, and well-trained after a number of weeks swimming the the 30s back in arctic Brooklyn.but today, the swimmers walk. we hike serro bandera to the top, where a massive Chilean bandera snaps in the wind just above the treeline. the wind fills my mouth and ears, as if I'm on a motorcycle at high speed. at the top, six hundred meters above sea level, staving off a cold wind blowing off nearby glaciers, I nearly lose my down jacket. we traipse through deciduous, strange forests, lichen-softened scree teeming with shale and sandstone chips, and bent-trunk tree groves, patti with a walking-stick taller than herself and me bounding like a mountain goat, trying not to slip in my very inappropriate shoes, practically skipping at times from happiness at being in the forest. Cristian's pace walking is exactly like his long-distance swimming pace-- steady, calm.
21.1.10 once again, cibbows rocks the southern wilderness. and wearing kathleen cook to boot. thanks again to Kathleen for sponsoring me with a fabulous bikini, even if I have been fattened up by our lovely hostess Gabriela and the pan amasado. this morning, at 11.20, Patti, Cristian and I walked into the rocks and kelp along the shore in Cabo de Hornos and swam to shore near Punta McKinley, Argentina. we spent a few minutes on the beach with the Argentine armada before jumping in and returning to Chile. All three of us succeeded in a double traverse of the Beagle Channel. we started out in rough seas at 5 degrees celsius (41 degrees fahrenheit). after being pushed west on the way to argentina and encountering strange sealife and a flock of penguins, we fought strong currents on our return, making it a roughly 3.5-mile swim. all of us had a quick, easy recovery at the armada capitania. more impressions to follow.
21.1.10
we reached the armada capitania this morning around eight, and our zodiac pilot was already there waiting for us. though the sun was shining, the wind whipped up the Channel into a seething, southeast-flowing whirlpool. Luis Castillo drove us out to scope out conditions at Punta McKinley, since a more detailed weather report was still forthcoming (I'm still not sure where that comes from). the drive was breathtaking. we left Puerto Williams and bumped along the narrow hills, climbing up and down rocky terrain surrounded by glacier-capped mountains, red-striped lighthouses, wild horses and the frothing cerulean waters of the Beagle, lined with shadows of purple kelp. there seem to be a number of cattle farms there, both active and abandoned. suddenly, we cross a last, steep hilltop, and the water becomes distinctly less violent, though not at all calm. this is the place: Punta McKinley. we park the armada jeep on a slope and clamber over clover littered with mussel shells to get to the rocky beach. the remnants of locos, sea urchins, mussels and other shells rattle under my feet. the wind whips sun-warmth across my face and I zip my Patagonia jacket against the chill. the distance to the lighthouse looks to be at least three times what they had assured us it would be. the crossing, despite the calm in the small area, seems suddenly far more difficult than we'd all planned. our idea of a double goes out the window; because of persistent westward winds and currents, it seems that we'll have to do a single crossing, from Argentina to Chile. I try not to pout. we stand and stare at the water for a few minutes, then return to the jeep. I resist the nausea building from the bumpiness of the ride. Luckily, we arrive back at the bat-cave before carsickness can get the better of me. as we consult with the meteorologists, rather at a loss about when we should decide to swim, the wind begins to die down. the whitecaps disappear from the harbour. a decision is made: the armada will take us by boat to the border of Argentine waters, where we will climb aboard our Zodiac and head for shore, and the start, in our suits. quick re-packing of shore and boat bags ensues, and we have a brief photo session with Captain Elvis, who is in charge of the port. the sun is shining brilliantly. we climb aboard the small boat-- I'm never quite sure how to negotiate an offered arm when I'm climbing over the slippery side of a fishing boat-- and settle down in the hold. Ronnie, our zodiac pilot, is still putting in his boat, so we sneeze around the Puerto Williams harbour for a little while. the radio is playing fun american songs from the 80s, and soon enough Patti and I strip down to our suits-- both by Kathleen Cook Swimwear-- for a mini photo-session with the armada, who are more than happy to oblige. it passes the time, and helps stave off the unbearable thirst, the nerves, the anticipation. and then we're off, finally, thumping across steep waves. I go up and sit in the navigator's chair near the open window; I'm already a little naseous. the Channel is still super rough, and the going is slow, as the armada zodiac's motor seems to keep stalling. every once in a while, as we fly eastward, the armada guys in one boat or the other make 'whoop it up' gestures to one another. they're almost as excited as we are, if not more, though we've got pre-swim jitters to handle. the motor cuts. Cristian and I peek out from the hold. it looks calm. then and there, we decide to try for a double-- one crossing seems more feasible now that the westward wind's scream has died to a harsh whisper. the return trip, as Cris puts it, will just be icing on the cake. the armada is at our service; the boat heads toward the Chilean shore, faced with rocky cliffs and yellow-lichen-covered rocks. we throw our bags into the zodiac before stepping carefully on board. the shore is just a minute away, and I can see the white rocks, crabs and urchins on the seafloor below the leathery layers of kelp. soon enough, we're ready. the sun and air and light are calming-- this is as wild, wooly and beautiful of a place as I'd ever imagined. more photos, and at 11.20, we're off. the first obstacle is a ten-foot-wide swath of thick, slimy kelp. we don't so much swim over it as drag ourselves across it, head-up. but I'm already over my kelp issues. the water is pure, clean, tasty and clear. I can see kelp stretched voluptuously below my hands, flagged northwest by the constant current. the waves are strong but I feel them carrying me across. I relax and swim into the waves, at a diagonal, so as to avoid being swept east beyond the end of the point by the wind and current. we all had the same idea, but it worked against us: the current carried us far further west than we intended to swim, since it changed direction, despite what the armada had advised. thus always for swims and crossings.to be continued...
21.1.10it's so much quieter without our entourage. I miss Scott, and Mark and Marianne, and Claudia, and even all the reporters and funny CNN people. and off we go, so early in the morning. there is a surprisingly bright sun this morning, but the wind is back. it's gusting down the hill that the town sits on, and oddly enough, there's a doppler effect. Cristian and Patti are relating their respective dreams of tsunamis. as for me, my anxiety dreams are still about musicians.
20.1.10 there's a sudden and violent rainstorm, which catches us by surprise out in town. there's blue sky to either side of Puerto Williams, but the black clouds overhead stream curtains of rain down, obscuring the mountains. the scent of wet grass rises and mixes with wet woodsmoke. I can only imagine how smoky the town must be in the winter. Chopping wood seems to be a full-time occupation here, at least during the warmer months. we wait out the storm, and soon the brilliant sun is out again, like a late summer morning. it's been a beautiful day, punctuated by rain. somehow, being surrounded by the dramatic expanse of Tierra del Fuego, the Andes, and Cabo de Hornos, the weather doesn't feel as freaky as it would in Punta Arenas, which is for all its remoteness a functional city suffering from bewildering mood-swings of light, wind and weather. as we walk down the hill against a chilly wind, the brilliant sun warms our backs. a fat quarter-rainbow reaches from somewhere inside the cloud cover down to the choppy surface of the Beagle. there is a pleasant noise of children playing. this place has strikingly little to worry about, which makes the obstinance of the two armadas all the more maddening. it seems so childish to draw national lines across a gleaming, wild body of water. the only things dividing the two countries, at this point, are the uniforms, and the rituals and formalities--humiliations-- of paperwork.
21.1.10 once again, cibbows rocks the southern wilderness. this morning, at 11.20, Patti, Cristian and I walked into the rocks and kelp along the shore of Cabo de Hornos and swam to shore near Punta McKinley, Argentina. we spent a few minutes on the beach with the Argentine armada before jumping in and returning to Chile. All three of us succeeded in a double traverse of the Beagle Channel. we started out in rough seas at 5 degrees celsius (41 degrees fahrenheit). after being pushed west on the way to argentina and encountering strange sealife and a flock of penguins, we fought strong currents on our return, making it a roughly 3.5-mile swim. all of us had a quick, easy recovery at the armada capitania. more impressions to follow.
20.1.10 after lunch we head back to the armada offices to meet with Captain Elvis. there is some tense discussion and it comes across that the swim was almost quashed for lack of permission from a certain office in Santiago; luckily the armada is on our side this time. any future attempts will certainly suffer labyrinthine bureaucracy. the Argentinians, who have arrived via zodiac in rather comically oversized drysuits, enter the map room, Javier presents a set of pens and we sign a number of documents-- releases, immigration declarations, and contracts. the local inspector arrives and clears the Argentine pair through customs; they've brought filled-out forms, but the papers-- like airport immigration forms-- are invalid because they are from Argentina and not from Chile. much stamping and signing ensues, followed by xeroxing and lamination of the documents returning to Ushuaia. the drysuits exit, both carrying incongruous briefcases. and then the next news: the Chilenos will not cross into Argentina's waters-- the Channel is divided in half-- and the Argentinians will not escort us across the other half. I can't help but sigh impatiently. and now, on top of everything else, we have to hire a zodiac and a pilot to take us across. ahora. we head over to the Club de Yates to see if we can recruit some amateur sailors to pilot the swim. and there, across the inlet, next to the abandoned lodge, are the horses. the large brown stallion is fervently humping the pregnant black mare. it's hard to pay attention to the lovely Italian couple on deck, who remind me of my parents somewhat as they tell us about their week-long sailboat trip around the area, sea-lions, glaciers and whales. Cristian's phone never seems to stop ringing. this time, it's good news. just as we're about to recruit the Italians or the Swiss guy--who has just come back from the almacen with a bag of chips and is tucked into the hatch of his weather-beaten boat, writing in a meticulously clean orange leather diary-- Cristian holds the phone away from his ear. we have a boat! relief. he even managed to bargain down the price. we're set. we meet at the armada office tomorrow morning at eight. now for small errands: I'm set on a package of plain lemon cookies that I saw yesterday in the almacen. I recall the package of oatmeal cookies that I devoured before the swim last year, and feel a need to have something around, just in case. these are no times to resist emotional snacking.
20.1.10 after lunch we head back to the armada offices to meet with Captain Elvis. there is some tense discussion and it comes across that the swim was almost quashed for lack of permission from a certain office in Santiago; luckily the armada is on our side this time. any future attempts will certainly suffer labyrinthine bureaucracy. the Argentinians, who have arrived via zodiac in rather comically oversized drysuits, enter the map room, Javier presents a set of pens and we sign a number of documents-- releases, immigration declarations, and contracts. the local inspector arrives and clears the Argentine pair through customs; they've brought filled-out forms, but the papers-- like airport immigration forms-- are invalid because they are from Argentina and not from Chile. much stamping and signing ensues, followed by xeroxing and lamination of the documents returning to Ushuaia. the drysuits exit, both carrying incongruous briefcases. and then the next news: the Chilenos will not cross into Argentina's waters-- the Channel is divided in half-- and the Argentinians will not escort us across the other half. I can't help but sigh impatiently. and now, on top of everything else, we have to hire a zodiac and a pilot to take us across. ahora. we head over to the Club de Yates to see if we can recruit some amateur sailors to pilot the swim. and there, across the inlet, next to the abandoned lodge, are the horses. the large brown stallion is fervently humping the pregnant black mare. it's hard to pay attention to the lovely Italian couple on deck, who remind me of my parents somewhat as they tell us about their week-long sailboat trip around the area, sea-lions, glaciers and whales. Cristian's phone never seems to stop ringing. this time, it's good news. just as we're about to recruit the Italians or the Swiss guy--who has just come back from the almacen with a bag of chips and is tucked into the hatch of his weather-beaten boat, writing in a meticulously clean orange leather diary-- Cristian holds the phone away from his ear. we have a boat! relief. he even managed to bargain down the price. we're set. we meet at the armada office tomorrow morning at eight. now for small errands: I'm set on a package of plain lemon cookies that I saw yesterday in the almacen. I recall the package of oatmeal cookies that I devoured before the swim last year, and feel a need to have something around, just in case. these are no times to resist emotional snacking.
20.1.10 our swim was not as long as we'd expected, cut short by the unavailability of the Club de Yates and its wood-burning stove. we used the old rowboat as a clubhouse instead. this time, getting in was easy. it's amazing how just one day of training can change psychological comfort with a place. we swam out past the metal buoy, heading east with the current. there is kelp everywhere, so I make a concerted effort to get used to it. every time I see something up ahead, my heart skips a beat. it's a matter not of training my body not to react, but of understanding that the scariest factor in the equation is my psyche as it startles. nevertheless, I'm a wuss. I swim behind Cristian. I'll deal with it all tomorrow-- I suspect that the clarity of the water and the presence of kelp won't be any less where we swim, near Punta McKinley. like Antarctica, this area is really the province of international explorers, and now tourists, trekkers, and especially sailors. It always has been. as we get out of the water, the blonde, sunwashed Swiss man--around my age-- yells out to me from his terrifyingly worn sailboat. I have a wetsuit, if you want one! No thanks, I shout back. This one looks better. I gesture to my bikini. on the way back, we finally see the source of the manure in the streets: a pack of horses, including a pregnant mare and a small colt. they are grazing up on a hill, not far from our hostel.
20.1.10 in the morning rain, el Canal Beagle looks more like a lake than a channel, though there are whitecaps out beyond the sandbar that protects the armada harbor.I'm glad that our swim will be miles east of here, where there are no passable roads. even though our Magellan crossing took place in a remote station- Punta Delgada, at the first narrows-- it was accessible by road and ferry, a small hub of people, motorcycles and sheep-carriers. Looking at the satellite photo of the Strait now, I see the color difference between the water near Punta Arenas-- pacific clear-- and the murky aquamarine of the chilly Atlantic on the Eastern mouth. it was practically ten degrees colder than our training-beach where we actually crossed. we may have a similar experience with the water here. there is no way of knowing, since most of the armada sailors have only jumped in long enough to hyperventilate. on tv, the same footage plays over and over- government officials who lost bets over Pinera's election performing ridiculous acts: one is a waiter for fellow officers and must pay their tab; another dives into a fountain in a town square; in Punta Arenas, one dunks in the Strait of Magellan for a few seconds, looking shocked and frozen.I don't have the nerves I did before the Magellan crossing, nor the fear of imminent death, but I also am aware of the possibility that the water East of Puerto Williams will be colder, murkier, choppier-- there are so many possibilities. at the very least, I am confident that it will be wild and wooly. we'll swim long today, and then rest before tomorrow morning.
20.1.10 finally, a really good night's sleep...thanks to some black storm clouds that rolled through yesterday evening. it's raining hard this morning. Luli is hyper and keeps jumping up onto our laps. back to yesterday: Cristian and I go for a walk while the sun is still shining-- that is, around 10.30 at night-- and our sheepdog friend once again accompanies us to the boundaries of his kingdom.down the hill, children are running and biking around the thistled lush green. the sound of a weed-whacker reverberates between the orange-trimmed houses at the end of the street. as we walk past, I catch a glimpse of the face of the whacker-- it's another one of our friends from the armada (we'd run into another captain and his novia in the market earlier). we stop and chat and I catch a fair amount: los dientes del navarino- the teeth of la Isla Navarino-- are the young mountains, plate-uplifted, off in the distance; if we hike up the small mountain behind the town, we'll be able to see West to Ushuaia and East to the place we'll be swimming. had we swum earlier? apparently they'd come out in a zodiac looking for us, which explains the unseen boat that had startled me. he is jovial and a little round; his small son pulls mischievously on the weeder's start cord.the breeze here comes in clean, with the airy silence of wilderness.
19.1.10 lulita is a tiny, terribly affectionate bichon. the old sheepdog has a limp in his back left leg. both of our hosts' canine friends-- other pets include a grey kitty, a cantankerous green parrot who I am determined to befriend, a stuffed blonde ex-ferret baring formerly fierce teeth, and a beaver who lives in the backyard with the chickens-- insist on following us each time we leave the house. the sheepdog grunts and warbles and frequently bumps into our legs as we walk. this time, as we head down the hill, he makes a point of sticking his head into a yard where a large brown-and-black pug-dog is napping, then flagrantly peeing on the gatepost. as we walk away, the pug gets up and sniffs the post, then walks a few steps after us, looking mildly indignant. earlier we were accosted by a rowdy litter of unrelated puppies, the most aggressive dragging a broken chain around his neck. the dog-gangs of Puerto Williams are extremely mild-mannered and the most visible social scene on the streets, from what I can tell. and as you can tell, there is absolutely nothing to do here. just swim, eat, rest, wait. tomorrow we'll swim more, and then meet with the Argentinians who will be our crew for Thursday. it's the end of the world, so sparsely populated that there's really not much to worry about. I suspect that the caprices of the weather make the light that does get through far more rewarding, and the liminal space of a naval base halfway to Antarctica is very different from the weather-beaten city of Punta Arenas.Patricia is uploading some photos! you can see them at www.cibbows.blogspot.com
19.1.10 first swim in the Beagle Channel!the rain has let up. we climb down to the little beach and set our towels and shoes inside a small rowboat laid on its side in the black-purple mixture of gravel and mussel shells.a schooner-houseboat is moored mid-channel, sprouting electrical connections to shore. there is a grill on deck and a motor appears to be running in the hold below. someone climbs from the deck and starts a worn white zodiac, which rears up-- a sort of water wheelie-- and starts toward the boat-dock. the driver wears shades and a red parka. on the road above, against a slope dotted with thistles and blindingly yellow buttercups, a ruddy man comes along with a bag of pan amasado. he looks incredulous. van a nadar?! si, Cristian grins. we straighten up and look tough. he raises his brows. hay tiburones! we laugh. Patti doesn't hear, and we don't clarify. he clambers down to the beach and we quickly realise that the zodiac is there to pick him up-- he lives on the schooner. they shake their head one more time at the three gringos in bathing suits and the boat speeds off, leaving behind a haze of fumes and a surprisingly thick streak of rainbow-slick oil. I'm rather dismayed at the pollution from a 600-yard zodiac trip, and the green algae beneath the water repels me. the water looks filthy, I tell myself. I know it's a closed bay, and a hotbed of naval and aeronautic activity, but there are few relatively clean places to get in and I can barely bring myself to dive under the slick. luckily, Cristian is still in getitdone mode. he dives in and I wade behind his wake. there's a wide swath of clean water where he entered and I dive deep-- the shoreline is deceptively shallow-- and swim hard with my eyes closed, not wanting to deal with seeing massive kelp forests on top of everything else. I promise myself twenty strokes, but after ten I have to peek. there is a tree-like plant to my right. i startle, blink, then realise that the water is a deep, deep aquamarine green, similar to puget sound, but with more of a glacial-pastel shade, and clear, clear, clear. my hands look like cut-outs. the underwater light and colour is so engrossing that I quickly begin to enjoy the swim. I've been holding my breath, comically puffing out my cheeks underwater-- I hate to knowingly swim through an oil slick since I swim with my mouth open-- and now I relax my face and taste the clear green, which is deeply salty in a thick, viscous blend very unlike the Atantic. it tastes of the Pacific, but also of something deeper. it's almost like a salted lake. perhaps there are minerals in the sediment. the water is, of course, freezing cold. after Coney Island at 33 degrees fahrenheit, this water is balmy. the cold takes a few minutes to sink in, or perhaps I've tricked myself by transferring the initial shock to my deep fears of the underwater. the wind has momentarily died down, though it is still raining lightly. I stop for a second to see where Cristian is heading and find him treading water just ahead. he is bright red, which makes me realise just how cold the water is, even though we barely feel it after so much rest and eating this past week. Patti catches up-- we won't try to get out on the far shore, where it is steep, rocky, and fenced by a thick line of sticky kelp. having flown over these clear waters just the day before, it's easy to see just how much of the purplish-greenish mess there is, not just in the shallows, but in giant patches throughout both the Strait of Magellan and the Beagle Channel. as we head back to shore, the schooner revs off into the East, its residents waving and cheering from the deck. I end up swimming in Cristian's draft-- we all look fantastically surreal under the water, and it's fun to watch the others swim-- and his kick gives off perfect circles of bubbles, like smoke-rings. the water is incredibly calm, though I've already seen that it can become whitecap-torrential within minutes, whipped by winds from all directions.the beach has a surprisingly steep drop-off and is far less intimidating on approach. this time, I keep my eyes open. in the mirrored periphery of my goggles I see the bullet-grey hull of the ship tapering underwater. as I stand, I pluck an eye-catching shell from the bottom, checking first to make sure it's been vacated. the mollusks here are many and colourful. these shells for me, which I often give to friends, are like notches in a wall-- reminders of every time I've gone in against my instincts and come out on top. this one glowers, algal green against my flame-red palm.
19.1.10 sadly, Scott Lautman won't be joining us for this swim. he's come down with a mean cold at just the wrong time. we miss him!
19.1.10 after much scouting and scrambling up and down hills, avoiding cow-pies among the tiny yellow flowers-- manure is ubiquitous, but oddly so, since I've only spotted three cows grazing near the airstrip yesterday and have yet to see more-- on our quest for a decent place to swim, we finally find a clear, deep spot near the Yacht club. the rocky beach is on a small inlet behind the airstrip. it meets all of our requirements: the kelp is not too thick, there are no pink-and-teal oil slicks on the surface, less metal debris in the shallows, and there is a wood-burning stove inside the club-- actually a retired German ship from 1925-- where we can sit and warm up after our swim. the rusty, grey hull of the ship looks a little scary, but it is surrounded by well-worn sailboats, most in transit and occupied by Europeans here to sail the Drake Passage and Cabo de Hornos. I suspect many may have come north because of tsunami warnings, after the earthquake in the Drake earlier this week. there are five boats: some french people, three women and a man; the two Hollanders we met yesterday; and several sun-worn Chilenos. we stoop to cross the threshold. inside, it smells of stale cigars. dusty national ships' flags hang over bad plaid couches and sharpie-signed photographs of travels to el territorio Antartico. the bar is dark.on our way back to the hostel, it begins to pour, and the unpaved road-- our boots are already white with dust, dog-licked-- swells muddy, marking the terrain with a maze of what look like tiny glacial-sediment lakes.
