Dancing in the Moonlight

Shift times have been moved to be inline with sunset, so at 1900, at the end of my afternoon shift, we´re out in the dark with a increasing wind putting a reef in. Reefing is a manoeuvre that involves one or two more ropes than I am presently comfortable with. The nature and purpose of the manoeuvre - reducing the amount of exposed main sail - implies the sea is becoming increasingly uncomfortable. And now in the dark, comfort is near nil. I´m on my knees, tethered to the port side of Pelagic, thrusting a winch handle round and round to finish the manoeuvre. I almost sense the sea as it sneaks up behind me and dumps huge big bucket of water over me. I suspect this is revenge for my pissing off the stern. But, still. What a bastard.

Captain Chris is extremely purposeful, thorough and cautious. He retains all ten fingers, (which is about fifty-fifty for the regular Cape Horniers) He watches over the crew and as we follow instruction. His teaching method isn't sympathetic to how poorly a Microsoft Excel functions skill-set transfers to rope work, but, that's reflective of the situation. I'm increasingly learning that the sea would kill without sympathy, the wind would kill without sympathy, and winches and cleats would be equally unsympathetic to eating fingers.

In my study of teaching methods, there seem to be two worthwhile scholls of thought. There is Mr. Muyagi´s "Wax on, Wax Off", and then there is Uncle Xian´s "Kick a tree with your shin, until one breaks." Both are highly effective. For lack of the necessary production facilities to make a sailing training montage, I´m learning by way of hook and crook, which errs more toward the Uncle Xian method. It´s working, though. I often only risk life and limb twice before I do it right.

On the second leg of my night flight, crossing the Atlantic, I was staring out of the window, desperately searching for the strength not to murder several young, loud, shitty little children in front of their equally soft, undisciplined parents. Out the window, I could see a city of lights where no city should be. I didn't think anything more of it. I now suppose that what I was seeing was, most likely, one of these armadas of jiggers.

I climb up into the doghouse for our 2300h shift. I can just about see the dancing reflections and shadows off of a dolphin or two to our starboard. What´s more striking is the horizon. The jiggers are now all distant, but their lights are so bright, each one looks like a moon on the fringe of rising on the horizon. There´s fifteen of them running all along our starboard. It´s a clear night and the real moon is up high and is set to full beam.

Carousel Waltz

I´m back in the Doghouse. The sea is just as unforgiving as it was at the start of the previous leg. Worse, actually. So much so, that at times, Steve and I have been almost completely unable to make, much less enjoy, our afternoon tea. Almost - we´d be hard pressed to lose our tea.

Sometime in the late afternoon, Steve is looking fine, but suggesting he is in some discomfort. As he´s calmly putting on his life jacket and tether - in the dark, and in rugged waves, we like to be tethered to the boat, to avoid briny death - making himself ready to pop outside. Suddenly my eyes are wide with horror and I'm scrambling out from in front of him. His cheeks puff out and his calm attempt to climb into the jacket is abandoned in favour of throwing himself outside and towards the edge. It´s not a pretty sight, but I´m still having a nice time.

We´re cautiously passing through a fishing fleet of squid jiggers. After dark, we're reduced to radar. I´m looking at fifteen little arrows all around us in a five mile radius. I´m periodically concerned about the ones that are drifting in and out of our path, having been given instruction that they're unlikely to get out of our way. Out of the window, each one is blinding us, firing what must be 1.21 gigwatts of light down at the water - a method for attracting squid.

Off the length of their port and starboard, they have rows of rotating conveyor belt-like lines with upturned claw-like hooks that scoop squid up and dump them onboard before another rotation. The whole place is lit up like a fairground. It´s pretty, sort of.

The Larger Bowl

After refueling, topping up water, and having lunch, we're just waiting for a good weather window to make our next passage.

We've been invited back to the Golden Fleece, where, following last night's discussion, Jerome is making us the promised reindeer fondue Bourguignonne. This is a big boat – probably a converted tug. The kitchen hosts a full wood-burning oven, and a spice rack of four shelves, running two metres wide. 

Steve and I are joined by Dion and Chad from the Hanse Hansen – an even bigger boat. I'd first met the American, Chad, in the early hours of this morning, at which time he was the epitome of the drunk American. I'm surprised to find he's a quite the Jekyll-and-Hyde. He's alright, actually. He too has abandoned the concept of the conventional life -the one that his parents would much prefer for him. Instead runs a heli-skiing operation out of Santiago, Chile and is here in town arranging a boat for a surfing expedition in Antarctica. 

After a perfectly battered, salted and peppered local squid starter, I'm given a plate, and passed a bowl, full with about two, if not three kilos of raw, dark red cubed flesh. The fondue in the centre of the table is simply a pan of hot oil on a kerosene camping fire. And so, the five of us set about skewering and deep frying our way through the back end of a reindeer, with hot fat spitting far and wide. It's tasty stuff.  Given the target of emptying the bowl, I work hard and fast, but after I've cleared the third helping of cubes from my blood drenched plate, I am dangerously near a hundred percent of my capacity.

We each round off the last few percent with a couple of pints of Guinness in town. 

Returning to the boat, we go to explore the signs of a party on the opposite side of the dock, but we arrive to find only its cold, silent aftermath. The barbecue is still covered in meat. It's the worst feeling possible - there's still food, but I don't want to eat it.

Let There be Rock

A short drive and a walk takes Chris, Steve and I out to a nice long stretch of mountain top quartzite. I've not climbed outdoors in about three years, so pass on the gear-heavy hassle of trad climbing, and enjoy some nice bouldering around the skirt of the rock. As I'm leisurely leaning back on a firm four fingers of rock and two footholds, building confidence around the transferability of my frequent indoor climbing, I'm suddenly horrified to feel the rock crack and come away with my hand. Thankfully, the tips of two fingers retained just enough of this bastard rock for me to hastily jerk the other arm to the first thing I can grab. With confidence broken, I retreat to the ground to reassess. I got back on, and got enough done in our short session to be happy enough with my reintroduction to real rocks. I don't yet prefer them to the colourful, reliable, warm plastics of The Arch at London Bridge.

In the evening we're invited aboard the Golden Fleece, to whom we're moored alongside. By appearance, Captain Jerome is the epitome of French seamanship. I guess he's in his latter fifties. His face is deeply and coarsely wrinkled by sun, salt and impressively relentless chain smoking. He also sports a thick and only loosely tamed gray moustache which eclipses his top lip. Thicker than the moustache is his accent, but with perfect English. My own silly little beard remains untampered with since I left London. I'm not working on any style. It's just a lack of inclination to do anything at all with it. I've also wholly abandoned hair gel. Perhaps I will grow a head of long, beautiful locks, apt for both a bum and a rocker.

The Frenchman and we Anglo-Saxons, as he brands us, discuss food at length. Before we have a chance to accidentally trigger it, Jerome dive bombs into a fierce tirade about the English use of the word “tasty”. Naturally, we also cover the local politics. He points out that, whilst it is bloody good fun to ride the flag flying British bandwagon, the British are often as guilty as the Argies of unconstructive, bitchy tit-for-tat. Though that is in addition, not to the contrary of my former opinion.

Calm Like a Bomb

Another beautiful morning in Port Stanley starts with light scrubbing, then some ropework to prepare for an unfavourable wind around our mooring.

By midday, Steve and I are off on a walk to a lighthouse for some scenery and the hope of catching the last of the penguins or sea lions. This takes us past several rusty old wrecks, then across a field that's clearly sign posted “...believed to be clear of mines...”. Our local friends seem unperturbed by these explosive relics, so we march across with a second thought, but not a third. We come to an uninhabited snow-white sand beach and rolling waves. Beaches don't hold my attention for long and this pristine example is no exception.

We reach the lighthouse with a penguin count of zero. Past the lighthouse, we hopefully scramble over coastal rocks toward a group of fat, listless, black and white creatures that we can't precisely identify. We're ten feet away before agreeing these are just more lazy, ten-a-penny Cormorants. I've seen tens and tens of penguins in the water, but the crux of their novelty is how they waddle around on land, which has thus far eluded me.

Farther on, there's more hope as Steve points me to the ground where a pair of penguin flippers lies, but only attached to a penguin skeleton. Thirty minutes of coast later and still no penguins. Just more useless pretty beaches.

Finally, we spot a pair of the elusive little turds. Unfortunately, they're on a beach fenced of and signposted with red square featuring a mine and a one-legged stick man.

Photo: Yahoo! News

In the later stages of this five or six hour walk, we get to see something better than penguins. Two Land Rover Defenders in their natural habitat, making light work of a scenic wide, flat and lumpy green landscape.

Brothers In Arms

Today is the anniversary of the beginning of fighting in the war. There's a few film crews skulking about, but any local noise is saved for the end of the conflict, on February 14^th. Apparently, geologically, the island came from between Africa and Antarctica, but is moving toward South America at some 2 millimeters each year. Argentina will probably get their hands on it in a few million years.

After a hearty English breakfast, the sun is out in force. But the skyless job of the morning is emptying and scrubbing the bilges. I'm now quite well acquainted with the nooks and crannies of the fifty-five foot Pelagic, and the extent to which they may be deep in brown and or viscous water – mostly condensation from life aboard. Pretty sexy stuff.

There's no cash machine on the island. So Sterling or Falkland Pounds – which are interchangeable and pegged at parity – can only be acquired from the one bank or as cashback at the supermarket. I chose the supermarket and made up my minimum spend from shortbread and the fondly remembered originally Smith's (now Walkers) Salt & Shakes.

British Steel

Today is the thirtieth anniversary of the mobilisation of troops for the Falklands War. Steve and I take a walk around the two-thousand-or-so-strong capital. We join the locals to find the bottom of a Tetleys and a Guinness, then attend the memorial ceremony.

Between the morning, and the history I've heard from the our two Falkland Island crew, I'm ready to take a position on the matter of ownership. I'm assured Argentina's argument has no historical grounding, and is solely based on their proximity to the island. The people here are tea drinking, lawn mowing, cheddar eating Brits. The strong majority of houses and Landrovers sport a Union Jack and or Falklands flag. I estimate one in seven cars is not a Landrover. The remainder are Landrovers. At the entrance of the supermarket, there's a prominent poster of a map of South America, highlighting the island. It features an unusual Argentina-shaped bay, labeled “The Sea”. There's wooden pubs and the toilets are plumbed properly. So my personal conclusion is that whilst Argentina is a beautiful country with a rich culture, a superb appetite for beef, and even ale, it's lazy and often corrupt politicians can sod off.

In the late afternoon, into the evening, we enjoy a short pub crawl with both new and already familiar locals. We happen to catch the video for Brothers In Arms. The pencil animation of sea was in my mind during the recent nightwatches, though oddly, the song I had stuck in there was The Man's Too Strong. Both are more than highly meritable.