The cruise for which the RCC’s Romola Cup was awarded.
Although we had intended to leave England directly after the Beaulieu Meet, it was not until 26 September that we managed to sail from Falmouth. A minor overhaul of Badger’s motor had turned into a major re-engine job, when the cost of repairs turned out to be more than the eight year old engine was worth. Much agonizing over the options available brought us to buying a 6 hp Seagull, the only cost-effective option. The motor now sits on the starboard quarter and can drive Badger at 4 knots in flat calm; an economical cruising speed is 2½ knots. On passage it stows below, safe and dry.
The forecast was for easterly winds, too good an opportunity to miss, so despite Annie being laid up with a heavy cold I rowed ashore to clear Customs and do the last-minute shopping. Although the east wind backed to north-west we made good progress to clear the Channel, until the ship ping forecast the following evening. This suggested that the remnants of Hurricane Charlie, which had just hammered the Azores, were heading for Biscay and Western Approaches. As we have a policy of never starting a passage on a hurricane warning we turned tail and ran towards Brest. We were reprieved the following morning: Hurricane Charlie had decided to go up to Rockall instead, so we continued on our way.
Our plan was to sail to the Algarve, the Canaries and then directly to Montevideo to restock with fresh food. We hoped to be in the Falkland islands for Christmas and cruise around the islands for the rest of the southern summer. The schedule would have been tight had we left as intended; by now it was looking distinctly optimistic.
A spell of winds from south and south-west slowed us down, but then the wind came round to the north and we had four days of splendid runs which brought us to the entrance of Faro. We arrived at the bar just after midnight, when the wind deserted us, so we put the engine on and motored in to anchor inside the entrance.
We spent five days anchored off the island of Culatra, visiting friends. Having studied the channel over the bar at the eastern side of the island we sailed out at high water, bound for La Palma in the Canary islands. We generally had light westerly winds for the passage, which was not a fast one. By now it seemed that our plans were unrealistic and any chance of getting to the Falklands until late in their summer was remote. Why not cruise down the coast of Brazil, sail to Uruguay and Argentina in the spring, and arrive in the Falkland islands early in the following summer? We decided to turn the cruise on its head.
We arrived in Santa Cruz de la Palma on 22 October, ten days after leaving Portugal. The North East Trades had come in with a bang the previous day, in a vicious squall. An uncontrolled gybe while reefing the foresail broke one of the battens and badly tore the sail. We lashed the two good battens on either side of the damaged one together, effectively removing the damaged sail panel, and carried on.
The harbour at Santa Cruz was in the throes of much change. The main breakwater was being extended and a new fishing boat harbour was under construction to the south of the town. These alterations were being brought about due to the world recession and the consequent glut of empty shipping containers. The old fishing boat and yacht harbour was about to be filled in, to be used for the storage of containers. Too late, the local residents woke up to what was happening. We had a ringside seat as protesters tried to halt the dumper lorries filling in the beach. No provision has been made in the new plan to accommodate visiting yachts and it appears that the new fishing harbour is quite small and shallow. Will it be possible to visit Santa Cruz again?
We spent a month in La Palma. Repairing the foresail and batten didn’t take long, but we had to wait until a stray parcel arrived. Having changed our plans, we were not tearing our hair out at the delay, but enjoying our stay.
Having never visited El Hierro, we called there before setting off south on 22 November, drifting along in a virtual calm. The breeze filled in from the north-east after midnight and had picked up to a nice Force 4 by dawn. We were off. We followed the directions given in Ocean Passages for the World, our route taking us west of the Cape Verde islands with a good trade wind until in their lee, six days later. Here the wind went light and shifted to the south-east, accompanied by thick haze, but by the next morning the wind was back in the east and blowing a fresh Force 5. Once past the Cape Verdes we were heading for a position 3°00’N 25°00’W; there we could turn west and head towards our destination – Fernando do Noronha.
First, however, we had the Doldrums to cross. The width of this belt varies from month to month and from year to year. There is no way of telling what to expect, but they are often 200 to 300 miles wide and can take six weeks to cross. We were not looking forward to them. At 0900 on 4 December the North East Trades left us in a thunder squall; we had entered the Doldrums at 5°00’N. We had light winds and several showers until, at sunset, another squall gave us a south-easterly breeze. The breeze strengthened overnight and remained in the south-east. We couldn’t believe our luck. We had passed through the Doldrums in only a few hours.
By the next day we had reached 3°00’N 25°00’W and could bear away and ease sheets. It had been hot work getting south. Spray on deck had meant keeping the forward hatches shut so that there wasn’t much of a draught below. On 7 December, just after noon, we crossed the Equator. Neptune must have been busy that day as he didn’t find time to climb over Badger’s bow, so Annie escaped being shaved and feathered. We celebrated with a bottle of champagne, which we had cooled by wrapping it in a damp cloth and leaving it in the wind. An optimist might have called it chilled.
The night before we made our landfall there was a total eclipse of the moon, which was quite a way to end a splendid passage. We picked up the flashing light on Fernando at 0300 and were at anchor off the island by breakfast. It had taken just under eighteen days for the 2300 miles.
Fernando do Noronha is about 200 miles north-east of the eastern tip of South America. The island has been used for a variety of purposes since its discovery in 1500 — in more recent years it has been a prison (the fate of many Brazilian islands), a World War II airbase, a missile tracking station and now a national park. Landing has always been a problem as a continual surf on the beach meant you either had to anchor the dinghy off the line of breakers and swim ashore or take it through the surf, capsize and swim ashore. A recently built breakwater now makes landing much easier. Fernando is a delightful island with many deserted beaches, walks in the national park and plenty of bird life. The drawback, however, is the US $10 a head Park Tax and a $10 a day anchoring fee (first day free). Because of this, we only stayed three days before carrying on for Jacare on the mainland.
Jacare is only a tiny village on the Paraiba river, near the port of Cabe delo, but anyone who has visited always warmly recommends it. Brian Stevens cruised into here eighteen years ago and has never left. He now runs a boatyard and is a friend to visiting yachts. We spent three weeks here over Christmas and New Year, along with half a dozen other yachts — quite a crowd for Brazil, as we were later to realise. We were waiting for our Christmas mail, but in the end decided to give it up for lost. Annie went into the Post Office one last time while I cleared out with the Port Captain. She was determined to find the mail and persuaded the ladies to keep on looking after every shake of the head. They eventually found it it had arrive in Joao Pessoa the same day as ourselves — a week before Christmas! There were two yachts at Jacare that had cruised up from the south and by picking their brains and copying a few Brazilian charts, we had acquired quite a list of places to call at along the coast. Our plan was to visit the smaller towns and villages and to try to avoid the cities, where there is a big crime problem.
Our first stop was Port Orange, 60 miles down the coast, a little way north of Recife. We arrived mid-morning about low water and touched the bottom a few times as we sailed in over the bar, but there was no sea running and we found deeper water closer to the reef. Carrying on past the for we anchored off the town of Itapissuma, 5 miles further up. After a quick look round, we beat back to anchor off the fort. Fort Orange was built by the Dutch in 1631, when they were trying to gain a hold on the coast. It had gone to rack and ruin, until a time-served convict at the nearby prison, (Fort Orange is on the island of Itamaraca) decided to try and restore it. He has been doing a splendid job and the work continues, largely funded from a craft shop which sells many items made by the local prisoners. It is interesting to note that most of the cannons at the fort and in the rest of north-east Brazil have the coat of arms of King George and the Broad Arrow on them. Obviously Britain has been in the arms business for a long time.
An overnight sail brought us to the River Suape, south of Recife, which has a narrow entrance between a rock headland and the end of a drying reef. We entered just after dawn, with a light breeze from astern taking us in slowly against the ebb. Fort Nazare guards the entrance and it was reassuringly deep as we passed the reef. A bay opened up behind the headland with several small fishing boats on moorings. However, we were soon in shallow water, which was shoaling quickly, so we turned around and started tacking back. As we failed to find the channel, we carried on past the reef. Here the ebb was causing a few overfalls and Badger missed stays. We had left just enough room to wear round and the ebb took us past the reef on the next tack. It was still only 0630, with the day before us.
We carried on south to Ilha Santo Aleixo, a small island that the Pilot suggested gave good shelter. As we sailed past the reef on the island’s south side a large catamaran came into view anchored in the lee. Once past the reef we tacked up to anchor. A Zodiac zoomed up to us from the catamaran and we were warned that there were several coral heads nearby; it then guided us into the best spot. The catamaran looked like a ‘high-tech’ racing machine of about 60 feet. Once anchored, we rowed over to thank our ‘pilot’. The catamaran had been built by a French couple from La Trinite, very cheaply, and had been rigged and outfitted with surplus equipment from several Grand Prix racing multihulls whose skippers had been their neighbours.
Together with their young son they were working their way around the world, earning a respectable income from beach chartering. After lunch the charter party hoisted the heavy Kevlar mainsail and they whizzed off back to a nearby hotel.
We called at the village of Tamandare the next day and then sailed overnight to the city of Maceio, 80 miles to the south. All along this stretch of the coast we came across the jangadas. These sailing fishing vessels were originally built as balsa rafts, with daggerboard, a notch in the stern for a steering oar and an unstayed leg-o’-mutton sail. The balsa logs are no longer available, but the jangadas remain basically the same except that the hulls are now built of plywood or planks. At Maceio we anchored near to the fishing community and each morning several jangadas would sail past on their way to a day’s fishing offshore, returning just before sunset.
Fifteen miles south of Macei´o is Barra Sˆao Miguel. We anchored for the night behind the reef at Porto Franc´es, sailing out at dawn to arrive at Sˆao Miguel with the flood. As we approached the vicinity of the reef I climbed up a couple of battens on the foresail and spotted what looked like the entrance. We lowered the sails and started the engine to keep our speed down as we approached the reef, the wind being from astern. Standing on the sail bundle forward I was beginning to have doubts when Annie called that the bottom was shoaling rapidly. We turned round and started to motor off. There was a bit of cavitation in the waves, but then a big one rolled in and swamped the engine. The sails were quickly up and we continued along the reef until we saw the real entrance and anchored off, deciding to have a look at the entrance from the dinghy first. The leadline showed 3 metres in the break in the reef, but the waves were too big to rely on motoring back out and the channel too narrow for tacking. Getting in was no problem, but getting out again might well have been. We hauled the dinghy aboard and set off towards Salvador, 250 miles to the south.
The city of Salvador stands on the east side of Ba’ıa de Todos os Santos. This is a large bay with many islands scattered across, the largest being Ilha de Itaparica. We anchored off the hospitable Yacht Club, a safe place to leave your yacht when the wind is in the east, to do our tourist bit in the city. The old part is well worth a visit for its countless baroque churches and charming, dilapidated stucco buildings. Much restoration work was in progress, an uphill struggle with so many deteriorating structures. We then spent a month exploring the bay, which is a fine cruising ground.
At the island of Itaparica there was a small gathering of cruising boats, a rare event in Brazil. As it was Badger’s tenth birthday we thought this was a suitable occasion for a party. Two buckets of cacha¸ca punch (cacha¸ca is a wicked firewater sold at giveaway prices) were consumed, but I think that everyone got home safely.
The Rio Paragua¸ca is a picturesque river and we had heard possible to get up to the town of Cachoeira. The upper part of the river is off the chart, but we thought that we would have a try. The water is not clear, but by using the echo-sounder we found a channel and followed it up. The depth was decreasing, but there appeared to be deep water ahead next to a beach, which, being a Sunday, was crowded. The impression of deep water disappeared — all those people up to their necks in water had been sitting down! We quickly turned around, but too late; we touched bottom and ground to a halt. The true horror of our situation can only be appreciated by those who have experienced a Brazilian beach at the weekend. We were soon surrounded by a score of young men eager to lift Badger back to deep water, and by a score of young boys eager to tip the dinghy over. There was no hope of getting off as the tide was ebbing quickly, but the helpers were having too much fun to worry about that or about the large quantities of soft antifouling all over their hands and shoulders. Meanwhile, we had to haul the dinghy on deck to save it, all this accompanied by much shouting and laughing. We fitted Badger’s legs and at low water found the best route to the channel and laid out the anchor in that direction. The joys of exploring. We floated off that evening, and crept up the river to anchor off the village of Naj’e. The next morning we tried to continue, but the channel seemed too tortuous to follow so we retreated.
It was now the middle of February and as we had decided to spend Carnival in Ilheus it was time to move on. We called in at Morro de Sˆao Paulo and explored up the river to Cairu, stopped a couple of days in Itacar’e, and arrived in Ilheus just as Carnival was starting.
Carnival is a big event in Brazil, a gigantic street party with lots of food and beer stalls. The Carnival procession now seems dominated by Trois Electricos. Imagine a large removal van, each side of which is covered by loudspeakers, with a stage on the roof for the performance. They play pop music with the volume turned up to the top. To walk past one is a moving experience and they are still loud from over a mile away. The party goes on all night and people recover during the day. This continues for five days!
We left Ilh’eus, tacking out of the harbour with a light wind. On the final tack to clear the breakwater the wind gradually died and it looked as though we would not go clear. I put the helm down to go about, but we had lost steerage way. The next puff pushed the bow off and we headed back for the breakwater. There was now no room to wear round. I called Annie up from below while I got the engine ready to run why I didn’t just drop the anchor I’ll never know. Annie tried to tack again, but we didn’t have enough way on. The engine started at first pull and I put it into gear. There was some swell and backwash from the breakwater of loose stones, which was now very close. I revved up, but the propeller came out of the water, the engine raced and, as it immersed again, the force cracked the slide mount and the engine fell off. It stopped as it got dunked, but it was tied on and I pulled it aboard. Annie had the boathook out to fend off and two fishermen clambered down the rocks to help push off. A puff of wind came. Badger luffed to it and sailed herself past the end of the breakwater with inches to spare. I could have shaken hands with the two white-faced fishermen. Saved by a stroke of luck usually reserved for tyros. Once clear we anchored to collect our shaken wits and to tidy up the broken engine mount. Annie never commented on my ‘seamanship’.
We explored some quiet anchorages as we sailed south, but were finding it very hot. The trade wind was lighter and the sun was nearly overhead; in fact it was too much. Instead of spending a further three months in Brazil, we decided to head down to Uruguay to cool off and to come back in the winter. After calling at the Abrolhos Islands, Buzios (where we repaired the engine mount) and Cabo Frio we went to Rio to clear out. We arrived at dawn on a fine morning, after sailing all night towards the floodlit statue of Christ on Corcovado. The setting of the city is superb, but it has an evil reputation for crime so we only stayed two days before setting sail for Uruguay.
We left on 16 March and had a mixed bag of weather for the first five days with thunderstorms, calms and Force 5 headwinds, but then it settled down and we had a fair breeze and clear skies for the remainder of the passage. The log notes how pleasantly cool it was at 80°F! We spoke to a yacht six days out, Nora of El Tigre in Argentina. This is a rare event for us as we assume that yachts call up on VHF but sail on when they get no reply We spotted Nora and headed her way as she did likewise. We exchanged news and as they were going to La Paloma, in Uruguay, we decided to go there ourselves.
We stayed in La Paloma for a day and then sailed along the coast towards Punta del Este. The east wind eased off after sunset, so we went and anchored in a small bay at Jos´e Ignacio for the night. A rude awakening just before dawn by a southerly Force 4 sent us on our way from the exposed anchorage and we’arrived at Punta del Este by lunchtime. The town has a fairly large yacht harbour, geared up to deal with a flood of Argentinian yachts who call at the fashionable resort in the summer. The season was obviously over and we anchored outside rows of empty mooring buoys. The next morning just before dawn we had to shift berth to the lee of Isla Gorritti, two miles away, as a fresh westerly arrived with a squall. This was to set the pattern for the next five days, because we had to re-anchor seven times to get shelter from a series of pamperos. The last one blew at gale force from the south-west and we had five fishing boats for company, while we watched three yachts drag their moorings onto the beach. When we cleared out at the Prefects the next day we asked if this weather was normal and were told that it was — they proved to be correct!
Our next stop was at Puerto del Buceo, near Montevideo. We anchored in the harbour and as the next blow arrived, rowed out two more anchors to try and hold us in the soft mud bottom. We had just sorted ourselves out when the boatman from the Uruguay Yacht Club came over and suggested that we would get more sleep by tying up to a laid-up fishing boat in the lee of the harbour wall. This seemed a sound scheme, so three anchors came in, with mud everywhere, and we motored up to the fishing boat and put a stern anchor out. Here we sat comfortably and waited ten days for a break in the weather so that we could sail further up the River Plate. A fine easterly sent us quickly to the Rio Rosario, 60 miles west of Montevideo. Nora’s skipper had recommended it and we felt our way in over the bay into a delightful pampero-proof river, one of the Plate’s rare natural harbours. We anchored just past a derelict factory, complete with rusting steam tug and barge at the tumbledown dock. It was very peaceful and three weeks went by, painting and varnishing, during a spell of fine but cool weather.
We carried on up the River Plate, sailing against light headwinds and a knot of current. A dawn to dusk sail gave us about 15 miles on our way. One fine, cold morning saw us underway just as the sun rose. I lit the diesel heater and let Annie have a lie-in while the cabin warmed up. Smoke started erupting from the chimney and a look below between tacks showed the heater roaring away, so I switched it off. It continued to roar away, out of control now — the valve had stuck. I turned if off at the tank and woke Annie. Smoke was starting to escape inside the cabin and burning diesel dripped onto the sole. This was serious. The first fire extinguisher failed to operate so I got the other one from the lazarette, but that didn’t work either. Annie got out a pot of bicarbonate of soda and tried to sprinkle that on the fire, but it was too lumpy to have much effect. I wrapped our fire blanket around the heater, which at least contained the flames. By now the cabin was dark with acrid smoke and we were getting pretty worried. I went on deck and forced the top off one of the fire extinguishers, then poured the powder down the chimney and, thankfully, the fire went out immediately. While all this had been going on Badger continued to sail herself in the light breeze. We opened all the hatches to clear the smoke out and surveyed the damage. The cabin was filthy from the smoke, which had got everywhere, but apart from a little scorched wood and a distorted carburettor there was little real damage. If the fire extinguishers had worked there would have been none at all. They were ten years old but in good condition and the manufacturer had not put on a ‘best before’ date. I know that it’s unlucky to be superstitious, but things happen in threes, so we wondered what the third one would be. Annie spent the next four hours cleaning up. Breakfast was a little late that morning.
We anchored well after dark off the town of Carmelo, and after a look around the following morning carried on north. The next section was quite tricky as the Rio Plata narrows just where it is formed by the junction of the Rio Parana (which goes up through Argentina to Paraguay) and the Rio Uruguay (which forms the border between Uruguay and Argentina). The current increased to 2 knots and we still had a light wind against us. We were on the point of anchoring at dusk, having made little headway, when the breeze shifted and increased enough to allow us to make some progress.
We carried on up the Rio Uruguay and after we’d passed the narrows – Nueva Palmira the wind freshened. Soon we were making real progress, and decided to carry on as long as the wind held. The Admiralty chart of the Rio Uruguay gives only scanty information, because the channel and buoys frequently shift and pilotage is compulsory for ‘all ocean-going vessels, without exception’. We were sailing in the dark, but as one lit buoy came abeam we could just make out the next. The buoys had the advantage that they were marked with the distance from Nueva Palmira, so that by sailing close by and shining a torch on them we could check our progress. Towards dawn a bend in the river forced us to start tacking and the easing of the wind further slowed us down. By using the echo-sounder we tried to keep just outside the deep water and thereby cheat the current a little. By lunchtime he wind had gone so we anchored, and as it showed no signs of returning eventually motored up to the entrance to the Rio Negro, which branches off east into the heart of Uruguay. The Rio Uruguay is several miles wide at this point, with gentle, rolling hills to the east and low ground on the Argentine side. The Rio Negro is narrower, with much of its banks wooded and interspersed with the pasture of cattle ranches. Estancias could be seen on the sides of nearby hills, well above the flood level.
We had heard that local yachts often sail up to Mercedes and although we only had a general map of the Rio Negro we thought that we’d give it a try. Our first stop was at Soriano, a small town in the centre of cattle country. Time seemed to have passed it by since its prosperity a hundred years ago but it was gratifying to see the odd gaucho riding by. We bought a litre of milk in one tiny shop. They expected us to bring our own container, but solved the problem by using a whisky bottle. This hasn’t happened to us since we bought a pint of milk in a whisky bottle in Glandore in 1979. Even such a backwater as Soriano has its Prefectura and the official seemed quite pleased to see us; he can’t have much business at the end of May. On the wall in his office was a chart of the river up to Mercedes. As I was studying it he asked if I would like to take a copy. He then produced tracing paper and a pencil and it was with more confidence that we carried on that afternoon.
It took us three days to sail the 29 miles up to Mercedes. The river meanders a lot so that the wind was not always against us, even if the current was. It was fine sailing, tacking up the narrow river to the next bend and then easing sheets for a brief spell until the following turn. There was always plenty to see on either bank and it made quite a change from coastal sailing. Mercedes was as far as we got, for there we decided to turn back. The town of Fray Bentos was not far away, so we took a bus to visit it — how could we miss going there, the spiritual home of corned beef? It is an economic mystery to us that a tin of corned beef costs nearly twice as much here as in England.
Retracing our steps down the river was a piece of cake. The current was with us and, with rare justice, the wind held, turning what had been a headwind into a fair breeze. We flew down the river and were even bold enough to anchor for lunch. The only drawback of such swift progress was keeping to the, at times, narrow channel — much more difficult than feeling our way along as we tacked up. We arrived at the mouth of the river at sunset, just as the wind eased off and silently glided into the Riacho Yaguan to anchor. Ashore two gauchos rode up to a corral and talked quietly as they unsaddled their horses for the night.
The following day was a repeat of the previous one, with a wonderful run down the Rio Uruguay, anchoring just after dark at the mouth of the small Rio San Juan. The Rio San Juan is the site of the first European settlement on the Rio Plata. A fort was built here in 1527 by Sebastian Cabot, son of John, but the Indians soon destroyed it. A tall stone tower marks the spot and the President of Uruguay has his official summer residence here. It is a relatively small, English-style country house, set in beautiful parkland with fine views across the Rio Plata.
After spending a day sheltering from a pampero in Colonia harbour, the main ferry port for Argentina, we sailed back to Montevideo. We decided to go into the main harbour and lie off the Club Nacional de Kegatas as we had been told that they make visitors welcome. It was a big mistake. It is mainly a rowing club and has obviously seen better days. Situated in a corner of the harbour, it is the filthiest place I have ever seen. There are scores of laid-up deep sea trawlers moored in the harbour, and all the oil from their bilges collects off the Club. The water level was low and there didn’t seem to be much room to anchor. We were hailed and offered the use of the one free mooring. This belonged to a heavy steel harbour launch, which persuaded us to ignore our normal rule of never picking up a private mooring. We tied up with a rope and shackled our cable to the heavy chain riser.
Our main purpose in coming to Montevideo was to stock up before going back to Brazil. We took on board a seamanlike quantity of wine — table wine in Brazil in undrinkable — and fruit and vegetables for the passage. We were treated to another pampero and a particularly vicious one, well over gale force. The harbour is well protected and as there seemed to be no problems we turned in, only to be woken a few hours later as we banged into a workboat tied up to the nearby jetty. The water had risen 6 feet and Badger’s buoyancy had lifted the mooring off the bottom. The wind pressed us firmly onto the oily tyres of the workboat’s bow, but we managed to manoeuvre ourselves alongside it. The stanchions had been bent and the rubbing-strake was badly mauled, but we were lucky not to have landed on the ruined concrete jetty a few yards away. We spent the next day sorting ourselves out and trying to remove the ground-in oil from Badger’s cream built-up cabin. It turned out that the mooring had only just been laid and never used. Well, here was trouble number three and we hoped that we had got rid of the bogey. It took another bottle of detergent to clean off the dinghy and we couldn’t leave Montevideo harbour soon enough. We sailed with a forecast of a south to south-westerly Force 3-4, but that shifted to the east by the time we had cleared the harbour. Within a day it was up to Force 6 giving us a chilly, wet beat to get back to Brazil.
The cold Falklands current runs north as far as Rio at this time of the year. Not only did it run in our favour, but the cold water attracted rafts of Magellanic penguins and the air was teeming with mollymawks and Cape pigeons; the odd sea lion popped his head up for a quick look. After five days the wind shifted to the west and eased off and the next evening we came to anchor off Rio Grande, the southernmost port of Brazil. It was dark and we thought it prudent to wait until daylight before attempting the entrance. The river drains a huge area and consequently there is a strong current. We wanted to make sure that we entered on the flood and our tide tables would have to be the tidemarks on the breakwater.
At 0430 we were woken by Badger’s motion. The wind had got up, it was blowing south-westerly Force 5 and the glass had fallen. With a couple of reefs in each sail we tacked up to the anchor, but it appeared to be set in concrete. After much struggling the chain was up and down, but still the Bruce would not break out. We feared that the cable must part as Badger pitched into the sea, but it eventually broke out and we beat offshore.
Neither of us fancied trying the entrance in a pampero, so we bore away and made it a fair wind to run up the coast for Santa Catarina Island, another 350 miles to the north. We had a fast if rough ride, so much so that Annie commented in the log: ‘Fed up of this bloody passage’ — we ran 151 miles that day. We then ran 153 miles the next and the ‘bloody passage’ was over by noon, when we anchored in the shelter of Praia de Pinheira just south of Santa Catarina.
Overnight the wind shifted to the north and the next day we beat up the Santa Catarina channel. It was a fine sail, with mountains close to port and the hills of the island to starboard. We anchored off the city of Florianopolis to clear in. After dealing with the authorities (an all-day job which included an interesting tour of the opposite ends of the city), we returned to Badger, our backs breaking under the load of provisions, our little faces beaming at the cheap prices.
We needed to find a sheltered anchorage to repair a batten which had cracked on our run north and to sew a few patches on the mainsail. The likeliest place seemed to be Enseado do Brito, which gave shelter from the north through west to south. Here we dismantled the mainsail and felt rather vulnerable, as though crippled. We had to shift berth several times to get better protection at either end of the bay; the weather was anything but settled. It was now mid-winter and the cold fronts were coming in quick succession. As soon as the sail and batten were repaired we decided to sail further north to Ilha Grande in the hope of finding some better weather.
A mixed bag of mainly light headwinds was our lot for most of the 400 miles, but the last twelve hours produced another cold front which rapidly concluded the passage. Baia de Ilha Grande is a large bay, 60 miles wide, dotted with small islands and surrounded by mountains. It is on the edge of the tropics 60 miles west of Rio. This is a delightful cruising ground, marred only by its general lack of wind. We spent seven weeks here, exploring the bay and attending to several jobs on Badger. I found enough teak on board to repair the ravaged rubbing-strake and the endless list of jobs was slowly reduced.
It is surprising how few cruising yachts visit Brazil. We only saw seven other foreign yachts whilst in the bay, the largest number since Salvador. I can only assume that tales of crime and bureaucracy have frightened people away. Crime is only a problem in the cities (which are best avoided) and the bureaucracy is not much worse than in Portugal. A cruise to Brazil makes a good alternative to the crowded Caribbean and it will doubtless soon become ‘discovered’ in the same way as Venezuela.
We ended our stay in the bay by visiting the town of Parati at the west end. This is an old colonial, gold-exporting town which has only recently been connected by road. The old town has some fine restored houses lining the cobbled streets, which flood at each spring tide, so that on more than one occasion we had to wade back to the dinghy.
We called at Ubatuba and Ilha Porcos on our way south to Paranagu’a. The sun was about to set as we hauled our sheets and we could just lay the course up the channel over the bar. The ebb was against us, but we made up well with the fresh breeze and anchored for the night off Ilha do Mel. The next day we tacked up the bay with the flood to the town of Paranagua. There is a thriving port here, with ships anchored offshore and in the bay, awaiting their turn to load. The small boat harbour is hidden up a creek off the old town. Here we anchored in front of the quaint, crumbling buildings and watched the endless comings and goings of the canoas, the main means of transport in the bay. Their cargoes varied from building materials and gas bottles to cases of Antarctica beer.
Further up the bay is the port of Antonina, which now has lost its trade to Paranagu’a. It was here that Joshua Slocum was trading in his barque Aquidneck when she was lost on the bar. He then built a sampan-rigged dory (how seamanlike!), the Liberdade, and sailed his stranded family home to the USA.
Our ninety day visa for Brazil was soon to run out and as we didn’t want to renew it, it was time to continue south. We called at Porto Belo on our way back to Santa Catarina and cleared out from Florianopolis for Uruguay. It took a week at sea to cover the 700 miles to Punta del Este, where they were getting ready for the arrival of the yachts in the Whitbread Round-the-World Race. We carried on up the River Plate back to Puerto del Buceo.
On 5 October we continued south for Mar del Plata in Argentina. Our course would take us close west of the English Bank, a dangerous sandbar in the middle of the Plate estuary. The wind was too light to overcome the east-flowing current, so we had to bear away and sail east about the bank. The wind all but disappeared for the rest of the day, but it eventually filled in from the north. It deserted us again within sight of Mar del Plata and we had to beat in against the afternoon sea breeze. We had met the yacht Bastardo, which came from Mar del Plata, in Horta the year before. They assured us of a good welcome there and this proved to be so. We were shown to a berth in the yacht harbour belonging to the Yacht Club Argentino, whose members made us most welcome. We stayed for a fortnight and made use of the sheltered berth, for which no charge was made, to go up the mast and replace much of the rigging, as well as giving the dinghy a much-need repaint. Mar del Plata is Argentina’s number one holiday resort and its year-round population swells by over a million in the holiday season. I’m glad to say that we were too early to witness the crowds.
Sailing south, we called in at Puerto Madryn in the Golfo Nuevo. This large, enclosed bay is the breeding ground for the Southern Right whale and we were lucky enough to see one quite close to the town as we tacked up to the anchorage. It lay quietly on the surface with the occasional wave of its flippers; its distinctive breathing noises could be heard some distance away. Puerto Madryn is a small town that was founded by Welsh settlers in 1865. Apparently some people in the area still speak Welsh but there is little sign of their heritage in the town now.
We sailed over to Punta Loma to see a sea lion colony and as we tacked along the shoreline we could hardly believe our eyes when we saw a flock of flamingos on the beach. It was a spectacular sight as about fifty birds took off, a mass of pink and rose, edged in black. We anchored off a shingle beach and, next morning, walked over to the point where there is a nature reserve. There were some run-down buildings and it rather looked as if it was abandoned, but a warden popped out of a house and asked us for £2 each to enter. We told him that we had no money on us so he shrugged his shoulders and waved us in.
While the nature centre wasn’t much, there was an excellent view from the clifftops of the sea lions and we spent some time watching the heaps of animals, with the large males making half-hearted threats to each other. Although it was a Saturday morning we were the only ones there.
In the afternoon we set off on the final leg of our voyage to the Falkland Islands. We had to pass through the Roaring Forties and into the Furious Fifties, although we did have the tip of South America to protect us to a certain extent. Fortunately the Forties didn’t roar and the Fifties were not too furious, but just to show us that the Falklands are a windy place a fresh northerly got up overnight as we approached the islands. We sighted Macbride Head 15 miles off at dawn, and the wind increased to Force 7, necessitating a quick reef in the middle of porridge. We were soon in the sheltered waters of Port William, outside Stanley Harbour, with the wind blowing with some fierce gusts as we reached across to anchor at the west end.
We had arrived. It was a year later than originally planned, but looking back we have no regrets about turning our cruise on its head.
