This is the cruise for which the RCC Challenge Cup and the Goldsmith Exploration Award were presented.

It was with some trepidation that we sailed from Stanley in the Falkland Islands, outward bound for the Antarctic. 

Our original plan had been to visit South Georgia and then sail on to Cape Town. In the winter, during the celebration of some trifling event, Annie commented that it was a pity to miss out visiting the Antarctic when we were so close. Sober, the next day, she came to regret her light-hearted suggestion. The South Shetlands and the Antarctic Peninsula were too far in the wrong direction, but the South Orkneys were almost on the way and had the advantage of being less frequented. It seemed too good an opportunity to miss and Annie agreed, excited and appalled at the same time. Over the winter, we had installed an 18 hp air-cooled, diesel engine, that we had been given for a very reasonable price. It is doubtful if we would have attempted this trip with our previous Seagull outboard. 

We had decided to leave on 15 December. This would give us the max imum daylight for seeing icebergs and we hoped that the South Orkneys should be free from ice by then. The north-west breeze was slowly increas ing all morning as we made our final preparations. Howie Peck came aboard to bid us farewell. He had been the engineer aboard RRS Shackleton who repaired Mischief ’s heater when Bill Tilman was at Deception Island. By lunch-time, the wind had increased to such an extent that we were a little loath to set out, but our berth at the end of the Government Jetty was only just tenable in a north-westerly. We decided to go and once through the narrows, the wind was free and we raced offshore heading south-east. By evening the breeze had dropped to F4-5 and the conditions were perfect. 

The wind went round to the south-west and eased off before filling in again from the north and increasing up to F6. This brought in overcast weather and then fog and it remained foggy for much of the rest of the passage. We were in the iceberg zone, so a particularly good lookout was kept and we were both quite tense, peering into the fog. I sighted the first iceberg at breakfast time on 20 December. We had the Perspex bubble on as it was rather chilly and the fog seemed to be thinning ahead, looking as though the sun might peep out. This brightness turned out to be an iceberg, alarmingly close. Even in the thick fog, we could see the waves surging about its base and there were many growlers about. I jumped out on deck and steered by hand around them. The breeze was light and we were thrown about by the backwash, breaking one of the battens, but we were soon out of the brash ice around the berg and back alone in the fog. Hereafter, we never used the bubble again as it blocked out too much noise; the iceberg was clearly audible even though hidden in the fog. 

The fog hampered navigation because, although a weak sun was visible from time to time, the horizon was very dubious. I took sights anyway – something is better than nothing. On one occasion the horizon simply had to be guessed at, because the visibility was less than 100 yards, even though the sun was clear overhead. These sights seemed to tie in with the DR so we pressed on although one night we had to heave-to for three hours because it was too dark to continue. Next day, the visibility improved a litde and more confidence could be placed in the sights and that evening Annie sighted the Inaccessible Islands, 17 miles off and a litde to port of our course. We had made it and there was no sign of pack ice, although there were many icebergs about within the 100 fathom line. We sailed on overnight and along the south coast of Coronation Island to Signy Island, where there is a good anchorage. Breakfast time on 22 December found us anchored in the north of Factory Cove (60°42’S, 45°37’W), the site of the British Antarctic Survey base, which looked very small surrounded by grand but austere scenery. 

We went below, lit the fire and had a good breakfast. An inflatable zoomed out of the bay and a short while later came alongside, Russ Man ning, the BAS boatman was calling to welcome us. After a brief chat, he roared off again to pick up some field workers. I must admit that we were very elated to have actually made it to the Antarctic — it seemed so im probable. As we rowed ashore to see the Base Commander, a cruise ship steamed slowly past Signy Island.

Martin Davey, the Base Commander, met us as we landed at the slip. He made us very welcome, giving us a tour of the base and inviting us to lunch in the dining room. We went off for the afternoon to the north of the island with a penguin-counting party. After dinner ashore, seven of the base came out to Badger for what turned out to be a party – quite a first day.

We slept late the next morning and then went for a long walk to the south of the island to see a Chinstrap and Ad´elie penguin colony. It was also the breeding season for skuas and we had several nerve-racking attacks from them because we had forgotten to take a stick to hold up over our heads: never again.

That evening Martin came to dinner and invited us to share Christmas with them if we were still at Signy. We gratefully accepted because we had hoped to stay there as it is a good harbour and we were looking forward to being safely anchored for Christmas Day. The Christmas celebrations were a splendid affair. They started with a traditional James Bond film in the afternoon, with roast turkey in the evening followed by a party in the bar that apparently fizzled out just before breakfast. Even so, we had quite a few takers for a Boxing Day sail the next morning. We sailed in company with the Base launch over to the Sunshine Glacier and had lunch at Shingle Cove (60°39’S, 45°34’W). There were ten of us on board for the sail back to Signy. 

The people at Signy were a marvellous group, hard-working but with a great capacity to enjoy themselves. A third of the scientists were women, which was a surprise, and many of them were recent graduates. It was with regret that we said good-bye and, after dropping off our guests, sailed around to the next bay for the night. 

The weather was crystal clear the next morning as we sailed along the south coast of Coronation Island with a fresh wind from astern. After passing through the Robertson Islands, we found an anchorage in the lee of Matthews Island (60°44’S, 45°09’W) for lunch. It was then a short sail over to Powell Island. 

Falkland Harbour (60°43’S, 45°06’W) at the south end looked very promis ing, but the Pilot advised against it without giving any reasons. We sailed in to what appeared to be a well-protected spot, quite small, but none the worse for that. The anchorage was put to the test next day when a westerly gale came through and showed that we were safe and snug. The whole area around Falkland Harbour is a Site of Special Scientific Interest and landing is not permitted. The shore is covered with a large, mixed penguin colony of Gentoos, Chinstraps and Adelies, but there was no need to go ashore because Badger provided a splendid viewing platform. 

On 29 December, we shifted berth to Ellefsen Harbour (60°44’S, 45°06’W), passing through the very narrow channel separating the two harbours. Here there were more penguins and we saw a couple of leopard seals lying on some grounded bergs. We had a rude awakening in the small hours of the morning with a terrific clattering on the upturned dinghy above our heads. Annie braved the snow to see what was going on and discovered an Ad´elie penguin standing there. We guessed that it had been chased by a leopard seal and leapt out of the water straight onto the dinghy — it is not often that we have a penguin on the foredeck.

The next stop was Scotia Bay (60°44’S, 44°42’W) on Laurie Island. The Scottish National Antarctic Expedition wintered here in 1903 and then handed over the base to the Argentine Meteorological Office, who continued the work. It is the oldest, continuously manned base in the Antarctic. We tacked slowly up the bay in a very light breeze and although we declined the offer of a tow from an inflatable which appeared from nowhere, we eventu ally gave in and motored the rest of the way when we noticed a small group of people on the beach, who looked as though they were a welcoming com mittee and must have been getting rather cold. We anchored off the shingle beach and set the anchor using the engine. On rowing ashore, we were met by the officers (the station is run by the Navy) and were shown straight to the mess, where lunch was awaiting us. Fabian Guidice, the Base Comman der, and another officer spoke good English to me, while Annie exercised her Spanish well beyond its limits. 

After lunch we were shown around the base and then wandered around the shingle spit on which the Orcades base is built. It joins the two halves of the island together, but it was impossible to go far – there was a steep cliff to the west and a glacier to the east and by the time we had seen the remains of Bruce’s stone hut, we had exhausted the possibilities. That night, there was a birthday party for the cook and they insisted that we join in. It was a jolly affair and the morale on the base was obviously good. It was interesting to compare the Argentine and the British bases, for although both were funded by governments wishing to maintain a presence in the Antarctic (apparently the BAS budget doubled after the Falklands Conflict), the Argentines made only a token gesture towards science, whereas BAS appears to be doing worthwhile research. 

We went ashore again after lunch on New Year’s Eve. The weather had deteriorated and the barometer was falling and as it did not seem a very secure anchorage, we felt that we ought to leave. Fabian was a little upset that we had not gone ashore for lunch, in fact we had received no invitation but they had just assumed that we would eat with them. We explained that we ought to leave and they were disappointed that we would not be there to share their New Year’s Eve asado barbecue. As no-one had yet been aboard Badger, we suggested to Fabian that he bring some people out for a farewell whisky. 

“Yes, of course, but first come with us.” We went into one of the large sheds and were shown into a locked storeroom. 

“What do you need? Please, help yourselves.” There was every variety of tinned food, beer, wine and spirits. We did not need anything and we could hardly take any of their store of luxuries which they would need over the winter. They insisted, however, and then started filling a box with olive oil, fish, mussels, a case of beer, a dozen bottles of wine, brandy and liqueur. Their hospitality was overwhelming. 

We rowed out to Badger and entertained them on board. As they left, the first snow squall came through. The true wind was now south-west, but it was hooking in to the bay from the south-east. The visibility in the squalls was almost zero and it seemed safer to stay put. In order to clear the icebergs around Laurie Island by dark, we had to leave by 1930 and just as we had given up any hope of clearing out, a particularly vicious squall started Badger dragging. We now had no choice but to leave. Barely holding our own in the gusts and inching forward in the lulls, we managed to motor out of the inner bay, and then sailed past the outer islands, dodging the growlers around each grounded berg. We had to crack on in the rising gale to get clear before it went dark and there were four hours of tense sailing in the poor visibility. The snow showers died away, but it was just about dark when we cleared the last of the icebergs and were in the open sea. Annie wished me a Happy New Year, rather sarcastically, and went below to turn in. I set up the self-steering and retreated from the cockpit to keep a lookout from under the pram hood with a clear view forward and the hood turned to shelter me from the ice-cold gale. We ran on under bare poles towards South Georgia. 

The rest of the passage across the Scotia Sea was uneventful. There was generally a fair breeze, but it was often overcast with fog and drizzle. The overcast sky prevented sights for two days before our landfall, but the DR proved good enough to find South Georgia — we had a fair-sized target to aim at. Cape Disappointment, at the south end, was sighted on Twelfth Night, but shordy afterwards the breeze switched round to the east and we had to tack up to the island. We nearly made it to anchor that night, but at 2130 it became too dark in the fog and drizzle to continue. We hove-to on the offshore tack and sailed back as soon as it became light, anchoring at 0540 in Larsen Harbour (54°50’S, 36°01’W) a dark, brooding fjord. It was well sheltered from the southeasterly gale which brought heavy snow and we were thankful to be at anchor.

As soon as it cleared, we sailed up to King Edward Cove, halfway up the east coast and the administrative centre for the island. We tied up alongside the whale catcher, Petrel, at Grytviken (54°16’S, 36°30’W), the disused whaling station in King Edward Cove. There is now an interesting whaling museum in the old Manager’s Villa and a losing batde is being fought to try and preserve what is left of the station, with weather and vandalism having taken their toll. Ten days were spent here, catching up with various jobs. Annie had the pleasure of washing the clothes in an ice-cold stream, but there was the guano shed next door, to hang it up to dry. Meanwhile, I repaired the broken batten and took the opportunity of a large concrete floor to cut-out and start sewing a new suit of sails. There was also a bit of a social whirl with the people living at King Edward Point.

On 18 January, we set off again to see as much of the island as we could and had the rather ambitious plan of circumnavigating. At 54°S South Georgia is outside the Antarctic but within the Antarctic Convergence, a band of cold water surrounding Antarctica. This accounts for its extreme climate and for the fact that over half the island is covered in ice with many glaciers reaching down to the sea. 

Sailing up Cumberland West Bay we had a lot of ice drifting toward us from the Neumayer Glacier. At first it looked impenetrable but new leads opened up all the time and we were soon anchored in Carlita Bay (54°14’S, 36°39’W). We climbed the hill to get a good view of the glacier with the Three Brothers rising to well over 6,000 feet. Below us, Badger was being nudged by several growlers, so it was time to move on. 

The next bay north is Stromness and there are three more whaling sta tions here. We visited Husvik, Stromness and Leith. They are full of in terest as industrial archaeology sites but we found them depressing. Their dilapidated state makes them an effective monument to human greed and destructiveness. 

We cruised north up the coast, calling at each anchorage we could find. The weather was setded with generally bright sunshine, but occasionally there was fog and we had hardly any wind. Once we had left Stromness Bay we experienced our first real encounters with fur seals, the Southern Ocean equivalent of mosquitoes. I am not very brave when it comes to facing ferocious dogs (any dogs for that matter, says Annie) and snarling fur seals, with which the beaches are full, seem remarkably similar. The fur seals have made a surprising recovery since they were all but wiped out by the sealers nearly 200 years ago. It is estimated that they are back to their original number, no doubt because there is an abundance of krill since the great whales were slaughtered. Our first trips ashore to face the fur seals were nervous affairs, but armed with a ‘bodger’ each (in our case, a six foot bamboo) we gained confidence and they became far less traumatic as time went on. 

One of the highlights of the cruise was to see the Wandering albatross on their nests. We had seen many of these graceful flyers out at sea, but to climb up the hill on Albatross Island (54°01’S, 37°20’W) and stand close to one sitting quietly on its nest was quite a thrill. Most of the islands in the Bay of Islands have albatross nests and the birds show up clearly as white blobs against the tussac, even from a few miles away. 

The weather seemed to be breaking as we sailed on from the Bay of Islands with a fresh easterly behind us. We anchored for lunch in Barber Cove (54°00’S, 37°40’W), Right Whale Bay and then sailed on for Elsehul (54°01’S, 37°58’W) at the north-west end of the island. Just as we were making our approach the first gust hit us with far too much sail up and An nie hung on to the tiller with both hands as we tore through the water. We dared not round up, as the Stina Rocks were close to port. They were soon past and we reefed right down before sailing into the inner bay. Williwaws were coming from the east and lifting off the surface of the water. It seemed better to anchor at the east side of the bay, but that was a mistake. We dropped the 65 lb Luke anchor just outside the kelp line and between gusts set out the 20 kg Bruce, the anchors forming a ‘V’ from the steep hillside to the east of us. Williwaws attacked us all night, but we were not dragging and all was well. 

At 0900 the next day, the wind shifted to the north and really started to blow. The strength in the gusts was incredible and it was hard to believe that the anchors could hold. The Luke was doing all the work, the Bruce being now on our starboard beam, so we started the engine and got out the 35 lb CQR, with its chain and rope from down below This had to be done between the gusts because it was impossible to do anything but crouch on deck as a wall of spray, masthead high, swept over us as the squalls quickly succeeded one another. In a lull, we motored out to port and dropped the CQR, veering all the cable that we could. By the time this was done, a large swell was coming into the bay. We rode over it, but it broke astern a cable away against a rock face, the spray there being carried high into the air above the cliffs. We kept the engine running to give us a slight chance if the anchors should drag or the cable part. Annie packed a couple of bags with survival gear. We had done all that we could and now had to wait, constandy checking transits ashore, both of us feeling extremely frightened. By the time that I got round to thinking that we really should take a photograph of the williwaws, the worst was over and it even seemed possible that we might survive. 

The swell continued to roll in, bringing with it rafts of kelp, which wrapped around our anchor cables. Fortunately it had been a short blow and by 1600 the wind had dropped sufficiently for us to move over to the west side of the bay to escape the swell. Firstly, however, I had to clear the kelp away from the three anchors, which took four hours. Then the Luke, which had done all the work and never shifted, seemed to be immovably stuck in the bottom. I eventually broke it out using the swell, with the chain up and down, but this resulted in the chain stretching slighdy. We then shifted berth.

We had now seen the worst side of South Georgia, but apparently such conditions are not uncommon. It was one of those occasions when the word ‘travel’ more resembled its roots as ‘travail’, as in its old sense of ‘torment’. Annie was for giving up our circumnavigation and scuttling back to Grytviken but I wanted to carry on with the plan, after all we had survived the experience. Annie agreed, but was a bundle of nerves for the rest of the cruise, watching the barometer like a hawk. 

After passing through Bird Sound we called briefly at Bird Island and sailed for Undine Harbour (54°02’S, 37°58’W), our first anchorage on the south-west coast. This coast is a lee shore to the prevailing wind and there are few good harbours — the Admiralty Pilot describes it as ‘rarely visited’. That first day from Undine, we looked in at several anchorages and in the evening approached Cheapman Bay (54°09’S, 37°33’W). Well out into the bay, a thick line of kelp marks the terminal moraine. From Gerry Clark’s book ‘The Totorore Voyage’ we knew that it was possible to pass over it and as the kelp seemed to be thinner to the north-east of a drying rock, we motored slowly up to the moraine and found just enough water to get through. Once inside, we anchored off a second moraine in front of a steep glacier face. It had rather a brooding atmosphere with low cloud hiding the high mountains around us. We were awoken a couple of times in the night as pieces of ice crashed from the glacier into the lagoon but fortunately the shallow moraine prevented all but small bits from drifting on to us. In the morning we recrossed the moraine, after passing through a small breaker just inside the kelp. 

Once out, we sailed north of the McNeish Islands and entered King Haakon Bay. It was here that Sir Ernest Shackleton landed after his desperate voyage from Elephant Island in the 22 foot James Caird. We passed Peggotty Bluff and anchored in the lee of the Vincent Islands (54°09’S, 37°16’W), tiny tussac-covered islets near the head of the bay. After lunch, we beat slowly out of the bay. We had hoped to find an anchorage for the night in Queen Maud Bay but there was nothing encouraging. The barometer was falling slightly and it seemed prudent to head offshore. We just managed to clear the Semla Reef off Cape Nunez before dark. 

The original plan to jog along overnight and to anchor off Annenkov Island the next day was changed when the barometer continued to drop. Annie was on watch and decided to press on and try and outrun the next depression. We raced on through the dark, giving Annenkov Island a wide berth as the breeze increased. Dawn revealed the jagged peaks of the Salvesen range at the south end of South Georgia, the snowfields glowing pinkly. As Badger approached Cape Disappointment at 0900, the gale arrived and rather startling williwaws were seen ahead, whipping up the water off the Cape. I was in the cockpit steering as we passed between First Island and Brode Island. The wind was a steady F10 and, once past the islands, I pulled down the scrap of mainsail and we ran on under bare poles at 5 knots, with the main boom squared off. 

We had made it back to the lee of South Georgia but our problems were not over yet. The wind suddenly switched off and in the wicked jobble, the mainsail bundle crashed over, snagged around the miniature ‘samson’ post on the cockpit backrest and ripped the whole thing off! Fortunately I caught it before it was thrown overboard and shouted to an astonished Annie, who quickly took it below and dogged the hatch again. Barely had I raised the top of the sail when the wind was back at full strength. So it went on until we were at the mouth of Drygalski Fjord. We sailed on through Cooper Sound and eventually anchored in Wirik Bay (54°45’S, 35°51’W) at 1800. Annie heaved a sigh of relief to be back on the ‘safe’ side of South Georgia and I must admit to feeling a release of tension myself.

We pottered back up to Grytviken, visiting quite a few more anchorages in the next ten days, and arrived there on 17 February. South Georgia is a spectacular island, with grand scenery and much wildlife, but it is not a sailor’s paradise. We found the breeze to be either very light or far too strong, difficult but rewarding cruising. No anchorage is entirely sheltered from the extremes of the weather so one is always a little on edge. 

Annie renewed her acquaintance with the ice-cold stream and I glued the backrest back in place. We were getting ready for the long passage to Cape Town. Tim and Pauline Carr returned from their summer cruise in Curlew and it was good to meet them again and hear their stories of South Georgia. They have spent the past three years here, making a cruise each summer and winter, a remarkable feat in a 28 foot, engineless yacht. Also in Grytviken was the American yacht Shingebiss II, with Larry and Maxine Bailey and their crew, Gary, aboard, flying the CCA burgee. We had first met them in the Falkland Islands and they, too, were getting ready to sail, but towards the Mediterranean.

We ghosted out of Grytviken on the last day of February and both were aware that we had a stormy stretch of ocean ahead of us. A course for Tristan de Cunha was set and we had a rough sea most of the way there but, amazingly, no gales. We sighted Inaccessible Island on 13 March and anchored in its lee the following morning after spending most of the night hove-to in a south-westerly F7. Two red, ships’ lifeboats were fishing off the shore and one of them gave us several crayfish. They were from the ship Tristania which spends several months each year fishing around the Tristan group. The surf breaking on the shingle beach prevented a landing but it was very pleasant to be at anchor. 

The crayfish could not have come at a better time and the skipper’s forty-fifth birthday was celebrated a day early. At 2030 that evening the north-west wind shifted back to the south-west and we lost all our shelter so carried on under reduced canvas towards Tristan de Cunha, 40 miles away. We came up with the island after breakfast and sailed along the coast, past the settlement at Edinburgh. The left-over sea from the previous strong north-westerly made anchoring seem risky and many people came out into the streets to watch us as we reluctantly continued past. We wondered whether to anchor in the lee of the island and await better weather but the year was getting on and we still had a long way to go to South Africa and wanted to see Gough Island first. 

We headed south-east towards Gough Island (40°21’S, 9°52’W) unsure if we were wasting our time as a landing seemed unlikely. Three days later we sighted Gough after a comfortable sail in light westerly winds. We came up with the island just after dark but failed to find an anchorage in the bright moonlight so headed offshore for the night. At dawn, a huge school of dolphins accompanied us into Transvaal Bay where the South Africans have a meteorological station, leased from the British Government.

After anchoring, we rowed to the crane on the cliff, as there seemed nowhere to land. Three young men in wet-suits were lowered by the crane and after the initial pleasantries we were asked if we needed medical attention. No, we were fine. Yes, they insisted, but were we sure? 

“We can only allow people ashore if they require medical assistance.” “Aha!” said Annie, “I do have tennis elbow”, from which she had been suffering since the previous July and instantly, we and the dinghy were hoisted ashore by the crane. 

Seven young men man the station and they spend a full year here on this lonely island. Their only physical reminder of the outside world is the weekly Johannesburg to Rio aeroplane that makes its course change over the island. Even this glimpse is usually denied them by the generally poor weather. We, however, visited on a glorious day and were taken for a walk to see yellow-nosed albatross chicks on their nests. After lunch, five of the men swam out to Badger for a sail up the island to the Glen. Back at Transvaal Bay we dropped them off and took some mail aboard. It was tempting to stay at anchor overnight and sail around the island the next day but the anchorage had a rocky bottom and we did not feel safe, so decided to press on. It was only then that we remembered that the medic had forgotten to look at Annie’s elbow. 

We felt that we could not get away with a passage through the Southern Ocean without a gale, but the rest of the trip was made in generally light airs. The first ten days brought mostly easterly headwinds and, after a spell of light westerlies, we made our final approach to the Cape with a south-easterly breeze. 

We sailed into the harbour on 6 April and as we did so, a couple on the end of the breakwater waved and shouted, “Welcome to Cape Town, Badger !”. 

 

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.