My first few weeks in Chile have been tremendous.  The people have been universally friendly and helpful.  The fare has been absolutely delicious with plenty of scrumptious seafood, tender beef, and delectable wine.  Even the volcanic eruptions have been colorful and non-threatening.  

The Final Approach
It felt like a million bucks to finally have my anchor dug into Chilean soil.  I had lots and lots of leisure time during the passage, but never absolute relaxation.  I was always on duty to some degree.  That first night at anchor felt tremendous.  I had a little celebration with my last beer, slung my hammock on the front of the boat, and took in a glorious sunset over the farms of Puerto Ingles.  

I slept like a zombie that night and woke up feeling very well rested and ready to tackle the notorious Canal Chacao.  Canal Chacao is a narrow channel that runs between the Chilean mainland and the huge island of Chiloe.  It drains an enourmous portion of inland water, and its narrow width coupled with 20 ft tidal ranges means that currents can often exceed 8 or 9 knots!  Thats obviously much faster than the Rascal can go, so I knew I needed to get my timing just right.  The proper flood tide came midway through the following morning and I pumped up the superhighway (to use for auxiliary propulsion if the engine had issues during the transit), pulled up anchor and started heading towards the channel.

For a country that hasn't fought any wars in a very long time, the Chilean Navy (called "La Armada" which literally means "The Armed") has a very substantial presence.  True to form, just five minutes after leaving the anchorage, I found an Armada gunship across my path and heard a hail on the radio.  I fumbled my way through a spanish explanation of my situation, who I was and where I was going.  It is a requirement for all foreign yachts in Chilean waters to check in with the Armada twice a day via radio, if possible.  They were very polite and efficient and I continued on my way towards the neck of the channel.

When I started getting close to the entrance to the channel, I saw my speed increase and the water started swirling around the boat, just like you see at the head of a rapid while you're whitewater rafting.  The water was starting to pull in towards the canal and it was swirling with the water of the bay around Ancud.  Even though there was no ocean swell in this area, the water was whitecapping with the speed of the current.

The transit of the channel ended up being much more casual than I expected, though the Rascal managed to get up to 10.2 kts around Roca Remolinas where it gets narrowest.  No large waves ever developed, I had a nice light wind, and there were even sea lions playing around the boat!

I alternated between sailing and motorsailing throughout the day, with generally cloudy weather, but a few breaks of sun.  I was really eager to get to Puerto Montt as fast as possible, but knew I'd never be able to manage it until the next day.  

I passed through a bunch of small islands and saw a few little towns scattered through them.  The land and terrain reminded me a lot of the Canadian Marritimes that I went camping in as a kid.  Small, green, hilly islands - alternating between green pastures and evergreen forests that were really reminsicent of Nova Scotia.  It was also pretty similar to the San Juans - the cruising grounds that I learned to sail in a year ago!

There were lots of fishing boats working back and forth as well as some cargo carriers headed into the islands.  I also got my first tastes of the salmon and mussel farming that is such an enormous part of the economy along the Chilean coastline.  

I soon came to the relatively large town of Calbuco and was somewhat astounded to see so many houses and people after more than a month at sea.  

I had just passed Calbuco when I heard a splash behind the boat.  I turned around, and to my surprise, I was greeted by the Chilean Welcoming Dolphins!

They were frollicking their little hearts out and raced their way up to the front of the boat to play in the bow wave.

They zipped and whirred in front of the boat for nearly a mile and it was an absolute joy to have such a friendly, playful creature to interact with after the lack of animal life in the South Pacific.  

I continued twisting and turning my way through the islands until sunset and anchored in the lee of Isla Huelmo to give myself a short sail to Puerto Montt the following morning.

Checking In
I pulled into the marina around noon the next morning after a short sail and a quick tidying of the boat, and I was immediately met on the dock by a pair of friendly smiling faces!  I was unsure of the direct Galapgos to Puerto Montt route in the beginning, but another sailor in the Galapagos had put me in touch with Clint and Reina on S/V Karma who had completed the sail just before me.  They had sent me a bunch of info before I left (that was encouraging enough that I decided to sail the direct route) and they happened to be in the marina in Puerto Montt when I arrived!  It was my first time talking with people in 37 days and it felt great to be back in civilization!  It was also great to be meeting them in person for the first time after all the great advice they gave me for the passage.  

I went up to the marina office and started the proceedure of checking into Chile.  You need to wait on the boat until customs, immigration, agriculture, and the armada officially allow you to enter, but my friends on Karma offered me a cold beer and waiting around for an afternoon isn't such a big deal after waiting around for 37 days, especially when you're drinking an ice cold Escudo!  I also had internet, so I was able to get in touch with my friends and family via skype.  All of the government officials that came out to the Rascal were very efficient and friendly and several of them struck up conversations and asked me questions about myself and the voyage. 

It was around 9pm before all of the officials  were done checking me in, and one of my marina neighbors invited me over for a glass of wine.  Richard had all sorts of great stories and info for me.  He just recently transited the northwest passage (sailing around the top of Canada!) and is planning to sail his red steel schooner down to Antarctica.  Clearly there is a different caliber of sailor down in Chile!

Puerto Montt
I took the bus into town the following morning (a man I met at the marina gate let me borrow bus fare to get to the bank!) and I finally got my first taste of Puerto Montt.

Chile is a very very long country, more than 2300 nautical miles as the crow flies from the Peruvian border to Cape Horn.  For some perspective, this is the same distance from Sitka, Alaska to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico.  The climate varies greatly from north to south, with exceptionally arid desert in the north and glaciers in the south.  The northern half is a fairly featureless coastline, but the southern half is all islands and fjords with lots of narrow channels and tall mountains.  Because of the rugged climate and terrain, the southern half is sparsely populated and Puerto Montt is the last big town.  Thus, the entire south half of the country depends on Puerto Montt for food, building materials, transportation, and a huge host of other things.  It’s truly the gateway to Patagonia.  

This part of Chile was settled by lots of Germans and the city of Puerto Montt feels kind of like a cross between Bavaria and Mexico.  There is a good bit of German architecture and the butcher shops will knock your socks off.  At the same time, it has a decidedly Latin American flair, as the markets and music will attest.

I walked around town for a couple of hours, looking into shops, exploring markets, and perambulating along the waterfront.  I dove into street food with reckless abandon and had more than my fair share of empanadas that morning. 

As I started to make my way back towards the marina, I noticed that my feet were starting to hurt really bad.  I was stricken with a case of “sea legs” that would plague me for the next couple of weeks.  My feet and legs had atrophied very severely during 37 days at sea.  I paid a heavy price for that first morning jaunt, and I couldn’t walk more than a couple hundred feet at a time for a week afterwards.  It felt like both of my feet were cramping all the time and I was worried I had thrown a blood clot or something.  They’ve since slowly come back into shape.  I think plenty of red meat and hiking has been good for them!

During those first few days, Clint and Reina really took me under their wing, showing me all sorts of shops around town, introducing me to super helpful people, and answering a huge host of questions.  One night, we went to visit some Italian friends of theirs that are cruising around on a gorgeous catamaran.  The dinner was spectacular, with homemade bruschetta, glorious Chilean wine, and some Italian empanadas that were to die for.  I’ve gotten to hang out with the Italians and their Australian friend several times since then and I’m hoping to do some cruising with them later this winter.  They’re all really warm, welcoming people.  

They also introduced me to Raul, a Chilean sailor I’ve been spending almost every day hanging out with.  Raul has had dozens of different businesses over the years, from leading tourist trips down to the glaciers to inspecting salmon farms with an underwater robot.  He is fascinating to spend time around, and he is always explaining little bits of Chilean culture and history.  For instance, did you know that the town of “Aysén” is a corruption of the English “ice-end” because it’s where the glaciers stop showing up along the coast?  He is a wealth of knowledge about the territory south of here and has given me all sorts of advice on islands to explore and different anchorages to check out.  Raul has a vast library of guides and charts of the south and he has been super generous in letting me borrow whatever I want.  He is even letting me use his mooring in the channel, a 3000lb steel anchor that keeps the Rascal good and secure!

Every day is a great adventure with Raul and he has been helping me immensely with errands around town.  For example, one afternoon Raul needed to collect firewood for his house (the vast majority of Chileans heat their homes with wood) and he knew I needed some for the Rascal as well, so he drove by the mooring and picked me up.  We drove first to visit a friend of his who knew where good firewood might be found.  His friend, Mario, invited us in for tea and we spent a little while chatting with him.  It turns out that Mario has a small organic farm and we went out to explore around it.  In the end, he sent us packing with a bunch of fresh tomatoes, cabbages, squashes, and artichokes!  From there we proceeded to down a dirt road into the woods and met up with an old farmer that was quite apparently drunk with his buddies after a morning of drinking ciders.  We loaded up the back of his truck with wood and continued down the road.  We were close to the Italian’s catamaran, so we stopped in there to pick up an outboard engine they’d sold to Raul and they invited us in for tea and interesting conversation, as well!  Finally, on the way home, we decided to stop and grab some delicious beef empanadas from a roadside stand.  What started as a quick run for wood turned into meeting a bunch of interesting people, learning about organic farming, and several tasty cups of tea.  

Over the course of the last two weeks, I’ve been able to fix my engine (reassembled the heat exchanger with the proper seals and rewired the starter with appropriate connections and protections) and I had a new part cast and machined for the tiller.  There were also a handful of other little projects around the boat, including a malfunctioning auto pilot that was fixed simply by laying out in the sun – a prescription that has been enough to fix me on a number of occasions. 

I’ve gotten to know Puerto Montt fairly well, and though it can be a little rough around the edges, it has a pleasant authenticity and all the people have been genuine and kind.  I’m glad to have such a perfect home-base for my adventures over the course of these next several months.  

Puerto Varas
A friend back in the states also put me in touch with a Bucknell grad who has been living down in Chile since we graduated (we were in the same class year, but didn’t particularly know each other back then).  Jess lives in Puerto Varas which is a lovely little tourist town beside a lake that is about a half an hour north of Puerto Montt.  Puerto Varas seems to have even more German influence than Puerto Montt and it’s a very clean, charming town.  From the center of town you can see two enormous volcanoes rising above the lake, Volcán Calbuco and Volcán Osorno.  You’ll hear more about them later!

Jess started working for a Chilean startup incubator shortly after she graduated and opened an organic baby food company with a business partner three years ago.  They’re growing by leaps and bounds and they distribute in North and South America, so she spends a fair bit of time traveling.  We met up a few days after I arrived and went out to a nice Chilean steakhouse.  I’ve had more than my fair share of ribeyes over the years (as those that know me will attest), but this one was truly spectacular.  Easily within the top 5 – as you might expect, Chilean grass-fed beef is no joke.  

Jess has a wonderful group of friends and she has been kind enough to include me in a bunch of different social functions around town, from pisco sours & an art opening to a big birthday cookout!  I’ve been traveling for so long that I really miss having a solid group of friends and getting to join into the festivities was a blast.  The food at the cookout was next-level and very Chilean from what I’m told.  It started with ribs, chicken, sausage, peppers, and onions all roasting in a huge pan.  Once everything was cooked through and starting to smell delicious, a couple liters of white wine were added and mussels and clams were scattered on top.  As you might expect, the finished product was absolutely delicious and I could easily drink nothing but the broth for the rest of my life.  

Puerto Varas has a lot of tourism during the sunny summer months and most of it centers on outdoor activities like kayaking or hiking in the surrounding mountains.  The land all around town is green and gorgeous, with a couple little villages tucked between the hills and the lake.  

 Jess let me borrow her car one day and I drove up Osorno to do some recon on the ski area as well as a little hiking around.  The forest was absolutely gorgeous with lots of nice views out over the lake, but the top of the volcano was totally shrouded in clouds.  …which was good motivation to stop at a refugio at the top of the road to drink a beer and wait for the weather to clear.  

After some more hiking around in the woods, I worked my way down to a river that runs between the volcanoes and decided I ought to take a quick dip.  Fresh water is something of a novelty at this point, and I’ve got to take advantage whenever I can!

The Eruption of Volcano Calbuco
I’d been searching for some way to try and help repay Raul for his kindness and one day he let slip that he’s “getting too old to chop wood”.  I happen to love splitting wood, so he gave me a ride to his house one afternoon and I went to work on the pile.  While I was chopping, he told stories from his time sailing around in the south and blended up a couple of fresh orange juices.  Incredible.

After everything was split down to a manageable size, we went inside and started perusing his vast library of nautical charts.  He kept pulling out new charts, browsing over them for a few seconds and then he’d let out an exclamation, “Hey! Look at this island - it has a hot springs right next to the anchorage and towering Alerce trees!” I sat there taking notes as fast as I could and making sure to mark all the best fishing places and anchorages that were free of ice bergs.  “My friend Heinrich lives on this peninsula and you can hike up into this canyon with the fisherman’s son!”  On and on these inconceivably spectacular tips flowed, until Raul’s daughter piped up from the other room.  The volcano was erupting. 

We all looked out the window our jaws dropped.    

Already people were streaming out into the street.  Dogs were barking, people were staring up at the sky, cameras were flashing, and we were staring in awe.  I looked over at Raul.  Raul looked over at me.  “This looks like a big one, huh?” I asked.  “Yes,” he said, “This is a big one.”

I’d like to think I’ve seen a fair bit of nature in the past year of sailing, but I everything else paled in comparison with this.  It was so enormous and felt so totally and completely powerful.  Volcano Calbuco was about 20 miles away, yet we could see the ash billowing up as if the peak was right on top of us.  Once it hit a certain height, it spread out, and was starting to look something like a mushroom cloud.  

Raul made a really poignant comment to the effect of, “In the eyes of the volcano, everyone is the same and everyone is nothing.  Fishermen, politicians, welders, policemen, and beggars are all humbled in the face of a force as strong a volcano or an earthquake.”  It’s interesting the way a natural disaster like that can erase the differences between men. 

Raul decided the safest place for them was on his boat and they dropped me off on their way to the marina.  My tiller was still in the shop at this point, so I knew there was no quick way for me to sneak out of town.  I grabbed my emergency ditch bag and zipped out in the Superhighway to start taking pictures just as the sun was beginning to set.  The entire mushroom cloud of the eruption lit up and slowly changed colors as it built and expanded.  Flashes of lightning continually danced around the base of the column.  It felt, for an instant, like I was transported back to some ancient time, where the earth was still being formed and dinosaurs were roaming around.  Everything about the scene was unreal. 

As the sun continued to set and the colors began to fade, my mind shifted gears and I started planning for the next few days.  I figured I'd potentially need fuel and I had to find a way to steer the boat without my normal tiller.  I zipped off towards the marina to fill up jerry cans.  

The radio was humming with reports of the eruption and thousands of people were being evacuated from around the base.  Westerly winds dominate in this part of Chile and a peek at the forecast showed that we would be safe from any falling ash for at least a few days.

I got back to the boat as night was falling and I got to work rigging an emergency tiller with an axe, some vice grips, and a few voile straps.  MacGyver would've been proud!  It was ugly, but it was enough to steer the boat.  

The eruption eventually stopped shortly after sunset, but the enormous cloud of ash still hung high in the sky and continued branching out as the night went on.  I went to bed around 1am and missed the second eruption (which apparently had lava flinging into the sky, and substantially more lightning - the pictures online are incredible!).  I woke up around five and went out to the other side of the island to try and get some long exposure shots of whatever was left.  You could see a bunch of suspended ash and cloud hovering above the lights of Puerto Montt, but not much else.  

A morning fog slowly descended on Puerto Montt after that and we didn't get a view of Calbuco until that afternoon.  She was still quietly belching ash and smoke into the air, but wasn't nearly as menacing and awe-inspiring as she was during the initial eruption.

As of this writing, she continues to slowly expel more ash and smoke and there are no signs of her slowing down (nor signs of another large eruption).  

As days went by, they eventually began to let those that'd been evacuated back into their homes.  There was rain in the forecast in a few days and with the heavy load of ash that had fallen, rain would be a death sentence to any roof that hadn't been cleared yet.  Insurance is very uncommon in Chile, so when a roof caves in, families loose everything.  Out in the country, lots of folks are just struggling to make ends meet.

Jess called me with plans to go up and help with the cleanup effort and I decided to tag along.  A big group of her friends showed up, armed with shovels and brooms and we slowly made our way into the ash fall zone along with a bunch of rescue workers and huge military trucks.  At first, it just looked a little dusty, but as we got closer and closer, the ash began to pile up.  It looked like a big snow storm, with ash covering the ground and a  blanket of gray over everything.  

The further we drove, the deeper it got, until a uniform 8 inches was covering everything as far as the eye could see.  The ash wasn't at all what I was expecting.  Its nothing like the ash you find in the bottom of a woodstove, instead its like little pebbles of concrete.  If you think of what the inside of a mountain might look like, and then imagine that material exploded into a bunch of tiny pieces (ranging from a fine sand to 3/4 inch chunks, you've got volcanic ash.  Thus, you can imagine how heavy 8 inches of concrete would be and how much damage that would cause in an area where construction techniques are still fairly primitve.  The military had plowed the ash into big banks along the side of the road so that cars could pass.

We soon found some houses where nobody had been in to help yet and we went to work shoveling and sweeping ash off of the roofs.  It was immensely heavy, and somewhat astounding that any house could withstand such a weight.  

While it was tremendously sad to see such destruction, with homes collapsed and people’s livelihood ruined by the thick blanket of ash, it was also quite heartening to see how many people were there to help and how quickly people were able to make a difference.

It was hot, sweaty, dusty work, but we made quick progress and soon had several houses cleared.  As we worked deeper into the countryside, it became obvious that the plants and animals were suffering just as much as the people, and much of the aid that arrived consisted of fodder for livestock and water that wasn't contaminated with ash.  

As with anything, it wasn't all doom and gloom and we spent a good portion of our time honing our air guitar skills.

Future Plans
I’m leaving today for an exploratory mission into the fjords.  I figure it’ll be good to get my feet wet while the weather is still good and I’m still close to the supply / repair facilities in Puerto Montt.  I must also admit that I’m really chomping at the bit to dig into the real part of Chile after being in port for a couple weeks. 

This trip will also help determine my course for the rest of the winter.  I should have a lot better idea of the feasibility of skiing from the boat once I’ve gotten a better look at the terrain and accessibility of snowfields.  In addition, I’m planning to catch a few king crabs, soak in a few hot springs, and maybe even drink a couple bottles of wine.  Wish me luck!

I managed to avoid heavy weather during this last passage, but there was still plenty of excitement along the way.

The second thing that went bad during the passage was a slow leak from several of the port-lights (windows) and hatches around the cabin.  The Rascal had been completely drenched with rain and sea water for more than a week at this point and it was no big surprise that some of it finally found its way in.  I managed to stem the flow with some butyl tape (something of an industrial version of silly putty that my mom was kind enough to bring down to Mexico with her), and the cabin stayed dry for the rest of the trip. 

The next morning as soon as it was light out, I started digging in to determine what caused the blaze.  The fire started on the bottom left side of the engine, which meant that I'd have to pull the alternator and my good friend the heat exchanger to get at the source.  It soon became evident that a leak had developed on the sea water side of the heat exchanger (which is impossible to see without taking everything apart) and it was very slowly dripping on the electrical leads to the starter.  It eventually shorted out, and because they're direct leads to the battery to get full juice for starting, there was no fuse to blow.  Thus, the cable (which is about the size of a hot dog  (but not as big as a Capri-corn-dog)) continued to short until it melted through its copper connector and half of the nut!  It looked like a camp fire dinner gone wrong.  

I didn't have any hot dog sized electrical connectors around, so I spliced some smaller cables and connectors on and reassembled it.  A slightly sketchy plan, but basically my only option if I want to use the engine at all.  Next, to avoid getting any more leakages or drops on the leads, I covered the starter with a couple of layers of sturdy clear plastic.  This is perhaps an even sketchier plan, but in the end it was very effective (I'm still alive and my starter still works).  Finally, I reassembled the heat exchanger (which was a big pain in the ass, requiring about five tries before everything lined up and held water), reinstalled the alternator, and tried to fire her up.  To my great surprise, she spun on the first twist and purred like a kitten!  Disaster averted!  

I eventually slept the migraine off, and the next morning, I devised a new system to keep the heat exchanger from vibrating its lines out.  This new system used a couple of lengths of parachute cord, wrapped around the heat exchanger and various other things in the engine compartment to keep the lines pushed into the appropriate outlets.  As dubious as this spiderweb of support sounds, it was ultimately effective and I had no engine issues for the rest of the trip.

As the wind was picking up after the dreaded calms, there were a few really gusty squalls that came through and had me scrambling to shorten sail and change heading. I noticed at one point that the tiller was pushed way over, and didn't think anything of it until the next day - I was on a close reach and its typical for the Rascal to have lots of weather helm.  As I was changing course, however, I noticed a lot of slop in the tiller, perhaps 30 degrees!  "That's odd," I said to myself, and as I crouched over to examine the tiller, I noticed a pair of forked cracks.  The bronze casting at the end of the tiller (that grabs onto the rudder shaft) was cracking in two places.  In addition, the key stock that keeps the tiller locked to the rudder seemed to have slipped down and was on the verge of falling out.

Morning is my favorite part of the day, and breakfast is my favorite meal, so I typically cook something grand once the sun is up and shining.  Its tough to buy anything in single serving sizes, so oftentimes breakfast will be brunch and lunch as well.  Thus, I don't pigeon-hole myself into breakfasty things, though sometimes my breakfast-brunch-lunch will have a breakfasty flair.  For instance, Lit'l Smokie-fettuccine alfredo or bacon that I can use for breakfast sandwiches in the morning and BLTs in the afternoon.  I've got nobody to impress on the open ocean and I absolutely deplore doing dishes, so oftentimes I'll eat right out of the pan *gasp*.  

Once my belly is good and full, I typically curl back up in bed to do some reading or listen to a book on tape.  Sometime around mid-morning, I'll get an in-reach message from Porter (my brother) with a weather forecast. I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about and planning around the weather. Each forecast is eagerly awaited and once I get it, I spend some time plotting out new courses, thinking about the implications of what sails I'll put up, and when I'll make certain maneuvers.  Sometimes I'll send a couple of messages back and forth with him to clarify, get news from home, or just shoot the shit.  Having some sort of contact with the outside world (even if it is only 160 characters at a time) makes a big difference and really helps to keep me grounded and happy (and sane?).  Porter spent a lot of time putting the forecasts together and it would've been a much harder passage without his help.  I'm lucky to have such an awesome brother.

Thus, I spend the majority of my day with my head buried in a book, taking breaks to scan the horizon, do some writing, fix a quick snack, or engage in some navel-gazing.  And you can imagine after such a busy morning, afternoon naps are basically mandatory.  Sometimes I'll take two if I'm so inclined.  Dinner comes around 5 or 6 and typically I just snack on something, be it leftovers, summer sausage, crackers or perhaps some granola.  I tend to not do much drinking while I'm on passage, but I do enjoy the occasional glass of wine or cocktail while I'm taking in the sunset.

On an average day, I would guess I spend an hour and a half actually sailing (changing sails, adjusting the wind vane, trimming sails, etc), an hour navigating (planning around weather, monitoring position / speed, charting courses, etc), an hour cooking and eating, eight hours reading and writing, and three hours staring off across the ocean, watching a sunset or an interesting piece of weather drifting by.  Some days when the weather is on the move, I spend six or eight hours sailing and navigating.  Oftentimes wind shifts happen in the dead of night when I'd much rather be sleeping. In settled weather, there have been times when I don't make any adjustments to the sails for days.

The Capri-corn-dog
Last, but certainly not least, I bring you the glory that is the Capri-corn-dog.

I realized I would be crossing the Tropic of Capricorn a week or two after I arrived in the Galapagos and I knew immediately that I'd have to do something really special to commemorate the occasion.  The only suitable option would be a feast of boundless proportions.  After a couple of weeks at sea, my larder was substantially depleted and lukewarm, but I had summoned my reserves of willpower and had cheddar-wursts to spare.  Thus, the concept of the Capri-corn-dog was born.  

When you're crossing the Tropic of Capricorn without refrigeration, make sure you've got well sealed food-stuffs or they won't go the distance.  Johnsonville's finest cheddar-wursts kept nicely.  A grill would've been a nice tool to have, but when you're bouncing around at sea, its tough to grill, so I started by pan frying it over high heat to build a little char (and protect myself from the ravages of undercooked, possibly-spoiled sausages).  As for the "corn" portion of the Capri-corn-dog, some corn masa flour I had leftover from Mexico was just the thing for the job.  I mixed up a thick batter with water and plenty of seasonings.  I was planning to batter it by dipping, but the greasy surfaces of a freshly roasted cheddar-wurst are tough to adhere to, so I had to drizzle the batter instead, which worked beautifully.

There is, of course, only one thing to fry a Capri-corn-dog in, and thats leftover bacon grease.  Don't skimp in this department, and apply liberal amounts of chili powder and garlic salt to the outer crust.  

The finished product was a glorious golden brown, piping hot, with impressive heft.  I'll leave you to choose your condiment of choice, but I must say that BBQ sauce was a lovely accompaniment.  Delightful.  Plan to have a short siesta after you're done.

Puerto Montt
I've been having the time of my life in Chile so far and I'm planning to spend the next couple of weeks exploring around Puerto Montt and Puerto Varas before I start diving into the fjords to the south.  Stay tuned for a post with my first impressions of Chile in the next week or two.

It has been so long since I’ve posted that I decided to split up this passage into two blog posts.  This is the first installment gives the blow-by-blow of the passage, some of my fresh thoughts and feelings from the trip, a collection of interesting statistics, and my plans for the future now that I’m in the land of milk & honey (err… wine & beef).  

Stay tuned for my second blog post from the passage in the next few days.  There will be thrilling accounts of fires and steering failures, a sketch of what a “typical day” looks like on the Rascal during long passages, as well as my recipe for the Tropic of Capri-corn-dogs that I fried up just after I crossed the line.

The Three Phases
There were three distinct phases of the passage, with very different weather dominating each.  The first phase was in the SE trade winds and they were very, very consistent (10-25 kts from the SSE, SE, or ESE).  The only trouble was that my destination was to the SE which meant that I was bashing into the wind and the waves for the first two weeks.  It was also quite cloudy and the decks were awash with rain and waves 24 hours per day.  You can imagine how that might be frustrating, but I was well aware of what I was in for and it was actually a very productive portion of the trip in that I managed well over 100 miles per day for 10 days straight.  In fact, I went several days without adjusting my course or sails at all.  It was definitely rough sailing and I’m fortunate that I’m not the sort to get seasick, because the Rascal and I really took a beating during the first part of the trip.  There isn’t much you can do around the boat in such conditions, and I managed to polish off lots of books from the relative comfort of my pilot berth.  There were one or two days in the middle that felt particularly hateful, with gusts up in the 30s.  

The second phase was spent close to the center of the “South Pacific high”, which was fairly stationary for my trip and it made for very light winds.  If given the choice, I would definitely prefer the 20-25kt winds I was battered with in the first phase to the frustratingly slow progress associated with the high pressure system.  These calm conditions lasted for 13 straight days with winds less than 10kt and 10 of those days with winds of 5kt or less.  The wind direction was also quite variable.  I spent most of my time ghosting along at 2-3kts with the spinnaker or the genny set and obsessively trimming sails and watching the horizon for any changes.  There were lots of days when I made less than 80 miles.  The most frustrating part of the calm, however, is that the forecast kept calling for 5-10 or 10-15kt winds and instead I’d get dead calms.  I’d get a little puff and all of my hope would swell, only to have it fall calm again.  I spent a fair bit of time motoring during this phase, but never more than 6 hours per day to save as much diesel as possible and to make all possible use of the wind.  The nice part about this phase is that it was sunny nearly every day and I got plenty of opportunity to dry out and relax after getting soggy and beat up in the first two weeks.

The last part of the trip had variable conditions, but they were oftentimes more conducive to making good distance towards Puerto Montt.  There were a few days of calms and also a few days of 20kts gusting to 30.  In fact, towards the end of the passage, the Rascal managed one 24 hour run of 146.1nm (averaging more than 6kts all day!) which is the biggest day she has ever had by far!  There were even several periods of 7kts.  She was on a broad reach and it was like a horse running home to the stable after a long day’s work.  There were lots of rain squalls during this part of the passage and the rainbows and sunsets were outstanding.  I had a few slow days, but averaged better than 100nm/ day overall.  

The Blow-By-Blow
As my time in the Galapagos drew to a close, I got more and more fired up to tackle the passage, but the cold beers and friendly wildlife made it tough to leave.  

The penguins were especially active and a group of them spent all of my last morning chowing down on little minnows next to the Rascal.

But my permit was up, the wind was as good as it was going to get for more than a week.  So I went in to town for a last trip to the Booby Trap (a local restaurant), had a glorious lobster omelet for my last meal on land, pulled up my anchor and set sail southward.  

The first couple of days had very light wind and I spent a bit of time motoring before I picked up the real force of the southeast trades.  There is also a strong current that sets westward close to the equator that pushed me around a bit, but the current also seemed to carry dolphins with it, so I was able to get a nice escort out of the Galapagos!

I also caught a few pretty hefty rain squalls in those first few days, with enough rain to give the Rascal and I a nice freshwater shower.  

Around day three, clouds spread across the sky, the southeast trade winds filled in nicely, and I trimmed the sheets, set the windvane, and started reeling off the miles.  The weather was consistent for more than a week and I covered lots of ground.  One day started blending into the next and I charged my way to the south southwest miles after mile, day after day.  

You fall into this beautiful, natural rhythm.  A part of it is routine and the other part of it is like a zen state.  You're sailing, but you're not really focused on anything.  You're just living in the natural cycle of the day and night, rocking along with the waves and sliding through the water.  You're not really spending any time thinking about how much time you have left or how many miles you've come, you're just existing out there.  I was alone with my thoughts and letting the days come and go as they pleased.  

I had visited a farm up in the hills before I left, so I had tons of great produce and fresh meat and I ate like a king for the first few weeks of the passage.  Just a little sampling of my meals: filet mignon teriyaki sandwiches with fresh lettuce and green onion; meatball subs with fresh oregano and melty mozzarella; quinoa salad with peppers, onions, fresh basil, and black beans; steak tostados with chipotle refried beans and caramelized onions.  I was living high on the hog, but I knew leaner times were ahead once the ice ran out and the fresh veggies dwindled.  

I was in a very empty part of the Pacific, and there are no shipping routes or large population centers for thousands of miles.  I was expecting to see the occasional boat, or at least hear radio chatter from time to time, but for those first two weeks, I saw nothing.  There weren't even very many birds.  It was perhaps only every second or third day that I saw a bird and I didn't hear a single squawk on the radio at all.  

It was typically quite cloudy, but the moon was bright and sometimes it would break through in the night to shine on the boat.  I would wake up, see a bright light, think it was a boat nearby, and leap up into the cockpit only to find the man in the moon beaming down on me with a mischievous grin.  This happened several times before I got used to it and I slowly stopped noticing.  

Early one morning, at about 4am, I happened to be awake reading my book.  It was blowing 25 knots with a substantial rain storm and the Rascal was really rocking and rolling.  I looked up from my book and saw a light shining in one of my windows.  "Just the ole moon," I said to myself.  Except I knew it was totally overcast.  So I slowly ambled up to the companionway, and nearly had a heart attack.  A HUGE ship was right next to me.  The ship itself was probably 300 feet long and it can't have been more than 2-300 yards away.  Out there in the middle of the goddamn limitless pacific, I had come within 300 yards of another boat! 

He didn't seem to be moving at all and I was doing a consistent 5 kts.  By the time I noticed him, I had already nearly passed him and it was clear we weren't on a collision course.  I hailed him on the radio several times in a bunch of different languages, but never got any response.  I can only assume that he noticed me on his radar and came to check me out.  It was of a small tanker size, but I think it must've been a research vessel or a navy boat of some sort, though I can't imagine what he was doing all the way out there.  It was pitch black and the boat was rocking around like crazy, but I snapped a few shitty pictures just to prove that it had happened.  All you can make out are his navigational lights whipping across my field of view.  

The next morning, the clouds started to clear away, and the wind began backing further around to the east.  Throughout that day, the weather transitioned from the strong consistent winds of the trades to the light, variable winds of the high pressure zone.

At the time, I remember thinking, "Wow, this is lovely!" and I spent a few days drying the Rascal out, lounging on deck in the sunshine, and making modest progress in the proper direction for a change (with the wind at my back at times!).  

After three of four days of calm winds, I drifted across the Tropic of Capricorn, which felt like a big milestone and as soon as the excitement from that wore off, I started whistling for a wind.  Whistling, loud funk music, and even offerings of gin to the sea gods were all insufficient to summon a wind to my aid.  And I continued limping along to the southeast, making a weak 70-80 miles per day and waiting for the often-forecast winds to return.  It was during this calm phase that I had a fire and engine troubles befall me as well (I'll recount those tribulations in the second blog post) and it felt like Poseidon was adding insult to injury.  

Despite the frustrating conditions, it was absolutely beautiful and I spent many long hours staring down into the electric blue depths of the ocean.  With the sun at your back, it shimmered like a neon light.

In fact, the only fish I saw (and I didn't manage to catch a damn thing for the entire passage) was a tuna that was swimming in the shadow of the bow, presumably to get out of the blistering sunshine.  He swam alongside the Rascal for several hours, until an (apparently) poorly aimed spear shot made him decide to split.   

There was also a healthy number of top notch sunsets during the calm and I enjoyed each and every one.  

The stars during the calm were also particularly incredible.  I saw the Southern Cross for the first time and it really blew me away.  You're so far from light pollution and the air was so clear that it seemed there were millions of extra stars that hadn't existed before.  The milky way looked like a torrent of whitewater racing across the heavens.  I'd spend hours laying in the cockpit gazing up into the heavens.  

It was around this time that I realized that my course had inadvertently traced the shape of a lovely breast across the South Pacific.  Really quite incredible and unmistakable.  Complete with a little nipple and everything.  

Eventually, almost a month into the sail, some dark clouds appeared on the horizon and as I looked back behind me, I was horrified to see waterspouts dropping down out of them.  I had read some stories about exceptionally high winds associated with waterspouts and I got pretty nervous, but in the end I managed to out-sail them without any issues.  

With the waterspout and some other squalls in the area, the wind finally filled in strong and true and the third phase of the voyage commenced.  There were still some days were I'd motor through a few hours of calm, but in general, I was making 90 or 100 miles in the right direction each day, with a few days of 120-130nm.  

At this point, my ice had run out weeks before, all vegetables except for onions and potatoes had long been consumed, and my stock of meat was down to cured pork products (pepperoni, prosciutto, bacon, etc) that didn't strictly require refrigeration (and none of which went bad).  That said, I didn't feel like much of a hardship, and I still had lots of incredible meals supplemented by canned foods with rice or pasta.  I was also pretty careful about rationing throughout the whole trip to ensure I wouldn't have to go without.  I rationed good books, I rationed diesel, I rationed particularly tasty foodstuffs, and I rationed wine (that was particularly tasty given that it was Chilean).  I can certainly see how you'd look at a voyage like this and be appalled by its austerity, but 'going without' makes you appreciate 'times of plenty' so much more.  You can only imagine how good my first cold beer tasted after the passage.  

This last passage seems like a good illustration (if a bit extreme) of the way I've been living my life over the past year.  I've realized that I don't need to burn lots of fuel, I can use the wind to move me.  I don't have to take long showers and go through water with reckless abandon, in fact I only used 20 gallons during this whole passage.  I don't even really need much space, the 30 feet of the Rascal will do just fine.  I think a lot more about my impact on the world around me and if I ever go back to living on land, I'll certainly do it in a more respectful manner.  In a way, recalibrating my expectations to my humble life on the Rascal is an incredible gift.  I'll be satisfied with so much less in the future and appreciate luxuries that much more.

Waves continued to come and go, days continued to come and go, and I made steady progress towards Puerto Montt.  After I passed the Juan Fernandez archipelago, (where Alexander Selkirk was marooned and the story of Robinson Crusoe was born) I soon found that more and more seabirds where everywhere.  Mostly there were petrels, but I also saw a few southern hemisphere skuas and my first albatrosses!  They are absolutely enormous, appearing something like a pterodactyl sized seagull. 

As days wore on, I got closer and closer to Chile and I started to get fired up for the landfall.  There weather was pretty volatile and I had lots of showers, which made for lots of rainbows!

The Rascal was sailing really fast and as I approached the coast, I found myself in a dense mist, with low clouds, and a light following wind.  Chile was doing a pretty good job of hiding, but eventually I managed to make out a crest of land beneath the clouds.  

Eventually I passed into the throat of a big channel and land became apparent on either side.  I called ahead to a lighthouse to report my position and alert the Chilean Armada (the navy that controls all marine traffic in and around Chile) that I was coming into the country.  

I navigated around the corner to a protected anchorage and dropped my anchor into Chilean soil for the first time.  It felt like a million bucks.  I spent the evening gazing across the water and inhaling wafts of fresh cut grass and wood smoke that floated across the water to my passage-deprived-senses.  

Statistics, Milestones, and Interesting Data
This passage is by far the longest I’ve ever done, with 3524.1 nautical miles covered from door to door and 37 days between my departure from Puerto Villamil in the Galapagos to Puerto Montt in southern Chile.  This brings my total for the trip to 9889.8 miles & 355 days of sailing.  Just short of 10k and almost an entire year of my life.  

To give some perspective, the distance I traveled during these last 37 days is equivalent to the following spans (as the crow flies): Boston, Massachusets to Stockholm, Sweden; Anchorage, Alaska to Acapulco, Mexico; Honolulu, and Hawaii to Tokyo, Japan.  Its a damn long distance.  Its also equivalent to the Rascal running 155 marathons or 4 marathons per day for five and a half weeks.  

Between the calm and the short days on either end of the passage, I averaged 90 miles per day which is respectable but certainly not fast.  I think if I were to attempt this passage again, I'd probably stay a little bit further west to try and avoid the high, but chances are that route would see heavier weather on the run in to Puerto Montt.  

The course I sailed was about 74% efficient which is quite good considering how much time I had the wind coming directly from my destination.  The highest winds I saw were somewhere in the low 30s.  The water temperature, over the course of the trip, plummeted from 82 degrees in the Galapagos to 53 degrees in Chile.  

I ended up burning 25 gallons of diesel during the trip, which equates to about 140 miles per gallon.  Pretty respectable compared with what it would've required to fly or drive a similar distance.

There was one point, ten days into the voyage when I was 967 miles from both the Galapagos and Easter Island, and 1100 miles from continental South America (the Peruvian coast).  I dare say thats about as far as I'll ever get from land.  A thousand miles from nowhere.  

I also crossed the Tropic of Capricorn during this trip, which is the southernmost circle of lattitude where it is possible for the sun to be directly overhead.  As you travel further south, there is never a day (even in the height of summer) when the sun is overhead.  I crossed the Tropic of Cancer (the northern equivalent of the Tropic of Capricorn) in Mexico last June.   

Next Steps 
I've been in “passage mode” for a long time.  After a couple months of long sails, the Rascal and I are both pretty well worked.  I'm going to spend the next few weeks making repairs to the Rascal, devising a master plan for my time in Chile, and learning how to walk again.  I'm planning to stay in the Puerto Montt area for that timeframe, because it’s the easiest place to get boat parts and there are other voyagers here who have lots of valuable info about the territory to the south.  It is the tail end of summer in the southern hemisphere and I’m thinking about doing some traveling around on land while the weather is still warm and pleasant. 

My general plan for the winter is to try and find a tasty looking fjord or volcano (of which there are several!) with a snug anchorage at the base of it to see if I can’t manage a ski decent or two from the boat.  I’ve got lots of logistics to figure out first (skiing/sailing partners, timing, anchoring equipment, locations, etc) and a lot of my plans will be heavily dependent on weather.  At the moment, I’m feeling quite proud of myself for having made it this far and I don’t have any intentions of diving into anything too ambitious in the southern fjords just yet.