Falkland Islands

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Photo by: Mary South

I was aboard Pelagic Australis, the 74-foot aluminum expedition sailboat owned by famed ocean racer Skip Novak. We had not yet reached the middle of a four-week delivery trip from Puerto Williams, Chile, to Buenos Aires, Argentina, yet it was hard not to think that we had just passed the (literal!) pinnacle of our voyage. Ahead lay about 500 miles of ocean passage and sea watches of six hours on, six hours off during daylight, followed by four hours on, four hours off, four hours on in a 24-hour period. The plan was three or four days of sailing to the Falkland Islands, passing through the infamous currents of the Strait of Le Maire, which runs between the tip of Tierra del Fuego and Isla de los Estados. Then a few days in Stanley on East Falkland to reprovision and a little leisurely exploration of some of the small islands off the coast of West Stanley before sailing on to Buenos Aires.

We had a stunning sunset in the evening and passed through the strait that night with surprising ease. On the other side though, the beating began. It wasn’t anything compared with what it might have been, but we had about three days of 30- to 35-knot winds on a northeast course and a sea state that slammed us around a bit. Low on solid sleep, it becomes harder to wake up for that 0200 watch, bracing yourself to time your exit from the berth with the next roll of the boat, and trying to wriggle into multiple layers in the dark as the boat pitches and your bunkmate snores. The pilothouse aboard Pelagic Australis is well-designed, with benches to port and starboard and good visibility, so we took turns wedging ourselves into the seats or snuggled in under the cockpit’s hardtop watching the stars and the glowing wake while we waited for a sail change. One night we scurried to the foredeck to add a third reef to the mainsail in 30 knots, with every wave sending a spray of frigid water over us. I was aware, even then, that though it was cold and wet and dark and should be miserable, it was exciting. Its exclusiveness, the rarity of the experience, countered the discomfort and was a mighty aid in denial. The upshot was, I loved it — though, if I am honest, probably not as much as I now remember loving it.

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Nonetheless, we were all happy to tie up in Port Stanley. First stop was the Seamen’s Mission for laundry and e-mail home. The following day, a few of us took a tour around East Stanley by Land Rover.

The Falkland Islands is a self-governing U.K. territory, though the legitimacy of that claim has been disputed by Argentina since 1833. Beautiful in a desolate way, the Falklands are home to a mere 3,000 people, including a large population of British soldiers. Most people live in Stanley, but there are dozens of other tiny settlements scattered throughout East and West Falkland and its 677 smaller islands.
This part of the world is best known for its moment on the world stage in 1982 when the Falkland Islands War was fought. Nine hundred and seven people were killed over the 74-day struggle — 649 Argentinian soldiers, 255 British soldiers and three civilians. Tensions between the two countries have never really eased and now hover above the discovery of vast reserves of offshore oil like a dangling match. But the question of whom the Falklands belong to is not so easy to determine. It’s been said that the Falklands are more British than England, and it certainly feels that way. Land Rovers are the most popular method of transportation; fields are full of sheep; Port Stanley is dotted with pubs, red telephone boxes, churches and a neatness that’s particularly English. And the people who live here want to remain citizens of the crown.