Falkland Islands

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Photo by: Mary South

I had never considered penguins especially adorable but I could not get over how insanely wonderful they were up close. These guys were plump and shiny, their feathers shimmered with iridescence, and they were remarkably unafraid of us. The one pictured at left approached to within three feet of me and I had a heart-to-heart with him about coming back to Brooklyn. He seemed intrigued, but real love makes sacrifices and I knew he would be happier on Carcass Island. Sigh. I think of him often and very fondly.

The Falklands are a paradise for nature lovers and photographers. Approximately 300 miles off the coast of South America, due east of Rio Gallegos, Argentina, their remoteness and isolation have fostered astounding flora and fauna. Sea lions, striated caracaras and rockhopper and gentoo penguins are the wildlife stars, but there is so much more for the curious to spot.



About 10 pleasure boats visit the Falkland Islands each year (though they now receive cruise ships fairly regularly.) If you can take the time to cruise here, you will experience a rare treat and a warm welcome. Provision well before leaving Port Stanley, though there are occasional farms along the shores that can replenish your stores of fresh vegetables and eggs. The weather can change rapidly and without warning, but there are many protected anchorages. Just keep one eye on the forecast and one on a chart. The climate is temperate with frequent, strong westerlies. During westerlies, beware of willywaws — violent gusts of wind that rush down the hillsides, felt in the lee of the islands. Summer winds are more northerly, and gales tend to come in from this direction, sometimes without warning.

Back aboard after our time with the penguins, we were distressed to see the latest GRIB files. Though we had planned to spend several days exploring the west coast, it looked like we would be taking a 30- to 40-knot northerly wind right on the nose all the way to Buenos Aires unless we got a head start on the coming weather system. We very reluctantly decided to haul the anchor early in the morning and get started on our 1,000-mile ocean passage.

Under way, we quickly settled back into our watch rotations, at first making 10 knots in a 25-knot wind and taking a northeasterly course. It took us a little out of our way but avoided the worst weather, and the ride was pleasant. Eventually, of course, we had to head west to reach Buenos Aires, and we changed course about 450 miles offshore, four days into our passage. Now we had 35 knots of wind and four reefs in the mainsail. A couple of greenies came over the pilothouse and we were getting slammed around. At one point, I was flung from the spot on the settee that we all referred to as “the ejector seat” because there was nothing to brace oneself against nearby. In fact, I wound up bracing myself against the other side of the pilothouse, and though I didn’t feel it immediately, I injured my rotator cuff. For months I was unable to lift my right arm above waist level without pain. (Why I didn’t brag more about my “South Atlantic injury” is beyond me now. Another wasted opportunity!)

Five days out from Stanley, we had yet to see a single boat or hear any communications on the VHF. Spirits were high, though, and we whiled away our time chatting, reading and watching the storm petrels and albatrosses following the boat.

As we got closer to the entrance to the Rio de la Plata, we started a pool to guess our arrival time in Buenos Aires. It was meant to be an offhand calculation — no using the GPS or calculating tidal flows, etc. However, once we were in the wide, brown mouth of the Rio de la Plata, which is a little less than 200 miles from Buenos Aires, time seemed to grind to a halt. (A watched pot never boils.) It was odd to be in the river, with the smell of land again, passing nautical traffic, the distant sights of industry and commerce. It was warm too. We had started tossing some of our meat overboard a day or two before we reached shore, since a cold sea against the forepeak sole was our only refrigerator and it was now warm enough for food to begin spoiling.

Laura, the first mate, nailed the arrival time, and on Monday, June 14, we tied up in the pouring rain at the Yacht Club Argentino in downtown Buenos Aires (read Laura's blog here). Our senses were initially overwhelmed by the traffic, the lights, the pollution and the masses of people.

The next day we cleaned Pelagic Australis from top to bottom, and that night we met for a last celebratory dinner at an Argentinian churrascaria. We were all scrubbed and well-dressed — it was the first time I’d seen a few of my crew mates in anything but foulies! There was amazing beef, and lots of wine, and then, fond goodbyes. Our four-week, 1,500-mile sail — up the Beagle Channel, past Cape Horn, around the Falklands and across to Buenos Aires — had finally come to an end.

Read Mary's South's blog of her entire adventure, and see her complete photo gallery.