The Infamous Drake Passage

Sir Francis Drake was one of the greatest sea captains, naval strategists and explorers of his day, unquestionably circumnavigating the globe amongst his other many exploits.  But it´s very unlikely he ever made it as far down as the passage that now has his name applied to it.  Popular lore is that after making it through the Strait of Magellan, only one of his ships remained unscathed and was blown down to the treacherous meeting point of the southwestern Atlantic and southeastern Pacific Oceans.  No logs or testimonials have ever backed this, which makes one wonder who doles these names out and how I might get one.

Daily weather reports like this were shown regularly during both crosses of the Drake. The orange section on the left had the crew a little scared, but amounted to nothing.

Due to the complete lack of any land masses at this latitude, we end up with what´s known as the Antarctic Circumpolar Current.  With nothing to block the tremendous flow of water, the Drake ends up with the most powerful, steady ocean current in the world.  This is naturally a blast for sailors and cruise-goers.

I knew nothing of this, Captain Drake, or the immense stretch of water we´d be crossing prior to our departure, save snippets told in worried tones from those in Ushuaia freshly returned from one of the expeditions.  At least three people provided me with seasickness pills  — ¨You´ll need them for the Drake.  Trust me.¨ — and I was told to track down ¨the patch,¨ a slow-release sticker like the nicotine-saturated one used for quitting smoking.  While universally lauded (for good reason — I was never once ill with the patch on), it´s something of illegal contraband in Argentina, meaning they must be purchased in advance in the less pharmacologically strict Chile.

The front of the ship, with the bridge on the top deck.

¨Brother,¨ says an Irishman fresh off the boat (an Antarctic cruise, that is), ¨The Drake was one of the most ridiculous experiences of my life.  The boat tilted fifty degrees [Edit: It apparently never went past forty, though that is still a nightmarish angle] in either direction, back and forth.  Like, think about a ninety degree angle, man.  That´s like half of that!  [Edit Two: I required no assistance with this math]  At one point, a few of us went outside to the railing just to say we did it — as the boat rocks down and these massive, cold waves crash up against you and you just look down at this insane ocean and you think ´If I fell in that, I´d be dead.´  There´s no rescue out there.  It´s incredible!¨

It´s ¨crazy,¨ maybe.  But while I should be shaking my head incredulously, I´m completely sold.  ¨Sadly,¨ we had two of the smoothest Passages (going and coming back) that our guide had ever seen from a single trip, leading to the nickname of ¨Drake Pond¨ being given to those segments of our sea travels.

Our beds. Note that the small, white metal rail by my pillow was the only thing keeping me in place while asleep. I still have no idea how there are never any accidents from this.

I don´t mean to imply our Drake was as smooth and bland as an old person´s staircase chair lift — uneventful or not, it was still utterly seasick-inducing for plenty of passengers.  The patch kept me free from nausea (if slightly exhausted and dizzy at times), but was far less potent with others that sought its help, leaving many bedridden and miserable for close to 48 hours.

Those able to attend were invited to two lectures per day on a variety of Antarctic-themed topics, though attendence obviously waivered based on weather conditions.  Sample classes included Penguins, Geology of Antarctica, The International Antarctic Treaties, The History of Antarctic Exploration and The Weather of Antarctica (all of which were graciously placed on a DVD-Rom for us at trip´s end).

Early hours in the Drake had many of us braving the unsecured chairs of the common area (some mornings, we´d wake to find every chair in the room tumbled onto the floor) to play cards, chess, backgammon, rummikub or scrabble; by late into the Drake, most of us had retired to the relative safety of our beds to read and/or do absolutely nothing.

A game of chess

On the plus side, I got a ridiculous amount of reading done (even if I was limited by what books currently made up the MV Ushuaia´s library): Ayn Rand´s The Fountainhead (surprisingly readable, despite preachiness), The Kite Runner, The Neverending Story (it turns out the movie ends about 1/3 of the way into the book, with Bastion and his adventures comprising most of the book´s story), Cormac MacCarthy´s Cities of the Plain (cowboys and a complete lack of quotation marks), Paul Theroux´s Hotel Honolulu (pre-eminent travel novelist) and Paulo Coelho´s The Witch of Portobello (I see why chicks dig him).

As I read, there´s a tremendous BAMMM from in the room and a pained ¨MWHhuuhhhhhnMPHhh¨ that slowly dies down into a weak whimper.  Quickly looking over the side of the bed (but not so quick that my momentum combines with that of the ocean to carry me flying off of it as well — I never feel 100% safe in this narrow bed), I find over 250 pounds of septegenarian German sprawled on the floor, his head mere inches away from the hard, wooden edge of our bed.  He´d been sitting at the desk and a particularly persuasive sway of the ship brought chair and German both down painfully.

I run to the medical center (It´s actually right next door to our room.  Still.  I am a good person.) and drag the doctor back with me to find Helmut still laid out uncomfortably on the ground and moaning.  Nothing´s broken, but he´s probably looking at a few bruised ribs, we´re told.  A slight cough shows Helmut´s in the early days of what ends up being a debilitating trip-long cold.  Between that and the fall, he doesn´t have the smoothest vacation, but still makes nearly every landfall and lecture despite this.

At dinner, in our room, in common areas, anywhere with chairs: Helmut never really seems to trust them again.

Fallen chairs in the common room. We came in to find them like this after particularly rough seas.

A Brief Tour of the MV Ushuaia

After more than twenty years of Antarctic oceanographic research for NOAA, the blandly named ¨Researcher¨ (already changed once from the equally uninspiring ¨Malcolm Baldridge¨) was purchased the Ushuaia Adventure Corp, to finally provide all those people with no reason for being on Antarctica (raises hand) with a means of actually getting there.  Adding to the list of clever names this boat has worn, UAC rechristened her ¨The MV Ushuaia,¨ which doesn´t make blogs with lines like ¨leaving Ushuaia on the Ushuaia¨ confusing in any way.

One of the many narrow passageways through the lower decks

Hallways are claustraphobic, but serviceable, with no shortage of grippable things to hold onto anywhere on the vessel.  Rooms and common areas have been remodeled within the past ten years, but a brief tour through the engine room with its big dials and blocky consoles finished in a lime green that hasn´t been applied anywhere since the 70´s helps to give away the boat´s age.  The tour is  interesting but amongst the least informative of the trip; tremendous noise from all the heavy machinery keeping the ship afloat and unfrozen blocks out all but the loudest yells from our guide.

Aboard the Ushuaia, they inform us early on of the ¨open bridge¨ policy, wherein passengers may wander about the bridge in all but the worst of conditions.  As we stand about the bridge talking, brushing dangerously close to dials, buttons, levers and consoles that we´ve been instructed not to molest in any way, the Captain stands at his station staring forward as though unaware of our cloying presence.  Before him sits a line of plastic dolphins and fish — toys — with a single plastic horse mixed in confusingly.

A collection of whales, fish, dolphins and, um, a lucky horse

¨Why the horse?¨ I ask.

He doesn´t answer at first.  I stare forward for a time, and then make to leave the bridge and head to the front of the ship.  As I open the door, he simply says: ¨Horse is luck,¨ without ever taking his eyes off the fixed point in space somewhere in the forefront.

Massive black chains attached to a pair of winches hold the anchor at the front of the boat, though it´s only a small part of what makes this the most popular outdoor location on the ship.  The King-of-the-World spot at the tip of the stem nearly always has a few of us perched against the steel flagpole, as though being seventy feet more forward than anyone else might get us to the continent quicker.

A far larger deck — whose height allows a better 360 degree view as well — sits above the bridge, and the lack of ship lights at this level make it the primary lookout point at nights for expansive, Milky Way-filled night skies.  It´s here where we stand in the cold one night after being instructed that our latitude gives us the best chance of catching the Aurora Australis (the southern counterpart to the Aurora Borealis).  No such luck, unfortunately.

Into the Engine Room: Only eight of us could be guided through the loud, cramped section of the boat at any time

Our guides to the engine room, while we could still hear them

Note the ear protectors

The captain wasn´t posing here; he always looked this intent.

I wasn´t posing here; I always looked this intent. Note that there´s definitely an official eye on my hands on the steering wheel.

The anchor mechanism

Lifebuoy

Big waves and bad weather on a relatively small boat that is potentially hundreds of miles from other vessels both tend to cause small bits of anxiety from travelers at times.  To counter this (and potentially to prepare for the worse), we go in small groups to the lifeboats for a quick tour/drill.  The fully sealed vessels are fashionably orange to be quickly spotted and have everything a small crew would need to survive for up to three days in the worst of conditions.

Half-full for the drill and it´s already uncomfortable in here.  With its full complement of 45, there´s little room for movement, and no room for any personal items.  When the last cruise vessel sank in 2007, anything that couldn´t fit into pockets wasn´t permitted into the tight quarters.  Food and water are in short supply, but enough is kept below the seats to keep survivors going until a rescue.  Most importantly, a GPS signal sent outwards makes us immediately trackable to any ships near enough to assist with a rescue.

Australian Helen and I demonstrate proper non-panicking

The inside of the lifeboat

I´m Alive!

Nobody Has Better Sea Legs Than Waitresses

Breakfast, lunch and dinner took place at the same times daily, regardless of sea conditions.  While we sat, white-knuckled from gripping the secured table to keep our chairs and selves from suffering the same fate earlier displayed by Helmut, the three women on the wait staff effortlessly carried out trays of food and drinks to every table.  Only once in eleven days can I recall a food disaster of any kind.

Lunch and dinner both are beautifully presented daily with no repeats, always following the standard Salad/Main course/Dessert format.  The breakfast buffet never alters but covers all the basic standards: eggs, bacon, sausage, medialunas (literally ¨middle moons,¨ these are small, super-greasy croissants that are all the rage throughout Argentina), cereals, fruits, yogurt, coffees and juices.  Afternoon snacks are a daily standard as well; no one goes hungry here.

Breakfast Buffet. Another counter of cold food was set up to the left of the hot food above

A picture of food

Me taking a picture of food. People seemed to find this amusing for some reason.

Mockery did not stop me from taking future pictures of food, however.

Argentinians go nowhere without a parilla (large asado grill). Even to Antarctica.

A plate of meat from the parilla night. Sadly there was just one.

A group of us share lunch