EDITOR'S NOTE: Although this ambitious surf trip took place a couple years back, with the recent demise of Quokka.com -- its original home -- we figured it was time to bring it to Surfline where it belongs. Enjoy.


Feb. 2, 2000
Aboard the Golden Fleece
Somewhere in the Beagle Channel, eastbound
11:30 p.m.

Motoring slowly toward the mouth of the Beagle Channel, hoping to arrive at our first potential swell window sometime around daybreak. Everyone's asleep except me, Kevin and Chris. These long days are better than hourly espressos when it comes to keeping you buzzed. Somehow I scored the ultimate solo cabin, and I'm kicking back in a double bunk, cozy against a thick orange comforter. I was supposed to room with Sedge, but he looked at the arrangement--basically a narrow double bed split in two by a wooden partition--and scurried to the forward storage area and carved out a sleeping space amid the piles of backpacks, wetsuits and boxes of food. Good thing, too. Sedge is a great radio performer, with a voice that sounds as good as coffee smells. He's a fine, hard-working father, and a delight to have on this trip. Gives world-class toasts at dinner, asks provocative questions, listens well. But the man snores like a rutting hog.

Traveling with Jerome Poncet on his sailboat is like spending the night at a bed and breakfast run by a humble, endlessly fascinating proprietor, then waking up in the morning to find that the house has moved to a new, impossibly beautiful place. The scenery scrolled past us all day looked lush and inviting--low coastal foothills with wide-open grasslands and thick inland forests, sloping up to crisp, spiky mountains. Not a trace of the forbidding terrain I was expecting from Tierra del Fuego. The landscape begged to be explored.

A few hours out of Ushuaia we saw our first penguin colony, on a beach on Martillo Island, on the north side of Beagle Channel. The place was covered with Megellanic penguins, none of them making much noise. Jerome nosed the boat almost to the beach, a gentle and unobtrusive approach, maneuvering this 65-ton ship as if it were a longboard.

Had a long conversation with Dion while he and I did the dinner dishes. He's my new favorite person on the trip, quite possible the most articulate 21-year-old I've ever met. Conceived in Antarctica, born on South Georgia, schooled in England and on his father's boats. More on Dion later.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -

Feb. 2, 2000
S 54.55.056
W 65.59.12
In Bahia Aguirre, Tierra del Fuego
6:45 p.m.

Finally got in the water this afternoon. Miniscule surf, almost unrideably small, but we were all eager to get wet, test these bullet-proof wetsuits, get a little exercise. Mark's temperature test back in Ushuaia was not an anomaly after all: it's 50 degrees here. About the same as San Francisco right now. Less crowded, though.

Bruce Moore is my hero. He's the senior wetsuit designer at O'Neill, and this superstretch 7mm/5mm wetsuit he made for me (for all of us) is toasty and flexible. Air and water were both about 50, and the wind picked up pretty strong at one point, but I could have stayed out all day. That's rare for me; I'm thin to the point of being gaunt, and I'm always the first to freeze. Nice to know that I'm going to be warm--at least till we cross the Antarctic Convergence.

Bahia Aguirre is a wide, calm fist of a bay, with a lot of potential set-ups if there were swell. (How can there not be swell?) We actually hadn't intended to surf, but Mark spotted a rivermouth at the base of the bay that looked like it had a rideable sandbar in front of it. Turned out to be shin-high mushburgers, with barely enough push to allow us to get to our feet. Fortunately, I had my 8'0" Patagonia gun, and I'm the skinniest guy here, so I was able to actually get up and trim on a couple. More of a novelty surf than a real session. But you always feel better after you've been in the water, and right now I feel great.

We've decided, in the tradition of all the famous explorers who came before us, to name surf
spots after our sponsors--even though, technically, only one of us (Chris) is really a "sponsored" surfer in the traditional meaning of the term. Even Shackleton felt obliged to pay homage to his benefactors: his fabled boat, the James Cairn, was named after some well-heeled British philanthropist. So our first surf spot--a potentially fun little rivermouth sandbar at the foot of Bahia Aguirre--has officially been named Reef Beach, after Chris' shoe sponsor.

There's a Boggle game brewing on deck between Mark and Kevin, and the sun just came out, and it's way too nice outside right now to be sitting down here in front of a computer. More later.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -

Feb. 3, 2000
S 54.55.05
W 65.59.12
In Bahia Aguirre, Tierra del Fuego, Argentina
1:55 a.m.
Air temp: 40f
Skies: Cloudy
Wind: 15-20 knots out of the east

Another great meal tonight, cooked by Jerome and Elizabeth. Scalloped potatoes, carrots with butter and garlic, and a beautiful rump roast that Jerome raised, slaughtered and cooked himself. I think that meets the official definition of "self-sufficient." It was good to have a high-carbohydrate meal after our afternoon in the water. Keith and Doc ate fish, and a separate batch of potatoes made with soy milk instead of real milk. They'll no doubt outlive us all.

In my haste to get out a journal about our first surf this afternoon (now technically YESTERDAY afternoon), I left out the best moment of the day: While Keith, Doc and I were goofing around in these piddly wind-blown rivermouth waves, we looked up to see a person on horseback riding toward us along the beach. I figured it was some local cowboy, but then I realized he was wearing a familiar suit of red and black. Edwin! He was still in his wetsuit, riding bareback, wearing a grin as wide as the Beagle Channel.

Turns out he and Kevin had paddled to a different part of the bay, coming ashore in front of a little beachfront shack. Two Chilean gauchos came out of the house and greeted them in the sand, inviting them inside to drink some mate (pronounced MAH-tay)--a thick tea-like concoction that you share out of a single cup. It's a social thing, like passing a bowl of kava, or a joint. Edwin is the lone Argentine in our group, so he knows a bit about gaucho etiquette and pride. A few years ago, he camped alone along an isolated stretch of coast about 300 miles north of here, along the eastern edge of Tierra del Fuego. He surfed and hung out with the gauchos for a few weeks, and came to know their ways. He learned, for instance, that when you drink mate, you don't say "gracias" until you've had enough; it means you're done. If you say it when they give you the first cupful, as most civilized Americans would, it's both confusing and insulting. And insulting someone sits pretty much at the bottom of Edwin's daily list of things to do.

The gauchos on this beach were happy to have the company; they live alone in a part of Patagonia that doesn't get a lot of casual visitors. They run a huge ranch in one of the most isolated places in the world, and they can spend weeks on end without seeing any other people. Their supplies arrive via Navy ships.

As I said earlier, Edwin runs a horse ranch in Costa Rica, and he immediately steered the conversation to a discussion of their horses. One of the horses was particularly strong and beautiful, almost golden in color and with a huge broad back, and Edwin wanted very much to ride it. But he knew that asking to ride one gaucho's horse would insult the other gaucho. So before pointing to the horse he liked, he first pointed to the other horse and said something to this effect, "That is a fine horse. I have one just like it at home, and of all the horses I own, it is my favorite. But I've never ridden a horse like that other one there. Do you think I could ride that one?" Both gauchos were happy (although the owner of the unridden horse all but insisted that Edwin return the next day to ride his horse, too), and Edwin got to ride down the beach to us. I don't know jack about horses, but even I could tell this was a beautiful animal. Unfortunately, I was in surf mode, and the boat was a half-mile away, so I didn't get a photo.

Later, after dinner, I talked to Kevin about the encounter, and he said he was utterly impressed by Edwin's chameleon personality. Edwin comes from an upper-class Argentine family, but he's a beach rat at the core, and he walks deftly through both worlds. "He'd be just as comfortable dancing the waltz at a presidential ball as he was sitting in that shack with those two gauchos," Kevin said. Even now, as I write this, Edwin's sitting in the common room with Jerome. They're speaking in French and laughing like old friends. Everyone else is asleep.

I sh
ould be, too.

Tomorrow, we'll motor east toward Buen Suceso, a few hours away, and check a some spots that appear on the chart to have good surf potential. If we score, we might stay another day. If not, we'll head south across the Drake Passage to the cold stuff.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -

Feb. 3, 2000
Aboard the Golden Fleece
S 55.23
W 65.01
Air: 46 f
Skies: partly cloudy. Sun on the boat right now.
2 p.m.

So far so good. The wind has died and the sun has come out, but the sea is still chaotic with a cross-chopping swell: lots of local windswell, apparently from multiple directions, and the occasional east-moving groundswell. We're all getting used to the motion, and might even force down a good dinner. Jerome's in the galley, busily peeling and slicing potatoes. There's hot water on the stove. And something smells good; two hours ago it probably would have made me nauseous.

Just played my first Boggle game of the trip with Kevin and Mark. Kevin kicked our asses. Word of the day so far: fasteners, by Kevin. Nine-letter words are rare.

Got an email from Sean Collins of Surfline (Surfline.com), wave-forecaster extraordinaire and soon to be a colleague of mine at Swell.com. He's predicting 10- to 12-foot groundswell for the Antarctic Peninsula over the weekend.

Got a bunch of e-mails today, including one from my brother Tony cracking on our sister Pat for her 50th birthday. Said he bought her a gift from me: Depends adult diapers. Potty humor--my favorite.

Man could I use an Abba Zabba bar right now.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -

Feb. 3, 2000
Off Buen Suceso, Tierra del Fuego, Argentina
5 p.m.
Air temp: 42
Skies: Cloudy
Wind: Calm

This morning, before we pulled anchor at Bahia Aguirre, Jerome came into my cabin and looked around at some of the electronic gear that wasn't quite secure. He was checking to make sure that everything was battened down for the crossing this afternoon, and my space was not yet in ship shape, as it were. "You want to clear off your bunk completely," he said. "Most people spend at least 20 hours per day in bed during the crossing. A lot of them spend 24 hours."

Last night, Chris was talking to Jerome about the Drake Passage. "How do you say . . . " Jerome said. "It builds character."

He should know. Jerome's first boat, a 33-footer, rolled completely over on six separate occasions in the Drake. His second one, a 50-footer, rolled once. The Golden Fleece is 65 feet and it hasn't rolled. "Not yet," he said.

Jerome thinks it'll take us a little over two days to get to Seal Islets, our first stop in Antarctica. They're a small group of islands about 20 miles northeast of Elephant Island, and they appear to be situated in a prime swell window. Unfortunately, they don't offer much shelter, so if we do surf there, it'll have to be a hit-and-run job.

I'm a little worried that we might not be able to communicate with Quokka during the crossing--particularly if it requires me to stand on deck in 25-foot seas and 50-knot winds, pointing a sat-phone antenna to the north. So my apologies if we go dark for a couple of days.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -

Feb. 4, 2000
Aboard the Golden Fleece
S 57.14
W 62.16
11:25 a.m.
Air temp: 45 f
Skies: Mostly sunny
Wind: 15-20 knots from the north

Knock on wood. We're almost halfway across the Drake Passage, and so far the ocean has been kind. Wind is at our back, seas are relatively calm, and no one is barfing or laying in bed trying not to barf. Dion just told me this is, so far, the second calmest crossing he's ever had. So far. When Jerome first pointed the boat south yesterday and headed toward Antarctica, the wind was strong and the windchop severe, and everyone was looking a little queasy. By the end of the day, though, we'd found our sea legs. We actually had a huge dinner last night with fish, potatoes, rice and homemade cole slaw.

Yesterday at sunset a few of us stepped outside to watch a half-dozen wandering albatross soar around the boat, banking and arcing and skimming inches above the waves, using updraft off the swell to stay aloft. I'd always envisioned them as ugly, awkward birds for some reason, but they're magnificent, more graceful than pelicans, prettier than seagulls. They appear to fly with absolutely zero effort. Chris and I focused on the biggest one of the bunch for a few minutes, and saw it flap its wings only once - a long, slow oscillation that looked like it would propel him back to Patagonia. For the most part it would glide just inches above the water, pick up speed as the wave steepened, then peel off with an ascending bank turn. Then it would find another wave and settle in for another piggyback ride. His own form of surfing. The thing had a wingspan of at least 10 feet, which is longer than most of the big-wave boards we brought on this trip. Imagine that

The ocean appears to be getting bluer as we move south. Looks colder, too, but that might just be our imagination. Doesn't look like we've crossed the Antarctic Convergence yet; that's when the water gets really cold, from the 40s to the low 30s, almost immediately. It's like crossing a border into a foreign country.

Everyone is doing a lot of reading and napping. The common room of the Golden Fleece has about 25 linear feet of books stacked neatly on four shelves on either side. Ninety percent of the books are about sailing or Antarctica or Patagonia. "The Cape Horn Breed," "The Sailing Dictionary," "Land of the Ice King," "Life in the Freezer," "Birds of the Antarctic," "Island at the Edge of the World." It would take months, maybe years, to get through them all. The handful of novels are dense as well: de Beauvoir, Bronte, Hesse, Borges. Clearly, most people come to Antarctica to learn. I'm feeling guilty about my easy-listening Nick Hornby book. I might have to hide it and read it in bed, after hours, like a 12-year-old reading Hustler.

--Steve Hawk