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. 24, 2000
2:15 p.m.
Aboard the Golden Fleece off Diego Ramirez Islands
S 56.30
W 68.43
Air temp: 56 F
Skies: high clouds, some sun
Wind: From the east, 5-10 knots
Swell: 2-foot northwest swell and 1-foot east swell

All of our wood-knocking must have helped, because we just reached the Diego Ramirez Islands after a perfectly smooth passage across Drake Passage. Jerome initially thought it would take us close to three days; we made it in about two and a half. Unfortunately, calm sailing usually means calm seas, which in turn means no surf. No great loss, though, because it looks like these islands don't have a surfable beach anywhere. On all sides, cliffs plunge straight into the ocean, and the little swell that's out there surges against them in an annoyingly unsurfable fashion. The water color is amazing: deep, deep blue-purple, with turquoise fans spreading out where the surf passes over shallows. The islands are covered with birds, too: albatrosses (wanderers, gray heads and black-brows), penguins (rock-hoppers and macaroni), blue-eyed shags, black caracols and others I can't identify.

Also, Diego Ramirez contains the first vegetation we've seen in about two weeks: a soft, tall tussock grass that looks like it would be perfect to lounge in. We'll probably hang out here until close to dark, then start our northeast journey toward Cape Horn, about eight hours away. Jerome wants to travel at night so we can arrive at the Horn while there's light. If there's surf in that area, we'll stay a day or two, then head back to Ushuaia, and home.

So, now that we've made it across the Drake, somebody please tell the Southern Ocean it can wake up now. We need surf.

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Feb. 25, 2000
2:30 p.m.
Aboard the Golden Fleece, heading northeast from Cape Horn to Lennox Island
S 55.26
W 67.00
Air: 45
Skies: Low clouds, rain
Wind: Out of the south at about 30 knots
Swell: 8 to 10 feet, short-period, messy

I was in the wheelhouse when Jerome shut the engine at about 9 this morning. "You must sail past Cape Horn," he said. The Horn was about two miles away to the northeast, partially obscured by rain and sea-spray. Wind was out of the southeast at about 30 knots, kicking up a cross-swell that had us all looking for hand-holds as we moved about the boat. The notorious headland, executioner to untold numbers of sailors over the centuries, looked almost benign in real life -- especially compared with some of the nasty, rocky, poorly charted death traps we'd motored past during our three-weeks search for surf in Antarctica. The rocks that spilled out past the end of the Horn were round and unspectacular, and the small windswell surged softly on the cliff-lined shore.

Still, we all went out on deck for a while to watch the cape pass, aware of its geographic and historic significance. Cape Horn marks the place where the Pacific and Atlantic oceans come together, and is generally regarded as the southernmost point of land in the Americas, despite the fact that it's not actually attached to the Mainland but sits instead on a small island. I asked Dion if he'd ever sailed past it before, and he said, "A long, long time ago." How many 20-year-olds can say that?

The southeast wind is rare for this area, and it ruined our chances for surf. Usually it blows out of the west and northwest, generating big, long-period waves presumably strong enough to wrap around to the Horn's wind-protected eastern shore, which looked to have some pretty good potential set-ups. We may never know, however, because that side of the island was blown out, and the parts that were protected from the wind had no sign of swell.

After a brief group discussion, we decided to leave the Horn and its surrounding islands behind and head to Lennox Island, a Chilean holding near the mouth of the Beagle Channel. That will get us about halfway to Ushuaia, but still keep us in a potential swell window. We should be there before dark tonight. If we don't find surf tomorrow morning, we'll pull anchor and head home.

Nobody on board (except, maybe, the crew) wants to believe that we might not surf again this trip. So I suspect the search for surf in and around Lennox Island will be a thorough one. We'd all love to put on our wetsuits and have one last go at the icy waters of Tierra del Fuego.

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Feb. 26, 2000
4:30 p.m.
Aboard the Golden Fleece, near Tierra del Fuego
S 55.06
W 66.49
Sky: Partly cloudy, occasional light rain
Air: 48
Water: 44 to 49
Swell: 2 to 3 feet windswell, from the south

Just got out of the water after our last surf session of the trip, this time on an island just south of Tierra del Fuego.

We have no way of knowing how often this area gets waves, since it's tucked deep inside Bahia Oglander and appears to work only on a straight south swell, but the topography had the best potential of any stretch of coast we've seen during our entire month at sea. The bluffs, the plants, the kelp, the water color, the wind direction, the small swell window - all of it reminded Chris and me of the coast between Santa Barbara and Point Conception, and that's one of the most magical surf zones on the planet.

Keith, Chris, Dion, Kevin and I surfed a right pointbreak that looked and felt just like one of California's classic pointbreaks, a southern hemisphere version of Rincon or Malibu. Unfortunately, most of the waves were only about waist-high, breaking too close to the kelp and rocks and lacking the oomph of a solid groundswell. But the few chin-high sets that came through reeled down the point in classic El Capitan style, growing in size as they moved deeper into the bay. I kicked out of one wave with my legs burning, looked back up the point to where I'd taken off, and couldn't believe how far I'd ridden. Maybe 150 yards, in fifth gear the whole way. Dion was on the wave behind it, and he ended the ride looking as happy as I've seen him all trip. Keith also got a couple of long ones. And Chris, of course, made the rest of us look old and slow.

Wait...we ARE old and slow.

(Sedge, incidentally, spent the session on the deck of the Golden Fleece, "reading a Dawn Powell novel in the Patagonian sun," as he asked me to put it.)

Mark and Edwin paddled farther up the point, out of view beyond the next headland, and came back babbling about another, better cove than the one we were surfing. The rest of us didn't have time to check it out, but I tend to trust Mark's judgment on such matters. To a man, we all fantasized about returning to the island and camping for a month. The map shows a nearby inland lake, no doubt rich with trout, and the beach had plenty of firewood. If the weather stayed reasonably tame and the swell cooperated, it could be an amazing trip.

It had been our intention to get one last quick dip in the water before the final 10-hour cruise back to Ushuaia, but we ended up surfing for almost three hours as Jerome motored in circles out past the kelp. After our Antarctica sessions, the water here felt downright toasty. I wore my dry suit, and actually felt overheated after the first half-hour or so. I thought the water was in the low- to mid-40s, but Mark guesses it was closer to 50. Compromise and call 47.

When we got back to the boat, Dion told me it was the best surf session of his life. Up to now, he's surfed only shifty, unpredictable beachbreaks in the U.K., but at this previously unsurfed little pointbreak in Tierra del Fuego, he rode the longest and fastest wave of his life. That alone made it worth the stop. I think the boy's got the fever. Dion doesn't know it yet, but tomorrow we're going to give him one of Keith's boards, a beautiful Dave Parmenter-shaped Aleutian Juice hybrid shape. It's the perfect board for his skill level - bulky enough to allow him to catch waves, but streamlined enough to keep him happy as he gets better. Parmenter does not shape clunkers. We've all agreed to chip in to cover the cost of Keith's replacement board.

I hope Dion uses it often.

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Feb. 27, 2000
5:20 p.m.
Hotel Ushuaia, Room 303
Ushuaia, Tierra del Fuego
Air: 45
Skies: Cloudy

We disembarked from the Golden Fleece about an hour ago. Very strange feelings about that. There were times during the past month when I would have paid a lot of money to be off that boat and back on dry land, but when the time came to actually say goodbye, gather our bags and catch a taxi into town, none of us wanted to leave. We all kept finding excuses to stay a little longer: another cup of coffee to drink, another question for Jerome about his ranch in the Falklands, another gift for Dion or Elisabeth. . .

We had one very nice moment, when we gathered around to watch Keith give Dion a surfboard. Chris gave him a wetsuit, and the rest of us piled on the accessories: leashes, board socks, extra fins, booties, neoprene cement. I think we all liked the idea of Dion sailing around the Falklands and South Georgia Island with a surfer's perspective, surfing perfect waves in cold southern solitude. There are selfish reasons, too: he'll be our forward scout, and if he finds another Rincon or Grajagan or Cape St. Francis during his travels, he'll let us know.

Right, Dion?

Anyway, no one got too emotional during the goodbyes, because we're taking Jerome, Dion and Elisabeth out to dinner tonight for a final farewell. Tomorrow, half the crew flies home.

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Feb. 29, 2000
8 p.m.
Buenos Aires International Airport
Between flights, on the way home

Spent most of yesterday wandering alone around Ushuaia, looking in windows, sitting in cafes, trying not to think too much about the long flight home or the work that awaits when I get there. It was good to have an extra day in El Fin del Mundo to prepare for re-entry into the "real" world -- a sort of psychic decompression chamber between the untamed vastness of Antarctica and the ordered, organized life of Day Timers and crowded commutes. The tug of that wild world and its untold miles of empty coastline was strong -- especially when I thought back to that benign, beckoning stretch of beach we'd found the day before off Bahia Oglander, north of Cape Horn in Tierra del Fuego, where there may be empty, perfect waves spinning down the point right now. For once in my life I think I truly understood what it is that causes a guy like Jerome Poncet to buy a sturdy sailboat and spend a few decades nosing into coves in a corner of the world where yachts aren't supposed to go.

But then I'd see some silly bobble-headed penguin knick-knack in a tourist-shop window and think, "My boys might get a kick out of that," or I'd finger a sweater in a boutique and imagine it on my wife Pamm, and the hunger for home would spear my gut. Enough gray seas and unwashed fleece and toilets that whirpool the wrong way. Get me the hell home...

The night before we disembarked from the Golden Fleece, Mark had us all vote on a long "best of" list for the trip. A few select results:

Best helper: Kevin Starr (selflessness incarnate)

Biggest eater: Dion Poncet (20 and still growing -- fast, apparently)

Worst wipeout, non-surfer: Sedge Thomson (for his eight-wave beating off Rugged Island)

Worst wipeout, surfer: Keith Block (a brutal journey over the falls on a solid 6-footer at Low Island)
Best Boggle word: motherf -- -er (I illegally arranged it on the board, then challenged everyone to try to find the secret 12-letter word. It took Doc -- one of the best Boggle players on earth, a man who once approached the makers of the game with a plan to write a book about it -- a solid five minutes to find it, and even then he needed a good hint. It took Chris -- who'd never played the game until he boarded the Golden Fleece -- about 15 seconds, with no hints. No wonder Chris and I get along so well.)

Longest wave: Steve Hawk (at Bahia Oglander in Tierra del Fuego. It must be noted that this was neither the best wave of the trip nor the best-surfed wave of the trip. Just the longest.)

Most improved surfer: Dion Poncet (He had two sessions while we were at sea. On the first, he barely stood up; on the second, he got the longest, fastest ride of his life.)

Most unruly hair: Chris Malloy (he took one shower in four weeks).

Best Surfers Medical Association presentation: Kevin Starr (when he taught us how to suture wounds on leftover mutton)

Best (and only) live musical performance: Steve Hawk (for my rewritten version of Lou Reed's "Walk on the Wild Side," retitled "Walk on the Wild Point.") It went a little something like this:

Steve came from Q-U-O-K-K-A
E-mailed his way across Antarcti-kay
Missed the scenery along the way
Exploited the trip
And now he is a geek
Hey, Steve, take a walk on the Wild Point.
I said hey babe, don't write home about Wild Point

Art is just clicking away
Thought he was Ansel Adams for a day
Back home he'll blame a faulty flash
Proper exposures would have helped that bash
Hey, Art, take a walk on the Wild Point
I said hey, babe, watch your F-stop on Wild Point

Chris says he comes from Soul Surfer Island
But back home he's his sponsors' little darlin'
A logo here and a logo there
Magazine cover is the place where
I said, Hey, Chris, take a walk on the Wild Point
Hey, Babe, surf for fun on the Wild Point

And the Gentoos say doo do doo do doo, doo do do do do do do...

Sugar-voice Sedge finally hit the waves
Got hammered and had to be saved
Flopped on the dinghy with a gasp

Art almost used the gaff
Hey, Sedge, take a walk on the Wild Point
I said hey babe, ride a sponge on Wild Point

Edwin came from Central Ameri-kay
Surfed an iceberg down in Hero Bay
Later e-mailed every girl he knew
Thought it might help him bed a few
Hey, Edwin, take a walk on the Wild Point
Hey, babe, wear protection on Wild Point
All right

Kevin comes from down on Selfless Island
On the boat, he was everybody's darlin'
Washing here and scrubbing there
Everything 'cept his own underwear

Hey, Kevin, take a walk on the Wild Point
I said hey babe, lose the skid marks on Wild Point

And the chinstraps say doo do-doo do-doo, doo do-do…

Sugar-hating Keith hit Ushuaia's streets
Looking for tofu and tasteless food to eat
Told our French cooks what to buy
You should have seen the rest of us cry
Hey, Keith, take a walk on the Wild Point
I said hey babe, eat some mutton on Wild Point

Mark is just plotting away
Tells us what we're gonna do today
Says, "Let's winter over, live on birds
Isn't 'winter-overer' a Boggle word?"

Hey, Mark, take a walk on the Wild Point
I said hey babe, where to after Wild Point?
All right

And the skuas say doo do-doo do-doo, doo do-do...)

And finally, on the night before we left the boat, everyone voted on the entries in what we believe was the first-ever Antarctic film festival. Mark had insisted that each of us pack a minimum of two movies for what he called the Sun Chance Film Festival. Each movie was entered into at least one of three categories: 1) snow and ice; 2) journeys (physical, spiritual or both); and 3) the ocean. There was also a "best overall movie" category. We didn't have enough energy to screen more than three or so movies a week, so a lot of the entries went unwatched.

We saw some good movies and some not-so-good movies. Art brought a weird German film called "Run, Lola, Run," which could have used a little less footage of Lola, um, running. Keith brought "Fargo" and "Water World," which no doubt would have won him first place if we'd had a "most mysterious taste in movies" category. Chris brought a great, old, home-movie style documentary called "Around Cape Horn" (which included the wonderful line, "The skipper's dog didn't know what it was like to be petted; you'd kick him in the face and he'd like it."), and the ground-breaking surf film he recently produced and directed called "Thicker Than Water." Mark brought a strange, beautiful little Icelandic movie called "Cold Fever," and a hilarious 1970s space-based farce called "Dark Star" that turned out to be John Carpenter's film-school project and was my favorite movie of the trip.

All in all, it was a delightfully eclectic cinematic mix -- no doubt the first film festival in history to pit "Fargo" against "Nanook of the North" in head-to-head competition.

I'm inordinately proud to say that "Nanook," my entry, brought home the gold in two major categories. It inched out "Fargo" for in the snow-and-ice category, and barely outscored "Thicker Than Water" for best movie overall. Jerome described it as "rich," a true compliment from a Frenchman, but frankly I think it won because one of the scenes inside Nanook's igloo actually showed a glimpse of his wife's bare breast. A month is a long time at sea. Steve Hawk