Fjords of Patagonia

Anza-Borrego Desert State Park Wildflowers Photo Gallery

advertisement

What did we do all day? Not much. The ship felt like an airport waiting room. People read, watched The Empire Strikes Back for the 12th time, played cards, drank, and slept. The scenery was indeed "breathtakingly beautiful and rugged," but it was too windy and cold to stay outside for long, so we usually settled for glancing out the ship's tiny windows.

On Saturday, we arrived in Puerto Eden, the ship's namesake, and were awakened by the release of the anchor, which in dungeon-class sounded as if it had been dropped through the ceiling. We weren't sure whether to wake up or abandon ship. Nearly 200 of us decided to go ashore. We each wore, by law, a bright orange life preserver so, naturally, we were easily identifiable to the locals, who were eager to do business with us.

After a few hours of stocking up on the requisite souvenirs, we went back to the ship and steeled ourselves for the rough sea crossing at 4 p.m. Right on time, the boat started rocking with the 15-foot swells. And, right on time, half the passengers started puking their guts out.

The waves, relative to the boat size, were not threatening, but they hit the boat directly on her port side and created an impressive nauseous effect. Some passengers took motion-sickness pills and wandered down to their rooms to pass out. Others drank wine or beer until they passed out. Either way, we were aiming for the same goal. In the middle of the most turbulent part of the voyage, the captain blared a sarcastic poem over the PA system. I managed to catch up a few lines:

There are people around the world suffering more than you.
Suffer well
There is still hope.

The highlight of the trip came on the third day, when we had a tug-o-war with the crew on the upper cargo deck. The passengers, who had spent too much time sitting around and not enough loading and unloading cargo ships, were trounced. Team Gringo fared better in the ensuing soccer match. Roberto, from Milan; Sven, from Brussels; and Stephan, from Germany, led our otherwise pathetic group. Adding to the excitement were the obstacles on the"field"—huge metal rivets every few feet and a 20-ton freight elevator. We had to watch every step.

After the game, there was an awards ceremony—for attendance. Everyone received a certificate of achievement for, I suppose, shelling out $150 or more to spend four days on a cargo ship. After the last prize was handed out, a crew member attached a disco ball to the ceiling and we tried to dance to some Patagonian folk songs. Two people had birthdays, which occasioned a song and more drinking.

We were awakened at 6 a.m. on Monday by the sound of the anchor dropping again. This time it sounded like we were ramming an iceberg. We gathered our things and went ashore, where many of us instantly became land sick—a strange sensation of "feeling" the land sway and wanting to puke on any stationary object.

We had suffered well.