Puerto Madryn is not terribly hospitable for yachts. It sits on a huge bay wide open to the east, and we had to anchor way out with the trawlers because of the tidal range. I spent an hour at the top of the mast tidying things up and the forestay should be OK till bedtime. We moved alongside the kilometre-long jetty for jerrycan fuelling, tied alongside the pilot boat. In winter the right whales roger right off the town here. There are up to 50 of them at a time. What a sight that must be. Punta Norte across the bay is where the orcas snatch sea lion pups foolish enough to stand close to the water’s edge.
I’m tired. It is lonely here at the top and the weight of leadership sits heavily on my shoulders. Chronic seasickness hasn’t helped. I know just how Napoleon, Mawson and Shackleton felt. I’m dreaming of meadows, buttercups, Saturday papers, Chris.
We’ve completed the tedious exit formalities with unhelpful prefectura staff, and we’re fuelled up and about to leave. It is 400 miles to Mar del Plata. There is a crisp cold west wind and the sky is cloudless. Vast pampa flatness to the west. I expect Chris will be in bed reading.