I awoke this morning to creaking metal and vibrating thrusters, as the ship swayed heavily from side to side. Mentally, I checked our location, but it wasn’t my mental itinerary that reminded us where we were – it was something else. Woven in and underneath the modern sound of protesting metal was something much older: the shrieking sound of resisting wood, of tearing sails and splintering masts, of heaving waves and snapping lines.
Ladies and Gentlemen – this is Cape Horn.
I have rounded the cape several times in my career, and you never know what it’s going to bring you. Sometimes it’s like glass, and you wonder if this fearsome turn of land at the bottom of the world has lost its bite; and sometimes it’s like this morning, when you know that it hasn’t.
Even after we left the Cape, the seas are extremely swell-ridden. A long slow swell that almost lulls you into a false sense of security, you don’t realize you’re tilting until you suddenly find yourself having to shift your balance. Not exactly rough per say, but not exactly glassy either. Somewhere in the middle.
I can only imagine what these waters must have been like when it was wood, sails and rope instead of metal and propulsion. It’s no wonder that rounding the horn under sail is still considered a major accomplishment (I haven’t “earned’ my earring, and I probably never will – even if I do one day crew a tall ship).