CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Uruguay

S

ean and Brendan weren't able to comprehend that we were just too tired to properly take care of them as we limped along after the storm. We simply had to make do and take it slow. Once it settled in our minds that we would be moving slow for a week and that we had no choice, we accepted it. We were lucky that the weather held out for those next few days, and when we just couldn't see straight anymore, we took advantage of some windless periods, putting the boat once again into a "heave-to" position, and took turns napping. It was such a luxury to sleep two or three hours straight through.

Through my cloud of exhaustion, I suddenly realized how far south below the equator we had come when I happened to notice some odd splashing alongside the boat. It was much too small for a dolphin, and a fish wouldn't be on top of the water. Then I saw that it was a penguin—the first time I had seen one outside of a zoo!

We finally glided into La Paloma early one peaceful morning. Cowabunga was intact; no one would guess what we had lived through over the past week. Just as we came around the breakwater, we spied Le Geko. We were thrilled to see them, but then saw why we had been unable to reach them on any radio frequency: our damage was minimal compared to theirs. They had suffered a knockdown, a situation sailors have nightmares about. Waves can overpower a boat, completely knocking it down on its side—mast and all. It can be forced into the water or even slightly under. The spreaders were contorted, their spinnaker pole was bent in half, their navigation night-running lights were gone (indicated by the remains of spindly connection cords which swung loosely about). The mizzen boom was broken, and sails were ripped. It looked like a ghost ship. It seems they were still under sail and the main hatch had been open when the devastating wave hit. The interior had flooded, destroying all their electronic equipment and wreaking considerable water damage throughout.

We were overjoyed to see them, and that they had made it through the storm. We banged madly on their hull, waking them up once we had tied up alongside. We were taken aback by the two ghostly figures that emerged. Isabelle's long blonde hair was one huge tangled rat's nest, and Yves had quite a black eye and a noticeable limp. He had been thrown to the ceiling when they were hit, and apart from his injury, the dent and crack in the ceiling were proof. We then realized how lucky we were and how close to a catastrophe we could have come if we hadn't hove-to when we did.

We all stayed in La Paloma for almost two weeks, sleeping, regaining our composure, determining what parts we needed for the wind vane pilot, repairing what we could, and planning our next steps. Some very kind local fishermen brought us fried fish and steaks for dinner and even invited us to their homes for hot showers. The only way to get the parts we needed, it turned out, would be to have them delivered to Montevideo. We decided to make the trip to Montevideo in short spurts, to minimize our sailing days without the wind vane autopilot. Thus, our next port of call was Punte Del Este, an up-and-coming, trendy South American summer beach resort. Le Geko wasn't in ideal operating condition, so we left together. Since our electronic equipment was still operational, they leaned on us for navigational assistance.

We didn't stay long in Punte Del Este since we were eager to get to Montevideo, and we weren't terribly interested in this Miami-style ambiance. There was quite a bit of rain while we were there, and Michel went into town to run some errands after it finally stopped. He happened upon a wall that was covered with garden snails, ordinary things to anyone walking by. But to a Frenchman, these were escargots! He couldn't let this opportunity pass and hurried back to the boat for a bucket. Isabelle was also keen on collecting them.

Uruguay was still a military dictatorship at this time, so anything at all suspicious—such as two adults and a little boy enthusiastically plucking snails off a wall—would most assuredly attract the attention of two nearby soldiers, which it did. They demanded to see their passports, then a wave of understanding washed over their faces. Ah, they are French. Of course! Snails! No more explanation needed. Our escargots turned out to be an unexpected bonus, providing us with a lighter moment and a culinary delight.

Pulling into the harbor of Montevideo not only gave us the opportunity to finally order the needed parts from the U.S., but we also learned that we could order these parts under the auspices of special Uruguayan import tax advantages, reserved for visiting foreign yachts. Furthermore, at this physical location, we gained a firm foothold in the Rio de la Plata, now only being a day’s sail from Buenos Aires.

Through Yves and his ham radio contacts, we met Georges, Guillermo, Andres, and a host of Franco-Uruguayans and French expats, all of whom facilitated our parts orders, repair contacts, and gave us a grand welcome to their corner of the world. The timing worked out equally well in that the last of the Antarctic-wrought cold fronts barreled through while we were snuggled at the dock.

Uruguayans were only too aware of neighboring Argentina's return to democratic rule. Only the Rio de la Plata separated the two counties, and cracks in Uruguay's military rule were beginning to show. There were rumors that a large street protest was imminent in downtown Montevideo. Although we both wanted to go and take Sean and Brendan, we decided that it would be prudent if only Michel ventured out to the event, just in case tempers flared. Michel reported that it was extremely peaceful. It was a most civilized and non-confrontational gathering of men, women, children, and families, some even with babies in strollers. They paraded en masse down the streets, waving banners and employing the signature South American protest soundtrack: banging pots and pans.

Soon thereafter, our parts arrived, the repairs were made, and we cast off and captured the upriver tide of the mighty, muddy Rio de la Plata. We would make good on our promise to witness history in Buenos Aires.