La paloma Uruguay

There's a reason I go single handed, I like to be alone. I have a way, a habit, a routine, and generally there's a well thought out reason for everything. Introduce another soul into the mix and it's bound to colour the water a bit and to stir things up. Otavio is a gentle soul who joined me on board for a two day sail from Brazil to Uruguay. He spent a lot of the first day hunched over the cockpit combing, wretching on the leeward side. The rest of the time was spent lying in the bunk. It was a good solution for him and one that I'm glad he found. As day two went on, he became more improved and managed some food and learned to tie some nautical knots and get familiar with some Boaty language! On day three we arrived in port and he kindly cooked a delicious vegetable and rice dish. I felt humbled and grateful for his kind gesture. La Paloma held the promise of a pretty frontier town on the exposed edge of the Atlantic Uruguay coast. We sit, shoehorned into a space between one yacht and an 8 foot high concrete wall, the enclosed harbour is home to some commercial vessels, some fishing boats and a handful of sailboats. There's a smell of fish in the air and some sizeable specimens lie dead in the water, a raft of them blown into a corner, floating belly up, showing the slits that are their gills. The berth is far from ideal and there is a lot of movement. I've employed the creative use of chains and lengths of pipe to prevent chafe, and my piece of 9 by 2 fender board timber has proved its worth yet again to keep us off the concrete harbour wall. 

It was a miracle that I got into this berth and going back out promises to be equally as tricky. My repertoire of marina manoeuvrings is growing in volume and confidence. This morning found me drifting with the wind in an awkward corner but I managed to salvage the situation. My swarthy Spanish skipper who gave me a lesson in La Palma would have been proud! Locals and visitors alike stroll on the wharf above, some carry gourds and flasks and drink their maté, which I always remember tasted not unlike the soggy contents of an ashtray. We checked out the town, with its quota of surf shops, bars and cafeterias. There was a park there with a collection of old beaten up house buses and small caravans. We met a woman who seemed to live in a shack in the woods, plants growing out of cut in half plastic bottles, a docile Alsatian and a medley of cats and kittens, the sign next to the one that read "Tarot" said "reglamos gatitos", we give cats as presents. She had 6 children who all had different nationalities, Peruvian, Chilean, Boliviano, Argentino etc. I wondered whether this meant that there were 6 different fathers or that they had all been born in those different countries. We joked about having more children to compliment the entire country quota for the South American continent. There's a wildness and an exposure in the air that makes you realise that 1000 miles south lie the barren lands of Patagonia. The adventurer in me feels drawn to head south before the onset of winter, the safer option would be to head up the River Plate to the relative and sedentary safety of Buenos Aires. But before anything else, I'll check my mooring lines for the twentieth time before I succumb to some long overdue rest in the box like confines of the forepeak.