Port Stanley Sunset
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Port Stanley Sunset

Port Stanley Sunset

Port Stanley Sunset

I slipped through the narrows guarding the entrance to Port Stanley and was immediately struck by how small it is. The reporting requirements led me to think it was a different kettle of fish completely. After identifying ourselves as a 14m sailboat I was asked how many tons of bunker fuel I had on board. I replied as best I could: 0.0001 plus or minus 0.0001.

There is not much to choose between anchorage locations. Everything is exposed given that the wind comes from all ways. There are several sailboats about and one amchored. They are similar: metal, solid doghouses, and serious.

I circled my anchored neighbour to ask about protection from southwesterlies and he replied “I am French”. I followed that with “What do you have down for an anchor”. An equally informative “I am French” accompanied by a shrug floated across the space between us.

Thinking I must have transgressed some international cruising custom, I came up with “I am Canadian. What is the holding like here?” He stared back at me, hesitated a moment, then said without a hint of mirth and just a bit if bite “I am French”.

Now, I can take only so much before my smart-ass evil twin decides to make an appearance. After weeks of sleep deprivation, days of frustrating calms, and hours of wrestling anchors and chain and rode out of hibernation I couldn’t resist asking “What colour are the unicorns flying out of your ass?”

You guessed it. “I am French”

The calm here is in stark contrast to everything I’ve known for the past two plus months. As is the quiet on board. The sounds of civilization that come across the water are as foreign to me now as snow in Saudi Arabia.

Welcome to Stanley.

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