Buenas! We have spent the last two weeks here in Puerto Williams, busy with the many activities that always occupy us upon reaching "civilization." Puerto Williams consists of a half a dozen dirt roads set on a hill alongside the Beagle. Up until about a decade ago, no civilians lived in Puerto Williams, only Armada (Navy) personnel and their families. Today there is a thriving civilian settlement, and the population is about evenly divided between civilians and military personnel. This little town of 2,000 people with its dusty, one- or two-room houses would hardly be considered civilization anywhere else. Cows and horses wander around at will, homes and public buildings are heated with pot-bellied stoves, and the schoolyard is filled with hundreds of cords of firewood. But after spending two months without grocery stores, post offices, Internet caf�s, laundry services or fuel docks, this feels like the big city to us.

Our home-away-from-home here in Puerto Williams is the ex-Micalvi, more properly known as the Club de Yates Micalvi, a grounded and partially flooded, rusted, barnacle-encrusted ex-ammunitions carrier which has served as the marina and clubhouse to visiting yachts since 1962. The raft of boats hanging off the Micalvi's sides is ever-changing, and every few days there is a major shuffle when someone from the inside of one of the three rafts of four or five yachts decides it's time to leave. Then we all have a merry old time running long lines this way and that, working the inside boat out with warps, pulling the raft back in against the Micalvi's sides and tying everything up again all neat and tidy. No motoring into and out of a slip without bothering your neighbors! Like so many things in Puerto Williams, mooring to the Micalvi is not always convenient, but it can be quite exciting.

Since we arrived, we have taken on water, propane, gasoline and diesel. We've had our laundry done, and we have mailed packages internationally by express and regular mail. We have gotten one package delivered here from the States. These few things, which could all have been done in a couple of days in the States, have taken up most of the last two weeks. With the exception of taking on water, everything else involves a story and most took multiple days from start to finish. Our experience taking on diesel illustrates the complexities of life in Puerto Williams.

We arrived in Puerto Williams on Friday, February 15th with about 50 gallons of diesel left in our tanks - the lowest we've ever been aboard Hawk. When we were here last time, we were allowed to fuel right at the Micalvi. The gas station dispatched a tanker truck which had a hose long enough to reach us where we were rafted. Since then, they have changed the rules, and we have to go up against "Muelle Pratt - the wharf that lies in the Beagle Channel along the Puerto Williams waterfront used by the Armada's gunships. Even at high tide, the top of the wharf is fifteen feet above the water, and the dock is festooned with huge tires that must come from mining trucks or earth moving equipment - they are at least 8 feet in diameter. On Monday, we went to the only gas station in Puerto Williams, located on the dirt road that runs along the waterfront, within sight of Muelle Pratt. We told the man who runs the station, Fernando, that we wanted 800 liters of diesel delivered on Thursday morning, weather permitting. He agreed, but he told us that we had to get permission from the Armada on Wednesday to use the dock on Thursday. He also told us that they do not accept credit cards, so we would need to get enough cash to pay for the fuel - close to $1,000.

On our way back to the boat, we stopped at the dock to look it over and concluded that there was no way we were going to be able to get Hawk secured without another person on the dock to catch our lines. We knew that our French friends, Sylvie and S�bastian, needed fuel. Their boat, Retomb�e de Sombrero, is a 31-foot stitch and glue boat that S�bastian built himself from plywood, epoxy and fiberglass, and she has faithfully carried S�bastian through the Southern Ocean under all five of the Great Southern Capes. Still, Sombrero was far too delicate to risk on the Armada dock. So S�bastian was glad to give us his jerry cans to fill and to catch our lines when we went to fuel.

On Wednesday, we arrived at the Port Captain's office at a bit before 9:00. We were sent from there to the "Distrito" office for the Armada, and the receptionist called someone downstairs to speak with us. He had heavily accented Spanish and he spoke in a mumble, so we had a horrible time understanding him. We finally gathered that we should come back between noon and 2:30 to see if we had gotten permission. We had checked our money supply the night before, and now we headed to the only bank in Puerto Williams and its super-convenient ATM machine. We needed both of our debit cards to get enough money to pay for the fuel. When we returned to the Armada, we were told that we needed to talk to Manual, who manages the Micalvi, and that we would find him at the Micalvi. We hustled back to catch him before he left. He said it was fine with him, but we had to check with the Armada! Once we were fairly certain we actually did have permission to use the dock, we returned to the gas station to confirm that we were getting fuel the next morning, but it was closed for siesta. When we went back at around 3:00, Fernado was there. Yes, everything was arranged and he would meet us on the dock the following morning at 8:00. Manuel came back in the early evening with a diagram of the dock, and he showed Evans where we were to dock to take on fuel. The Armada wanted us on the north face of the dock, toward the Beagle, which would not be nice if the wind were coming from the northwest as forecast. Luckily, it was supposed to be very light, so we were hopeful that things wouldn't get too dramatic.

Wednesday night, at around 10:30, a small Venezuelan boat pulled in alongside of us. We went on deck and explained that we were leaving first thing in the morning, and he said that was fine because he was leaving at 5:00 anyway to go around the Horn. But when we got up Thursday morning at 7:00, he was still there. We ate a quick breakfast and started to release our lines. S�bastian came over to help around 7:30, and I knocked on the boat next door to let them know we were off. The captain got up and untied his lines and motored out to let us go. S�bastian threw us our last spring line, and we maneuvered past the other rafts and headed for the Armada dock.

The wind was shifting around as we approached the dock, so it wasn't clear how best to come up to it. As we got to the dock, it became apparent that the wind was going to be shifting from northwest to northeast, but it didn't seem to be blowing at more than 10 knots. We probably could have just gone alongside, but we didn't want to take any chances that the wind would build while we were fueling, pinning us beam on against the dock. In the end, we dropped the anchor to the north and backed down to the dock, ending up with 175 feet of chain out in 50 feet of water. Evans did two perfect throws, and Sebastian put the loops we had tied in the lines over two big bollards. We positioned ourselves about five feet off the huge pilings of the wharf, and were surprised at how much swell there was. It would have been very uncomfortable lying up against the stanchion-eating tires and hull-crunching pilings, especially with the change in the tide over the course of the two hours we were on the dock.

We were secured at exactly 8:00, and I thought we would soon see the yellow truck leave the COPEC station and make its way around the circuit to come to us. We could see the station from the boat, including the truck parked in the lot. Nothing was happening, which was disappointing because the Chileans have almost always been punctual. 8:30 came and went, and still no action at the gas station. Shortly after that, we decided we had to go find out what was going on. So we launched the dinghy (which we had left inflated and on deck just in case we needed it when fueling), put on the outboard, and Evans took Beth ashore before returning to the boat. Beth walked down to the COPEC station and found a man measuring the fuel in the underground tanks. "Estamos esperando al muelle para combustible" - "We're waiting on the dock for fuel." "Ja!" he said, which doesn't mean yes so much as "Oh yeah!" He said they would come soon, so Beth hiked on back to the boat. Evans saw her coming and came around to meet her in the dinghy.

It took another half an hour for the truck to arrive, while we watched it leave the gas station and head up to the Armada to get final permission to go out on the dock. It was an anxious time because the wind had increased a bit from the northeast, right on our beam, and several times we had to take in chain to keep our windvane from bumping into the tires on the dock. We were relieved when the bright yellow truck finally rolled out onto the dock, turned and backed up with a loud beeping. Our friend, Fernando, was driving, and he apologized profusely and was horribly embarrassed at having forgotten about us. He put up several red cones, and then he handed us down the hose. It took another 45 minutes to fill our tanks and the dozen jerry jugs, and we took 780 liters or over 200 gallons. Fernando tossed us our lines, and by the time we got back to the Micalvi and got Hawk secured, it was after 11:00.

Fernando arrived in the fuel truck at about noon, and Beth took the money and left Evans hosing down the boat. At the gas station, Beth paid for the fuel and got a receipt, and then Fernando drove her back to the Micalvi. We had started on Monday morning, and it was now Thursday afternoon, and it had taken close to nine hours all told. Though tedious at times, the entire process had been uneventful. It felt really good to get the boat properly fueled up again and to take on enough in jerry cans that we'll have plenty for the heater for the next few months.

Puerto Williams has allowed us to ease back into civilization, and we're now ready for the big city. In the next few days, we'll be heading across the Beagle to Ushuaia, the Argentinean city with a population of well over 100,000. There we'll provision the boat and spend some time enjoying good restaurants, fast Internet connections, and the company of good friends.

Hasta luego!

Beth and Evans

s/v Hawk