With 40 litres of diesel now sloshing around in the tank, it was full ahead for Ushuaia, 35 miles. It can be a tricky little passage, despite being a short one, for there is a constant e-going current against you in the Beagle, and the wind can be strong from ahead. But we were blessed with an easy passage in light winds and flat sea and within six hours were coming alongside the wooden staging provided by a watersports centre, called AFASyn. Humble though it appears, this is the meeting place for the adventurers who sail the Beagle and venture further to Antarctica. Soon we were making friends, being offered help and advice, anything we wanted. This felt a good place to be. I was surprised by the charm and efficiency of the authorities who dealt with us quickly and helpfully. Chris left me here, seeking the thrill of Buenos Aries. I preferred to sink into this small but intriguing community of sailing people to learn some of the lessons they had learnt over many had years. Ushuaia, despite having the appearance (and the main street) of a small ski resort - which it is- cannot escape that feeling of the edge of the world. Here the cold wind blows off the snow topped mountains, even in late Spring, and the people turn their back to it and hardly notice. I, however, froze half to death on each of the long walks from boat to town. In a blizzard I lugged diesel on an old trolley lent to me by the yacht club. In the mornings I woke to find frost on the decks. But if this felt like the end of the world, it was nothing compared with what was to come next.