IS it possible to be a fish out of water while actually in water?
It would certainly appear so, given my flailing around off the Argentinian coast in a wetsuit, flippers and snorkel.
Graceful was not exactly the word to describe my time in the water, unlike the local inhabitants we had come to see.
To walking with lions, being charged in a bar by an elephant, a cheetah eating my flip-flop and being knocked over by a gorilla, you can add another thrilling personal wildlife experience – snorkelling with sea lions.
If, by snorkelling, you mean floating about with very little control over which way you were moving or even which way up you were.
That would be me, not the sea lions. They are rather more agile in the water. It is closer-run thing on dry land.
Being in the water, let alone so close to such remarkable creatures, would have been pretty much unthinkable in the deep south of Argentina at Ushuaia, even with the help of a couple of wet suits.
But the weather improved as the miles rattled up on the long journey north, the warm clothes we have been wrapped up in for the past few weeks gradually disappearing to see out the rest of the trip in the depths of our locker as shorts, T-shorts and flip-flops again took over as the truck uniform.
Not that we could discard them immediately as we began the journey north in a truck newly festooned with Christmas decorations.
Our departure from the world’s most southerly city coincided with an abrupt end to the remarkably friendly weather we were served up in Patagonia.
It was cold at times – particularly one or two evenings under canvas – with the odd downpour, but none of the horror tales of gales and four seasons in one day we had been served up in the build-up to the southern leg our South American odyssey.
Right up until we left Ushuaia.
By the time we reached the day’s first intended border crossing – there is no way back to mainland Argentina via road without heading in and out of Chile – the wind was howling but with little sign of the problems it was about to create.
For the final time we went through the Chilean custom of unloading, scanning and reloading our bags – including those belong to the people missing in Antarctica, Buenos Aires and wherever else they might be across the continent, which at least provided plenty of room on board through several long drive days – and headed for the day’s other major hurdle.
Crossing a narrow strait of water had been fairly straightforward on the way down, but that wind was about to make the return journey a whole lot more troublesome.
By the time we arrived at the Bahia Azul ferry crossing at 2.30pm, a line of traffic was forming and the ferries could be seen anchored offshore, going nowhere as conditions had been judged too rough just half an hour earlier.
And so we waited. And waited. All the time watching the clock with the day’s second border crossing – about an hour’s drive away – due to close at 10pm.
At which point, we were watching cars being loaded on to the first ferry to dock when conditions were judged good enough to sail again.
The intervening eight hours had seen us do… well, not a lot really. There was not a lot we could do, bar sit it out and occasionally brave the gale to visit the nearby cafe to use the facilities and search in vain for hot food.
We did convince them to reheat our big pot of chicken soup which we scoffed down on the truck as hope rose of our vigil finally coming to an end.
When it did, it was still not plain sailing – the 20-minute crossing taking twice as long as we looked out on the ferry and the surrounding waves from some very strange angles.
With the border closed until morning, we had little choice other than to park up amid the trucks waiting to cross and set up our own refugee camp for the night, bar those who opted for the safety of a night on the truck.
Our early-morning border crossing was smooth enough, although our mood was not eased by a sign declaring it would be open 24 hours just two days later.
A quick stop for cook group shopping and we were heading north again, eating up the largely featureless miles as the temperature began to rise.
It was mainly long trousers and hoodies for our bush camp on a rocky beach, but by the time we rolled into the Welsh village of Gaiman for tea, cakes, ice cream and reliving my years on the western side of the Severn Bridge, we were into what would be described as a glorious summer day back in Wales.
And it was distinctly beach weather as we hit Puerto Madryn – where the first Welsh settlers arrived, on the cliff by our campsite in 1865 – which was pretty handy, considering we were at a beach and signing up to take the offshore plunge.
Which was how a group of us were up bright and early – very early for those of us on cook group duty – to splash around with the pups of a seal lion colony.
Having never snorkelled properly, nor worn flippers before, perhaps my less than graceful performance was to be expected.
Who knew it could be that difficult to keep your feet underwater?
But my struggles aside, it was a truly magical 45 minutes or so as the curious pups swam and played around us, letting us stroke them as they nibbled at our flippers and wetsuits.
And when they opted for dry land, we were able to bob (or thrash around in my case) just off the beach where the giant bull kept rivals and youngsters in check and the colony went about its morning routine.
Which largely consisted of lying around, occasionally making the odd strange grunt.
A lot like a long drive day on the truck.
- Next time: When overland trips collide, sweating it out in Buenos Aires and a little bit of politics. Just in case you hadn’t had enough.
