After crossing the Strait of Magellan on a three-hour ferry ride, I'm now officially on the island of Tierra del Fuego. But though I'm only 284 miles (457 km) short of my southernmost goal on the island's opposite tip--I simply cannot go on.
I have survived all sorts of challenges on this trip, from harsh weather and mechanical failures, to a broken partner and crooked cops, but here--near the end--I am brought to my knees by the smallest of adversaries: a virus.
For two days now I've been holed up in a run-down flophouse, venturing out of my room only to crawl to the scary communal bathroom down the hall. Whatever this is it's waging war on my chest, head, ears, sinuses and throat. I've lost all sense of equilibrium.
Outside, the advance of winter I’ve long dreaded has roared in with a vengeance: it’s cold, wet and incredibly windy. The old tin roof atop the hotel rattles and clangs with each gust. The floorboards--wood that appears scavenged from a 16th century Portuguese sailing vessel--creaks and groans as though still at sea.
If my condition fails to improve soon, I'll be forced to abandon ship.
If my condition fails to improve soon, I'll be forced to abandon ship.
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