Twin screw steel steam cruisers

RMS Oceanic (1870). Public domain. Via Wikimedia Commons.

So in getting ready for another trip to Argentina in a month's time (aka Down Argentine Way Round 2), I've been re-reading Bruce Chatwin's In Patagonia. Which is a bit funny in that I should have re-read this a year ago when I was actually going to Patagonia. Instead, this time I'm going to Buenos Aires and Argentina's Andean northwest (Salta, Jujuy, Purmamarca, Tilcara, Humahuaca, etc.).

I'll skip the critique of the book, for the most part. There are parts I remember reading way back when (mid-'80s), and there are parts I don't remember at all. (Which leads me to think that perhaps I never finished the book?) In some of the narrative, Chatwin comes across as very, "oh look at me, a Brit traveling the world, and passing judgment on the odd unfortunates I meet." To be expected perhaps, but we can't all be as woke as we are today. (Heavy sarcasm.)

But other parts, specifically the history of seafaring around Cape Horn, including that of a family relation of humble origin who rose to the rank of captain for a New Zealand shipping line, have been oddly fascinating.

In one part of the story, the engine fails on a ship his great-uncle (I think) is commandeering. It is a hybrid vessel: A steamship but one that has sails, which, after the engine fails, allows them to limp slowly toward Cape Horn with the hope of arriving eventually in port at Punta Arenas, Chile. But they have to be careful as they move to the cape for fear of catching a current that will set them adrift in the South Atlantic--not to mention the worry over smashing into the rocky coast of southern South America.
 
Chatwin remarks that the ship had no radio. According to my quick research at 3 am Sunday, ship-to-shore communication apparently didn't exist until the last few years of the 1890s, thanks to the pioneering "wireless telegraphy" inventions of Guglielmo Marconi. Further, such communication wasn't in common use until the early part of the 20th century. Thus there was no way to communicate what was happening on board, even as the ship moved closer and closer to shore.

Chatwin also mentions that another ship around the time had broken a propeller and, as a result, had been set adrift in the South Atlantic for four months before it was discovered. (This event served as the basis for Falk, a novella written by Joseph Conrad, which I'm now trying to track down for a hopefully quick read.)

While 125 or so years ago now seems like a long time ago, when Chatwin was writing his book, the events had taken place less than a hundred years before.

My points here are probably rather mundane:

• We're not as old, advanced, or as conscious as we think we are. 
• A lot has happened in the last century or two, so no wonder sometimes we feel like we're enduring cultural whiplash, a harsh and frightful spin on a carnival ride that is designed to thrill but ends up hurting as much as it satisfies. 
• These events put into perspective any flight delays we may have or any gastrointestinal illness we may have caught on board a cruise ship. 

Not that the latter aren't frustrating, awful, and even occasionally life-threatening, but the problems we experience now somewhat pale in comparison to never knowing if you are going to make it home despite "modern" (then steamship) technology at your disposal.

Maybe our ancestors were just a lot more used to risk and danger then. Maybe in some respects and in their own way they were braver, smarter, cleverer than us, even if they didn't know the same things we know now. Maybe this will make me less anxious about taking the small risks I take in life, which, while significant to me, seem quite tame. And that's OK. I'm a relatively tame guy.

Maybe, too, pondering what my ancestors endured and how I have benefited from it will make me whine less about the momentary discomforts of modern life.

But I doubt it.