Punta Arenas

I stepped off the gangway into Punta Arenas on a January morning and the wind nearly knocked me sideways. Not a gust — a wall of cold air that hit my chest like a shove from an invisible hand, carrying the salt smell of the Strait of Magellan and something else, something ancient and mineral, like wet stone. My jacket ballooned around me. My eyes watered instantly. A crew member behind me laughed and said, "Welcome to Patagonia." I grabbed the railing, steadied myself, and looked out at the gray-green water of the strait stretching to the horizon. I had read about this wind for months. Reading about it and standing in it are two entirely different things.