If you’ve never heard of St. Helena, no worries. A mere 47-square miles in size and with a total population of 4,439, this British Overseas Territory in the middle of the South Atlantic Ocean is one of the most remote islands on Earth. If you have heard of St. Helena, chances are the one thing you know about it is that Napoleon was exiled here after his crushing defeat at Waterloo in June 1815. But if you’re a cruiser arriving from Cape Town after 1,700 miles and 17 days at sea, you quickly discover that this lonely, windswept volcanic rock mass is not merely a fortuitous rest stop with a dollop of history. It’s a fascinating place that begs to be explored.
First, however, we had to get there, and when we left Cape Town on 8 March, we knew we faced an initial two days of contrary wind alternating with calms. We got a bit more: dense, cold fog, spells of rain, and a loopy countercurrent that required several hours of motoring to escape. On the third day, when all four weather models blissfully assured us we were galloping along in the idyllic SE trades, we were wallowing in a depressing gray overcast on a lumpy sea.
Yet it wasn’t all bad. We sighted a shark—a rare event—seals and dolphins. On one occasion the seals and dolphins appeared side by side, something we’ve not encountered before. The two species didn’t interact. The seals lolled and the dolphins leaped, but they crossed paths within a few amicable yards of each other. We also enjoyed birds in abundance. On our previous ocean crossings, birds have been few and far between. Now they swooped, circled and glided nonstop, and the silver lining to being becalmed was that we could hold the binoculars steady to identify shearwaters, petrels and black-browed albatrosses. Our best guess for this manifestation is that the cold Benguela Current that flows along the west African coast brings fish and nutrients to the surface to create an appetizing marine buffet. Once we exited the current, the birds vanished utterly.
Then on Day 4, the tardy SE trades kicked in, and though a few more slow spells and blustery winds cropped up, the remaining miles brought mostly steady 15-20k winds, sparkling sapphire seas, and cottonball clouds in a sheer blue sky. We slept and ate well, downloaded a fresh weather forecast every morning, and talked at great length about the end of our circumnavigation, coming closer each day. We passed several milestones, reentering the tropics at the Tropic of Capricorn and the Western Hemisphere at 0° longitude. A daylight arrival is definitely recommended for St. Helena, and with welcome assistance from the St. Helena ferry service we tied up at a mooring on the morning of 25 March.
The first thing to learn, then, is that St Helena had a considerable history before Monsieur—no longer Emperor—Bonaparte was plunked down here. The Portuguese came upon the island in 1502, and, not surprisingly, St. Helena’s strategic location soon made it an important stop for restocking and refueling passing vessels. British settlers stepped ashore in 1659 and brought slaves from Africa, India and SE Asia. Chinese laborers used by the East India Company in the 1800s also contributed to the island’s cultural mix. In addition to Napoleon, the British at various times imprisoned 25 Zulu chiefs, 6,000 Boer Prisoners of War, and 3 Bahraini nationalists here. Famous visitors include Charles Darwin, Capt. Joshua Slocum, and Edmond Halley, the latter attracted by the spectacular night-sky views.
Thus, after a day of tidying up Corroboree, Eric and I made our first excursion ashore. This involves a bouncy jaunt across the harbor in the little ferry boat to the landing steps. There you disembark by grabbing one of the ropes hanging from an overhead rod, wait for the right bounce, and haul yourself onto terra firma. The capital, Jamestown, lies in a cleft between steep reddish-brown cliffs. Stores and businesses line either side of the main street, and everything runs uphill on switchback roads. Many of the Georgian buildings have historic significance, and forts and batteries cling to the cliff walls.
Other than by sailboat, visitors reach St. Helena via a single airplane from Johannesburg on Saturdays and the occasional cruise ship. One problem for transiting yachts like Corroboree is that fresh produce, which depends on a weekly supply ship, quickly runs out. Grab that broccoli now! An issue that plagues all visitors is that the St. Helena Internet is in its infancy and very much hit-or-miss. When Eric asked a server at the Consulate Hotel where people get their news, he said, in effect, that they don’t. “They look as far as the horizon and no further,” he said with a hint of disdain. As might be expected on any small island, ambitious young people leave and don’t return. On the other hand, if you want an unhurried place where everyone greets you with a smile, St. Helena is for you.
Other popular activities on St. Helena are hiking and, from December-March, diving with the huge whale sharks that come here to feed. There are two must-dos. The first is Plantation House, the governor’s residence, located a few miles inland. The governor is appointed by the UK and serves a 3-year term, performing both ceremonial and administrative duties. Dating from 1792, the gracious residence is beautifully furnished and maintained, and the excellent guided tour included a dainty cream tea. The plantation grounds grow fruit and vegetables and are home to six giant tortoises. The undisputed star of the show is Jonathan, who was brought from the Seychelles in 1882 when he was approximately 50 years old. Now, at 190, he is reckoned to be the oldest living animal on Earth. What a sweetheart! Jonathan adores attention and happily poses for photos. To stroke his leathery head and ponder his longevity is like taking a step back in time.
The second must-do is a trip to Longwood, Napoleon’s “prison” from 1815 until his death in May 1821. Like Plantation House, it is situated in the interior, where clouds blowing over the island release their burden of rain. In contrast to the stark cliffs, the landscape here is lush and green, and at the time of Napoleon’s arrival, Longwood was an East India Company farm. It was hardly a glamorous abode. The atmosphere was often chilly, foggy and damp to the point that the wallpaper peeled off. Only candles lit the dark rooms, there were no sanitary facilities or fresh water supply, and rats got at the books in the library. Napoleon set about renovating, and today the house is preserved as it would have been at the time of his death, a much more elegant habitation. A super-informative audio tour provides all the details.
And how does a deposed emperor spend his time? An entourage of about 20 people accompanied Napoleon to St. Helena, among them several of his trusted generals, and with his maps and battle plans spread over the billiard table—a game he never took to—he absorbed himself in dictating his memoirs to these loyal subordinates. He read, walked in the garden—which he expanded—and was allowed, under guard, to ride out on horseback to view other parts of the island. He sometimes had visitors from the British military, and in one charming instance a young English noblewoman came and requested to see the gardens. The gallant Bonaparte had sweets brought out for her and plucked her a rose.
But what was going on in his head? Few figures in history can compare to Napoleon—Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, Genghis Khan, Attila the Hun, perhaps the Spanish conquistadors. These were men bent on conquest, and for the most part Napoleon was brilliant at it. Until in 1812 he took on the invincible Russian winter. Why? It’s almost as if he couldn’t stop, couldn’t help himself. This is a man, you may remember, with an ego so large that in 1804 when Pope Pius VII prepared to place the imperial crown on his head, Napoleon ostentatiously relieved him of it and boldly crowned himself.
Now here he is on St. Helena, emperor of nothing. Did he sulk and gnash his teeth in private or vociferously protest that Waterloo was rigged and he was still emperor after all? Did he scheme for another escape as he had staged from Elba, the site of his first exile? Did he curse Fate or flip it a defiant middle finger? You think you’ve laid me low? Ha! I am famous, my name will live forever, I regret nothing at all. According to his wishes, Napoleon was buried in the Sane Valley on St. Helena. In 1840 his body was exhumed and returned to Paris where he lies magnificently entombed at Les Invalides.
In a few days, Corroboree will set sail for Fernando de Noronha, an island off the coast of Brazil. Like St. Helena, it is a handy rest stop en route to the Caribbean, and the favorable SE trades should prevail for the 1,700 miles. Adieu, Napoleon Bonaparte, and may Jonathan live to delight visitors for many years to come.
