Peril in Patagonia

“Perdone,” the man muttered as he dropped into the aisle seat next to me and his bag bumped my leg. “De nada.” Aloof to a fault, I began perusing the notebook in my lap. I hoped that ended our communication. He, of like mind, retrieved a book from a pocket of his bag and settled back to devour its contents. A half hour into the flight, the pilot made a terse announcement that sent the attendants scurrying aft to their seats. Moments later, buffeted by air turbulence, the plane dropped unceremoniously, leveled off, and dropped again. Frail fingers clawed at my arm and panic gripped the voice of the small woman next to me. I caught the phrase, accidente aéreo. “No, no,” I reassured her, jettisoning my own concern about our safety. “No problema.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the man’s head jerk in my direction. Not daring to glance his way, I gripped the armrest as once again we plunged downward with a decisive thud. The woman gasped. I held my breath until the plane became stabilized, then ventured a smile in her direction, hoping to alleviate her fear. The man leaned across me to console her in Spanish. As he righted himself, he looked straight into my face, a sardonic grin on his. “I told her this happens all the time when the spring winds whip down from the Andes,” he said. “Spring? It’s October,” I blurted. “So you do speak English.” He suppressed a smile. “I couldn't help suspecting that you're an American trying desperately to master the native lingo and drowning in spite of yourself.” “That’s better than an American trying to lord it over the natives,” I snapped back. He laughed aloud. “You’re a feisty one. Don’t tell me you’ve come to this end of the earth to escape a broken romance, or maybe to pull a Butch Cassidy.” The look I shot back was meant to silence him; it merely amused him further. “Point of order: we’re below the equator. Ergo, while October in the States means falling leaves and pumpkins, October in Patagonia means spring thaw, water pouring down from snow on the Andes, and the arrival of the penguins at Punta Tombo.” “How did you know...?” I clapped my hand over my mouth. “Know what? That the penguins return there to breed this time of year? I gather that’s why you’re here.” The source of his perceptive remark was the notebook propped open on my lap, its labeled charts easily read by anyone with a mind to snoop. Deflated, I said, “Since you’re two jumps ahead of me, I have to admit that I’ve come to photograph and study their nesting habits.” He frowned. “By yourself?”