I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;

And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

Sea Fever: John Masefield

I miss the sea terribly. I grew up in a small fishing town on the Firth of Clyde, Scotland’s gateway to the Atlantic. The scream of gulls, the echo of boat horns, and—on stormy days—the crash of waves were constants in my life. Yet, for all its nearness, not once did I venture out on the sea from that harbour. I often wonder why. Perhaps it was over-familiarity, or maybe it was my mother’s overprotectiveness—she had an irrational fear of water, born of an incident in her own childhood.

Still, I grew up steeped in a seafaring culture, and returning to the ocean—no matter where in the world—always feels invigorating. Regenerative.

So when I threw back the curtains that first morning in Concón, I was thrilled to see that the ocean was right there—barely 100 yards from the balcony outside our bedroom window. I stood in the early morning chill, completely enraptured, breathing in the moment, letting the sight and sound and scent of it all wash over me.

A low bank of distant fog threatened to roll in from the horizon. A lighthouse on the point continued to wink its warning through the haze. Fishing boats came and went from a little harbour about half a mile to my left—much smaller than the vessels I remembered from my childhood, but vibrantly painted, bouncing energetically across the waves as they headed offshore. A road, lined with a cycling and running trail, separated the hotel from the sea. The trail was busy already, filled with people getting their morning exercise and a healthy dose of ozone

Farther out—maybe half a mile from shore—I noticed a few orange buoys tossing in the surf, but slowly, steadily, moving across the bay. Looking closer, I realized the buoys were attached to swimmers—safety floats to alert passing boats to their presence in the water. I watched them in disbelief. How hardy—or perhaps foolhardy—were those swimmers! I’d tried several times to swim from the beaches in Monterey, but the Pacific was simply too cold. I doubted – and later verified – the water here was any warmer.

In the light of day, the small hotel proved to be every bit as charming as we had imagined upon our arrival the night before. The staff continued to spoil us with their attentive service, and the owner and her husband took a special interest in making sure we had a great stay, offering thoughtful advice and recommendations.

Alicia, the breakfast attendant, seemed to understand the special nature of our father-son adventure. She took a clear shine to Andrew, smiling and fussing over him with a tenderness that, at moments, I’m sure brought a tear to her eye. She was lovely. Breakfast itself was simple—coffee, freshly squeezed juice in flavors I couldn’t quite identify, fruit, cheese, cold cuts, eggs, and toast—but exquisitely served at a table overlooking the awakening bay. A perfect start to the day.

Eager to explore, we set out to see more of Concón and the neighboring towns of Reñaca, Viña del Mar, and, across the Bahía de Valparaíso, the port city that gave the bay its name: Valparaíso.

Retrieving our car, we waited patiently for the heavy metal security gate to retract and then headed south along the coastal road. We passed through Concón, past the lighthouse—now silent after its night of blinking—and soon arrived at the Reñaca Dunes, a massive pile of sand formed over the millennia by the movement of the tides, reminiscent of, though significantly smaller than, the towering dunes I am familiar with along the shore of Lake Michigan.

From a small parking lot, a well-worn but manicured footpath led up a rocky outcrop where the dunes came fully into view. Yet, despite their scale, the real showstopper was the coastline itself—an unbroken stretch of dramatic Pacific beauty that opened before us, sweeping across the full length of the bay to the north and the south. We lingered for quite a while, wandering the paths and watching the waves crash against the rugged shore.

Eventually, we continued south to Reñaca Beach, a mile-long stretch of perfect golden sand edging a sea of flawless, rolling waves. It looked ideal for surfing, though Felipe the chef would later explain that the surf here was too irregular and unpredictable—perhaps why the beach was devoid of surfers.

Deciding to park and take a closer look, we encountered the first (and I believe only) real problem of our trip – and even this was minor. As we got out of the car, an elderly man approached us. Brown-skinned, grey-haired, and wearing a bright orange high-vis vest, he was clearly agitated. Though he spoke no English, I gathered from his animated gestures that we had somehow violated a parking rule.

He pointed to a nearby sign—in Spanish—which implied parking here wasn’t free. But how much it cost, when payment was required, and to whom the fee was owed was all unclear. There were no parking meters. I offered him a credit card, but he shook his head vigorously. Stupidly—and unusually—I had left my pesos back at the hotel. Not wanting to risk the wrath of the parking authorities (if indeed that’s who he was), we got back in the car and moved on.

But it soon became clear that this was the situation everywhere along the coast. Defeated, we returned to the hotel for cash—and, hopefully, some clarification.

Back at the hotel, I explained my confusion to the owner’s husband, who had passable English. He laughed and explained that the men in orange vests were official/unofficial parking attendants. A small “tip” of 300 pesos—and certainly no more than 500 (about 50 US cents)—was all they expected, usually paid upon your return to the car.

It reminded me of the boys you’d occasionally see on the streets of Glasgow:
“Gies a pound and I’ll mind your car while you’re away,” they’d say.
Or, to put it another way: “Give me a pound and me and my mates won’t kick the mirrors off your car.” Just wee boys having fun! I suppose it was fair value.

Armed with this vital local knowledge, we drove south again, this time a little further—to Playa Blanca (“White Beach”) in Viña del Mar. In our opinion, the most glamorous and picturesque town along the entire bay.

As we slowed down, one of the orange-jacketed men flagged us toward a narrow parking space—one of the few remaining. To be honest, these men were quite helpful at times, maintaining some semblance of order amid the chaos. As I got out, he signaled that the cost to park was 2,000 pesos. But with the hotel owner’s advice still ringing in my ears, I stood my ground at 500. The man relented. I was quite proud of myself—I’m usually hopeless at haggling!

By now, it was lunchtime. Our new mission was to find a restaurant: Cap Ducal, highly recommended by the anniversary couple I’d met the night before. The restaurant was perched on a promontory overlooking the bay, its angular, modern architecture seemingly made almost entirely of glass to avoid obstructing the stunning view.

Marble paths wound through perfectly manicured lawns, and we were greeted by sharply dressed waiters in crisp white shirts, black ties, and long black aprons. We were seated at a table draped in pristine white linen, with gleaming silverware to match.

It didn’t take long to realize this place might not be for us. My suspicions were confirmed when I opened the menu. For the first and only time during our trip, my jaw hit the floor at the prices. Chile, by and large, had been refreshingly affordable—especially when compared to the U.S.—but this was another world entirely. My impression of Viña del Mar as the most upscale town along the bay was proving accurate.

Graciously, we made our excuses—and quietly slipped away.

Though it was still early spring in the southern hemisphere, we had been blessed with wonderful weather. Apart from a very chilly Sunday in Santiago (and, of course, the brisk early mornings in the high Andes), the skies had been clear and sunny, with temperatures around 80°F and only the gentlest of breezes.

We wandered a little farther inland from the beach, through a pretty park where the breeze stirred the lush vegetation and rustled the palm trees—I always feel I am somewhere special when there are palm trees. Funny, really—we had so overpacked for this trip. Planning for the worst, we’d stuffed our bulging suitcases with puffer jackets, hats, gloves, and scarves. And here we were, basking in the sunshine, completely overprepared for a heatwave we hadn’t expected.

A couple of blocks from the beach, we found a strip of modestly priced restaurants, each with a host or hostess standing outside, eager to beckon us in. But there was only ever going to be one choice. It was the vivid pink Johnnie Walker statue out front that first caught our attention, as absurd as it was eye-catching. And then we saw the menu: Tex-Mex cuisine.

Surely… surely… this was the moment. The home of chili con carne—in Chile—even if the day wasn’t chilly. Our quest, at last, complete?

We hurried inside, filled with expectation.

And while it was Tex-Mex—surprisingly good, actually, especially the pulled pork tacos—there was, once again… no chili.

A twinge of despair began to creep in. If not here, then where?

Perhaps even Chili’s, our last-resort backup plan, would let us down.

Onward. Further south to the far side of the bay: Valparaíso.

“Be careful if you go to Valparaíso,” said the hotel owner’s husband. “Many pickpockets.”

“Be very, very careful if you go to Valparaíso,” warned the Tex-Mex waiter. “Many pickpockets.”

“Be extremely careful here in Valparaíso,” said the barista at the coffee shop in the town square, eyeing my roll of pesos. “Many pickpockets.”

We got the message.

This is a port town, and it had that air of transience and low-level criminality that sometimes blankets such places. I kept my valuables close in a small shoulder bag, the clasp turned inward. Andrew, perhaps a little spooked by all the warnings, spent the entire visit with his hand firmly in his pocket, clutching his phone for dear life.

We stopped for coffee in the town square—earlier than usual—for a very specific reason. My phone had buzzed with a reminder: today was the release of the first tranche of tickets for the 2026 FIFA World Cup. For a brief moment, our grand chili quest took a back seat as I scrambled to get in line on the FIFA website.

At the same time, I was frantically trying to alert my World Cup compadre, Dave, that the moment had arrived. Well—not tickets for sale exactly. This was the lottery to enter the lottery to maybe buy up to four tickets from the first release. A lottery for the lottery, if you will. To make matters more absurd, these tickets were for matches where we wouldn’t even know who was playing yet, since qualification is still ongoing and the draw hasn’t been made.

Still—fortune favors the brave. So I (and later Dave) duly submitted our applications into FIFA’s twisted raffle system. I’ll save the rest of my commentary for the next World Cup blog—assuming I win, and there is a next blog.

As for Valparaíso… it was…..interesting.

It’s probably unfair to judge a place based on a two-hour visit, but the lasting impression wasn’t a great one. Pickpocket warnings aside, the most striking feature of the city was the graffiti—or was it street art? It was hard to tell where creativity ended and vandalism began. Every surface was scrawled with something. Maybe some of it had political meaning, but to my eye it was more destructive than expressive, reinforcing the sense of unease we’d been warned about.

“Be very careful here in Valparaíso,” said the funicular operator as we boarded the car. “Many pickpockets.”

The funicular was recommended to us by the hotel owner’s husband. It took some effort to find, hidden at the end of a narrow alleyway off the main street. Cognizant of the pickpocket warnings, we were uneasy squeezing through the alley, unsure what—or who—we might meet.

This particular funicular was less of a tourist attraction than the one in Santiago. It served a practical purpose: helping locals ascend the steep hillsides rather than brave the endless stairs. For the equivalent of 30 US cents, it carried us effortlessly to the top, offering views out over the port and the wide bay beyond.

Up here, the graffiti transformed into genuine street art. Brightly painted walls and gateways burst with colour and creativity, reflecting elements of Chilean culture. We wandered slowly through the narrow backstreets, descending the hillside by way of twisting stairs and alleyways. The art really was beautiful, but the streets were deserted, and my imagination began to race. I suddenly felt quite vulnerable and urged Andrew to quicken his pace as we descended the final flights of steps and emerged once more into the more populated parts of town.

No—Valparaíso was not for us. Although I should add, however, that my daughter Lorna visited the city a few years ago and came away with a much more favourable impression.

Retracing our steps to the car, we passed through another plaza, alive with the hustle and bustle of a local market. I had noticed it when we arrived, but in my World Cup lottery urgency, I hadn’t stopped to take it in. It was a cheerful, energetic place, full of laughter and community spirit—a welcome contrast that did much to repair my initial, somewhat negative impression of the town.

The stallholders called out enthusiastically, beckoning us to examine their wares—produce, crafts, artwork, and all the usual fare typical of a local market. I paused briefly at a stall selling knitted goods, and again at another offering garden plants and accessories, wondering if I could find something to take home for Elaine. Lacking confidence in my ability to choose well, I used our overstuffed suitcases as an excuse to buy nothing.

It had been a long day, and by the time we navigated the surprisingly hectic rush hour traffic back to the hotel, we were more than ready for a rest. Andrew quickly reacquainted himself with his Nintendo DS—which hadn’t seen the light of day since Santiago—while I read and wrote for a while. The decision to stay in a small boutique hotel, even with some help from ChatGPT, turned out to be a perfect one. The tranquil, family-friendly vibe and discreet, attentive service made it an ideal place to unwind after the stress of getting our bearings in a new place.

I say stressful, but truthfully, I was quietly impressed by how well we—okay, let’s be honest, I—had managed to find our way around a foreign country with little support and without speaking the language. I suppose all those years of business travel experience finally paid off.

We decided to wait for sunset before heading out to find dinner, but unfortunately, I neglected to check which direction the hotel faced and, annoyingly, it pointed northwest. The sun set behind a rocky outcrop far to the left of our balcony—not quite the full show we had hoped for. Noted for tomorrow: find a better vantage point.

The hotel was about a ten-minute walk from the main part of Concón, along the road that separated it from the sea. We descended several flights of stairs to reach the pedestrian entrance at street level, where we came to another heavy metal security door. After buzzing to open it, we stepped out and began our walk into town. The route took us past the small harbor I’d seen from our balcony that morning, the colorful little boats now moored in neat rows for the night.

As night settled around us, I found myself once again slightly uneasy, just as I had been in the backstreets of Valparaíso. The presence of such a formidable security gate stirred my imagination. But as joggers and cyclists passed us steadily, I reminded myself the risk was probably minimal—more imagined than real.

We were heading for a fish restaurant recommended by the anniversary couple we’d met the night before. This time, the prices didn’t make my eyes pop. The small, dimly lit restaurant sat right on the shoreline, and I took it to be a typical Chilean family-run place—no English spoken, so Google Translate became my lifeline for navigating the menu.

At first, the staff were a little standoffish—perhaps they weren’t used to foreign tourists. But everything changed once the empanadas arrived. They were, without question, the best we’d had in Chile: flaky, buttery pastry wrapped around a piping hot beef or vegetarian filling. That’s saying something, considering how many we’d eaten throughout our trip. I made a point—again, through Google Translate—of telling our server, Sebastián, just how much we loved them. Instantly, the frosty atmosphere melted.

By the end of the meal—a beautiful, fresh river trout in honor of our mountain trip two days earlier, followed by what was arguably the best crème brûlée I’ve ever tasted—we were all best friends. It’s hard to claim that anything topped the barbecue in the high Andes, which was hands-down the best meal we had in Chile—but this one came a very close second.

Afterwards, we made our way back to the hotel along the now mostly deserted jogging and cycling path. The dim lighting and quiet surroundings stirred my imagination once again, and I found myself hurrying Andrew along. But, of course, nothing happened and soon we were safely back in our room. And shortly after that we were asleep. This hectic schedule is tiring!