Tangible things like sea and ice have not caused us to hesitate as we've steamed south, ever south and this morning an invisible line captured our collective imagination and drove us from our beds...the crossing of the Antarctic circle. Larry woke us at 6:30 am and told us to brace ourselves for the bump. We emerged like disorientated rabbits from our dark cabin burrows, into a wild, wind-whipped morning. The temperature flat-lined on freezing, the horizon walled by massive bricks of glacial ice. Snow petrels escorted us, dipping up and down across the surface of the sea as if suspended on taut wires. At 7.03 am we crossed the mark - 66 degrees, 33.5 minutes south. Cheers sign-posted by steamy breath and claps softened by mittens erupted from us all.
Soon afterwards we entered uncharted territory. Few tourist vessels venture beyond here so early in the season, if at all, and the furthest the Caledonian Star had reached in the past was one mile south of the circle. Her goal this time was to get below 68 degrees south, or approximately 70 nautical miles further than ever before.
The bridge was crowded; officers and guests pressed together around radars, radios and charts. Captain Skog communicated with naturalist Steve Gould (atop the crow's nest), navigating our course. Icebergs turned into pack ice, and scarred crabeater seals turned to watch as our bow fractured and cracked their domain. It was uncertain for a couple of hours whether we would be able to penetrate the ice and round the point into Gunnel Channel - our open-water access to the south. The sea seemed to gather itself up in resistance. Pack ice joined with multi-year ice, groaning against our hull, and, where they surrendered, the sea was a glittering carpet of water crystals. Our path became blocked entirely, and the ship reversed.
Determined, we steered to port, and tried another route. Our pace slowed, the bow nosing icebergs so thick that their underbellies gleamed fluorescent green within water inky black in depth. And as we turned, black joined white in two small shapes that caused every naturalist to focus binoculars and exclaim "EMPEROR PENGUINS!!!" almost in unison. Although shrunken by distance these were the biggest penguins of all, and rarely seen so far from the pole. As if a good-luck omen, soon afterwards we were through the ice. By lunch we were 67 degrees south.
At mid afternoon we passed Stonehouse Bay, situated on the east side of Adelaide Island. The Bay's namesake, Bernard Stonehouse, spoke to the guests about his work in the bay as a meteorologist and biologist with the 1948 Falkland Islands Dependency Survey.
And so the day ended as it had begun, with yet another invisible line, this time threading us, the ship and the new millennium, with Bernard, his work, and all those who dared venture into this world long before us.
