South Atlantic Ocean
At sea in the “Roaring Forties” we have become used to our nightly invasions. As darkness falls, little sea birds begin to arrive on deck with a muffled flutter before disappearing into the dark crevices of lifeboats or stacked chairs. On particularly busy evenings, some parts of the deck seem to be carpeted with the ungainly movements of dozens of birds, all sitting stiffly about on the deck as if they are not sure whether to flee or freeze. By morning, most will have chosen the former option, and returned to the sea. For those that have worked their way into tight corners, we give them a helping hand towards the world beyond the rail, and freedom. Pictured is a white-chinned petrel, the largest of the six species we have so far recorded on our decks. Like the others, this bird has been attracted to the ship’s lights, which stand out boldly in an otherwise black sky. Perhaps disoriented, it crash-landed on board, but with a helpful boost over the rail, it flew off unharmed.
At sea in the “Roaring Forties” we have become used to our nightly invasions. As darkness falls, little sea birds begin to arrive on deck with a muffled flutter before disappearing into the dark crevices of lifeboats or stacked chairs. On particularly busy evenings, some parts of the deck seem to be carpeted with the ungainly movements of dozens of birds, all sitting stiffly about on the deck as if they are not sure whether to flee or freeze. By morning, most will have chosen the former option, and returned to the sea. For those that have worked their way into tight corners, we give them a helping hand towards the world beyond the rail, and freedom. Pictured is a white-chinned petrel, the largest of the six species we have so far recorded on our decks. Like the others, this bird has been attracted to the ship’s lights, which stand out boldly in an otherwise black sky. Perhaps disoriented, it crash-landed on board, but with a helpful boost over the rail, it flew off unharmed.
