At Sea
Try to find a unifying thought, uniting all the experiences of twelve days spent exploring the Antarctic Peninsula. If it is possible to discover such a theme, a single thread running through all the different moods and moments, the ever-changing weather and scenery, the quiet contemplation and boisterous celebration of our journey, it must be Penguins!
Penguins watching from their nests, penguins springing out of the surf, penguins resting on blue icebergs, penguins trekking patiently across pristine snowfields, penguins in the mud. Chinstrap penguins braying their ecstatic cries to the sky, gentoo penguins circling the Zodiacs like flocks of miniature rockets, adelie penguins regarding us with quizzical expressions, contemplating our significance. Penguins struggling up the steep tracks to their nests, leaning into the bitter wind, penguins porpoising effortlessly through the waves of a bright blue sea. A lone penguin standing on an outcrop of black rock on a low island surrounded by icebergs, silhouetted against the setting sun, thousands of penguins scattered across a broad hillside at the foot of a range of soaring, glacier-carved peaks. These perfect seabirds, devoted parents, antic clowns, astounding athletes and snappy dressers seemed to welcome us to their world. Revealing so much of their lives to the patient observer, they mirror our own lives back to us and create a lens through which we gain a richer, more intimate view of the remote, spectacular wilderness where they dwell. For me they are companions, mysteries and the icon of the Antarctic.
Try to find a unifying thought, uniting all the experiences of twelve days spent exploring the Antarctic Peninsula. If it is possible to discover such a theme, a single thread running through all the different moods and moments, the ever-changing weather and scenery, the quiet contemplation and boisterous celebration of our journey, it must be Penguins!
Penguins watching from their nests, penguins springing out of the surf, penguins resting on blue icebergs, penguins trekking patiently across pristine snowfields, penguins in the mud. Chinstrap penguins braying their ecstatic cries to the sky, gentoo penguins circling the Zodiacs like flocks of miniature rockets, adelie penguins regarding us with quizzical expressions, contemplating our significance. Penguins struggling up the steep tracks to their nests, leaning into the bitter wind, penguins porpoising effortlessly through the waves of a bright blue sea. A lone penguin standing on an outcrop of black rock on a low island surrounded by icebergs, silhouetted against the setting sun, thousands of penguins scattered across a broad hillside at the foot of a range of soaring, glacier-carved peaks. These perfect seabirds, devoted parents, antic clowns, astounding athletes and snappy dressers seemed to welcome us to their world. Revealing so much of their lives to the patient observer, they mirror our own lives back to us and create a lens through which we gain a richer, more intimate view of the remote, spectacular wilderness where they dwell. For me they are companions, mysteries and the icon of the Antarctic.
