Erebus and Terror Gulf
63°30’S, 56°30’E
Pack Ice! Indeed: somehow we have managed to pack more ice into this day than most of us have seen in a lifetime. At first light we sneaked through Antarctic Sound into the Weddell Sea. Icebergs cruised a choppy sea, increasing in number until we had joined a fabulous mixed flotilla of crisp white tabletops, smaller blue bergy bits and flat punts of sea-ice with vivid turquoise plimsoll lines. Every now and then we passed a capsized tabular berg, the exposed hull scalloped and pitted where it has been corroded below the waterline. All these ice ships drift silently, gleaming against a dark ultramarine sea, its surface exploding into swirls of spray, cuffed by 40-knot gusts.
Anchor dropped in the lee of Paulet Island, a cinnamon-capped volcanic island with 100,000 Adelie penguins, whose dense slums stain the lower slopes pink and sepia. Too gusty to land; we launched the Zodiacs in a whirl of williwaws and loaded our intrepid redcoats. We cruised along the shore to find shelter in a sculpture park of grounded bergs. As we paused here out of the wind, a leopard seal is stalking fledgling penguins as they take their first polar plunge. On the beach, an anxious battalion of young penguins, their dry suits stained pink from weeks of spilled krill, suddenly stampede into the swirling sea. They gasp audibly as they hit the water – its cold! Heads high to keep their downy topknots dry they doggy-paddle bravely out to sea, then chicken out and scramble frantically up the flanks of the first iceberg they meet.
This afternoon we reached a maze of pack-ice which we threaded gingerly to reach Snow Hill island. Tonight, still giddy with a cocktail of sun and ice, we gather on deck, loath to end the day. It is now 10pm, and guided by the brilliant spotlight of Jupiter rising in the NE, we are weaving between giant tabular icebergs with sheer white cliffs, ghostly in the twilight. Pity Ron Lakis, our cameraman. His task is to produce a video chronicle of our adventures, which will be available to all our guests by the end of the voyage. He has been everywhere, on bow, beach and volcano top to catch every last iceberg and albatross. Does he sleep at all? Can he go to bed at last? No – because at 10:20 the moon, a glowing apricot over indigo icebergs, rises triumphantly over the horizon. It is the grand finale of the Greatest Conjuror, to produce a last golden egg from his sleeve just when you thought the show was over.
63°30’S, 56°30’E
Pack Ice! Indeed: somehow we have managed to pack more ice into this day than most of us have seen in a lifetime. At first light we sneaked through Antarctic Sound into the Weddell Sea. Icebergs cruised a choppy sea, increasing in number until we had joined a fabulous mixed flotilla of crisp white tabletops, smaller blue bergy bits and flat punts of sea-ice with vivid turquoise plimsoll lines. Every now and then we passed a capsized tabular berg, the exposed hull scalloped and pitted where it has been corroded below the waterline. All these ice ships drift silently, gleaming against a dark ultramarine sea, its surface exploding into swirls of spray, cuffed by 40-knot gusts.
Anchor dropped in the lee of Paulet Island, a cinnamon-capped volcanic island with 100,000 Adelie penguins, whose dense slums stain the lower slopes pink and sepia. Too gusty to land; we launched the Zodiacs in a whirl of williwaws and loaded our intrepid redcoats. We cruised along the shore to find shelter in a sculpture park of grounded bergs. As we paused here out of the wind, a leopard seal is stalking fledgling penguins as they take their first polar plunge. On the beach, an anxious battalion of young penguins, their dry suits stained pink from weeks of spilled krill, suddenly stampede into the swirling sea. They gasp audibly as they hit the water – its cold! Heads high to keep their downy topknots dry they doggy-paddle bravely out to sea, then chicken out and scramble frantically up the flanks of the first iceberg they meet.
This afternoon we reached a maze of pack-ice which we threaded gingerly to reach Snow Hill island. Tonight, still giddy with a cocktail of sun and ice, we gather on deck, loath to end the day. It is now 10pm, and guided by the brilliant spotlight of Jupiter rising in the NE, we are weaving between giant tabular icebergs with sheer white cliffs, ghostly in the twilight. Pity Ron Lakis, our cameraman. His task is to produce a video chronicle of our adventures, which will be available to all our guests by the end of the voyage. He has been everywhere, on bow, beach and volcano top to catch every last iceberg and albatross. Does he sleep at all? Can he go to bed at last? No – because at 10:20 the moon, a glowing apricot over indigo icebergs, rises triumphantly over the horizon. It is the grand finale of the Greatest Conjuror, to produce a last golden egg from his sleeve just when you thought the show was over.
