Deception Island, Antarctica
When we were children, there was a toy like a ball on a string or some such thing that we spun above our heads. Faster and faster, round and round it went until the object became no more than the sound emitted, not quite a whoosh, whoosh, but with a hum added in. You remember it too, do you not? As the sun shone warmly on our skin and we stood in the green carpeted amphitheater at Baily Head, this vibration resonated all about, never changing in intensity but just there, constantly. Some said it had the pitch of a Model T cranking and cranking and never starting. But that was too harsh. It was the whirling ball. Layered on top was a pulsation of three repeated beats tossed from the uplifted throats of tens of thousands of chinstrap penguins. The rhythmic wave would start at a random nidus and progress all around in a spiraling crescendo up the hillsides and down the valleys. A pause for breath and the cycle would begin again. Rotund chicks peeped pathetically to be heard above the din. Only when a dark shadow passed overhead did the conversation change. The words for brown skua, attacker of both egg and chick, sounded most like the meow of a cat. The enemy itself was silent on approach, protesting only when others of its kind were insistent in sharing in the prey.
Here within the concert hall on the edge of Deception Island, other senses were at play as well. The ceiling was a dome of deepest blue and the aisles lushly carpeted with Prasiola green. Sweeping hillsides rose to grandest heights. The center floor was elevated too. Everywhere, on every slope and rise the whitewashed circular box seats were crowded with colonies of chinstraps penguins, both adults and young alike. The air was perfumed heavily with their distinctive guano odour.
Nearby on a black cinder beach at the exit to this coliseum, a steady stream of black and white paraded from sea to shore. Marching like soldiers with chins held high, backs straight and proud and flippers in a half salute, busy penguins swaggered, always keeping to the right whether coming from the sea or returning to the water. Patterns in black and white flashed across our vision and etched themselves in our memories. Crashing breakers with frothing foam carried swirling bodies and tossed them upright on the sands. With one smooth move they sprang to their feet and fell in line to start the long hike home. We left them to this task and drifted on.
The afternoon was different. Only ghosts of life remained at Whaler’s Bay, hidden inside Deception’s caldera. As we stood at Neptune’s Window and peered upon the white-capped mountains of the Antarctic Peninsula far away we imagined the spirit of Nathaniel Palmer who did the same more than a hundred and eighty years ago. Through the mist-like steam rising from heated sands at the water’s edge, we saw not only our shipmates bathing, but whalers from long ago seemed to be rowing waterboats to sailing ships anchored just offshore. Past and present melded, tied by acres of volcanic ash that painted the world within the island in shades of black and gray. Slowly time and water eroded the sediment away exposing bones of whales, their bodies rendered in the same boilers that today stood rusting near tilting tanks that once received their oil. Barrel staves, half buried in untidy piles waited to be assembled by coopers no longer here. When the whales were gone, the ships went too, to be replaced by curious scientists. The island rumbled and threatened, then roared to life anew. Mud flows swirled in and around buildings swallowing equipment and sweeping away walls. And then all fell silent again. The base was closed and now only spirits roam.
But under the sea, life was abundant. Our tiny ROV descended to the depths of Telefon Bay and transported images directly to our vessel. Herds of brittle stars spread their thread-like legs across the soft sediment of the bottom. They shared their space with tunicates and spiny, rosy urchins. Silence seemed to reign in their realm.
As the day draws to a close the rhythmic throb of the engines are like a heartbeat pulsing up through our soles enveloping us as we peacefully move toward dreams.
When we were children, there was a toy like a ball on a string or some such thing that we spun above our heads. Faster and faster, round and round it went until the object became no more than the sound emitted, not quite a whoosh, whoosh, but with a hum added in. You remember it too, do you not? As the sun shone warmly on our skin and we stood in the green carpeted amphitheater at Baily Head, this vibration resonated all about, never changing in intensity but just there, constantly. Some said it had the pitch of a Model T cranking and cranking and never starting. But that was too harsh. It was the whirling ball. Layered on top was a pulsation of three repeated beats tossed from the uplifted throats of tens of thousands of chinstrap penguins. The rhythmic wave would start at a random nidus and progress all around in a spiraling crescendo up the hillsides and down the valleys. A pause for breath and the cycle would begin again. Rotund chicks peeped pathetically to be heard above the din. Only when a dark shadow passed overhead did the conversation change. The words for brown skua, attacker of both egg and chick, sounded most like the meow of a cat. The enemy itself was silent on approach, protesting only when others of its kind were insistent in sharing in the prey.
Here within the concert hall on the edge of Deception Island, other senses were at play as well. The ceiling was a dome of deepest blue and the aisles lushly carpeted with Prasiola green. Sweeping hillsides rose to grandest heights. The center floor was elevated too. Everywhere, on every slope and rise the whitewashed circular box seats were crowded with colonies of chinstraps penguins, both adults and young alike. The air was perfumed heavily with their distinctive guano odour.
Nearby on a black cinder beach at the exit to this coliseum, a steady stream of black and white paraded from sea to shore. Marching like soldiers with chins held high, backs straight and proud and flippers in a half salute, busy penguins swaggered, always keeping to the right whether coming from the sea or returning to the water. Patterns in black and white flashed across our vision and etched themselves in our memories. Crashing breakers with frothing foam carried swirling bodies and tossed them upright on the sands. With one smooth move they sprang to their feet and fell in line to start the long hike home. We left them to this task and drifted on.
The afternoon was different. Only ghosts of life remained at Whaler’s Bay, hidden inside Deception’s caldera. As we stood at Neptune’s Window and peered upon the white-capped mountains of the Antarctic Peninsula far away we imagined the spirit of Nathaniel Palmer who did the same more than a hundred and eighty years ago. Through the mist-like steam rising from heated sands at the water’s edge, we saw not only our shipmates bathing, but whalers from long ago seemed to be rowing waterboats to sailing ships anchored just offshore. Past and present melded, tied by acres of volcanic ash that painted the world within the island in shades of black and gray. Slowly time and water eroded the sediment away exposing bones of whales, their bodies rendered in the same boilers that today stood rusting near tilting tanks that once received their oil. Barrel staves, half buried in untidy piles waited to be assembled by coopers no longer here. When the whales were gone, the ships went too, to be replaced by curious scientists. The island rumbled and threatened, then roared to life anew. Mud flows swirled in and around buildings swallowing equipment and sweeping away walls. And then all fell silent again. The base was closed and now only spirits roam.
But under the sea, life was abundant. Our tiny ROV descended to the depths of Telefon Bay and transported images directly to our vessel. Herds of brittle stars spread their thread-like legs across the soft sediment of the bottom. They shared their space with tunicates and spiny, rosy urchins. Silence seemed to reign in their realm.
As the day draws to a close the rhythmic throb of the engines are like a heartbeat pulsing up through our soles enveloping us as we peacefully move toward dreams.
