Prion Island, South Georgia
54° 01.7’ S 37° 14.9’ W
Thick mist and drizzle as we edge gingerly into the Bay of Isles on the north-west coast of South Georgia. Why are we even bothering to visit this small, flat island on this decidedly dreary morning? We have seen so much in the last few days, (and all in pin sharp, dazzling sunshine) that any lesser Expedition Leader would grant us a few precious hours in our bunks. Not Matt Drennan. We will go ashore on this rumpled, cowpat of an island and what is more, we will do it before breakfast. Oddsboddikins! With even the slightest hairline crack in shipboard morale, this would lead to mutiny, but a more willing band of buccaneers cannot be found in the southern hemisphere, so at first light our special boat squad storm the beach of Prion Island. The first men ashore secure a beachhead from the local insurgents, a motley guerilla force of furseals, and hold it until the first battalions of redcoats land with pike and gumboot at the ready. We wind uphill along a greasy rock gully, risking ambush from the tussock jungle either side, until we reach the safer open plateau of the summit. Here we find the treasure we have come so far to find:
Al-catraz, the Great White Albatross! We settle to watch three Wandering albatross nests; each giant white bird nestled on a raised throne of moss and tussock fiber. The center male sits impassively until another, circling albatross makes three low passes, sweeping by on 11-foot wings. On the fourth pass she lowers webbed feet and lands to face him. He rises to reveal - there is no egg! As she moves towards him, they gently touch bills. He raises his head, clatters his huge bill and suddenly they both stretch those endless wings and are circling to celebrate their reunion. After half an hour of the tenderest caresses it is clear to even the most hardened mariners among us that these are newlyweds. Love in the mist. Yet why is this snowy-white bird, clearly a mature breeding male, courting a dusky young maiden, with the brunette wings and peachy cheeks of a 3-year-old? Satellite tracking of these incredible birds has shown that the females fly north to the coast of Brazil and are being caught and drowned on the long-lines of tuna fishing boats. As they may live over 70 years and mate for life, he must have lost his life partner and is now forced to court a young female perhaps 30 years his junior. Thousands of albatrosses die on these lines each year. Studies here show that the population has declined by 1% per annum over the last 40 years. Their scientific name Diomedea commemorates the Trojan hero Diomedes: the souls of his drowned comrades were turned into wandering seabirds that might accompany him on his travels. Today we are band of sailors privileged to have met the Wanderer; but how will we commemorate the soul of a drowned albatross?
54° 01.7’ S 37° 14.9’ W
Thick mist and drizzle as we edge gingerly into the Bay of Isles on the north-west coast of South Georgia. Why are we even bothering to visit this small, flat island on this decidedly dreary morning? We have seen so much in the last few days, (and all in pin sharp, dazzling sunshine) that any lesser Expedition Leader would grant us a few precious hours in our bunks. Not Matt Drennan. We will go ashore on this rumpled, cowpat of an island and what is more, we will do it before breakfast. Oddsboddikins! With even the slightest hairline crack in shipboard morale, this would lead to mutiny, but a more willing band of buccaneers cannot be found in the southern hemisphere, so at first light our special boat squad storm the beach of Prion Island. The first men ashore secure a beachhead from the local insurgents, a motley guerilla force of furseals, and hold it until the first battalions of redcoats land with pike and gumboot at the ready. We wind uphill along a greasy rock gully, risking ambush from the tussock jungle either side, until we reach the safer open plateau of the summit. Here we find the treasure we have come so far to find:
Al-catraz, the Great White Albatross! We settle to watch three Wandering albatross nests; each giant white bird nestled on a raised throne of moss and tussock fiber. The center male sits impassively until another, circling albatross makes three low passes, sweeping by on 11-foot wings. On the fourth pass she lowers webbed feet and lands to face him. He rises to reveal - there is no egg! As she moves towards him, they gently touch bills. He raises his head, clatters his huge bill and suddenly they both stretch those endless wings and are circling to celebrate their reunion. After half an hour of the tenderest caresses it is clear to even the most hardened mariners among us that these are newlyweds. Love in the mist. Yet why is this snowy-white bird, clearly a mature breeding male, courting a dusky young maiden, with the brunette wings and peachy cheeks of a 3-year-old? Satellite tracking of these incredible birds has shown that the females fly north to the coast of Brazil and are being caught and drowned on the long-lines of tuna fishing boats. As they may live over 70 years and mate for life, he must have lost his life partner and is now forced to court a young female perhaps 30 years his junior. Thousands of albatrosses die on these lines each year. Studies here show that the population has declined by 1% per annum over the last 40 years. Their scientific name Diomedea commemorates the Trojan hero Diomedes: the souls of his drowned comrades were turned into wandering seabirds that might accompany him on his travels. Today we are band of sailors privileged to have met the Wanderer; but how will we commemorate the soul of a drowned albatross?
