Deception Island, South Shetland Islands
Wonderment seems inescapable here in the southern ocean. We stare at the island mass ahead of the ship and marvel at the grace of a black-browed albatross as it dips so close to the churning waves. We cast our eyes along the straight shoreline ahead and question its regularity while the rest of the contour of the land is more like a donut missing a bite. Binoculars scan the intersection of sea and shore watching water swallow cindery black sand with a foamy grin.
Hundreds of bipedal forms pause on the dry side of this line assessing whether to cross into our realm. There is surprise on our part as we find the tables turned. Soon red-coats line the beaches near massive Bailey Head, and penguin bodies porpoise through the waves. They squirt from the water like watermelon seeds compressed between the pursed lips of some ancient ocean god. Short legs are soon in action and feet march in tune to the song of wind and surf. Columns of avian soldiers pass each other with no salute. They are solely intent on reaching their nests or moving from "home" to sea. We parallel their highway and follow them into a hidden world, a valley still and beautiful, verdant green with moss on high and a thin algal mat beneath. The rush of wind is gone, but even if it hadn't been, there is doubt it would be heard for a chinstrap colony is a noisy place. Greetings to a mate are trumpeted far and wide, each body contracting from bottom to top, head thrown back and flippers flapping. One happy couple spreads it joy and the ecstasy seems to be transmitted and echoed by all its neighbors. With hundreds and thousands changing places on the nest, there never is a quiet moment in the "city." Occasionally the sinister form of a skua darkens the sky above a colony. Efficient at transmitting terror and confusion, they rob an egg here or there, carrying it off to pounce upon the hard shell and consume the rich nutrients contained within. We wonder what the balance is, how somehow the numbers work out so that penguins and skuas both survive and thrive.
Neptune's Bellows beckons to passing vessels to have a look inside, to dare to slip between the rocky walls and see what is hidden behind the "door." We sail into the caldera under cloudy skies. The steaming black sands of Pendulum Cove are decorated with red rosettes of algal fronds and tiny boiled krill. Pintado petrels bob along the shore feasting on the planktonic soup. Embraced by the warming waters percolating from deep below we speculate whether the whalers and researchers of bygone years welcomed this recreational activity as much as we.
The past comes alive in our eyes at Whaler's Bay where the shores are littered with artifacts, now partly buried in lahar flows. How many times did they feel the land tremble as the volcano rumbled and tossed hot ash into the air? How did it smell when tall masted whalers sat at anchor and cast mutilated leviathan bodies into the bay? Or when the shore-based operation was boiling the bones? Did those who came after to study the skies feel the same shadows of the past even while they renovated and constructed comfortable living spaces? Now only the silence remains and signs of man slowly crumble. And we are left to wonder.
Wonderment seems inescapable here in the southern ocean. We stare at the island mass ahead of the ship and marvel at the grace of a black-browed albatross as it dips so close to the churning waves. We cast our eyes along the straight shoreline ahead and question its regularity while the rest of the contour of the land is more like a donut missing a bite. Binoculars scan the intersection of sea and shore watching water swallow cindery black sand with a foamy grin.
Hundreds of bipedal forms pause on the dry side of this line assessing whether to cross into our realm. There is surprise on our part as we find the tables turned. Soon red-coats line the beaches near massive Bailey Head, and penguin bodies porpoise through the waves. They squirt from the water like watermelon seeds compressed between the pursed lips of some ancient ocean god. Short legs are soon in action and feet march in tune to the song of wind and surf. Columns of avian soldiers pass each other with no salute. They are solely intent on reaching their nests or moving from "home" to sea. We parallel their highway and follow them into a hidden world, a valley still and beautiful, verdant green with moss on high and a thin algal mat beneath. The rush of wind is gone, but even if it hadn't been, there is doubt it would be heard for a chinstrap colony is a noisy place. Greetings to a mate are trumpeted far and wide, each body contracting from bottom to top, head thrown back and flippers flapping. One happy couple spreads it joy and the ecstasy seems to be transmitted and echoed by all its neighbors. With hundreds and thousands changing places on the nest, there never is a quiet moment in the "city." Occasionally the sinister form of a skua darkens the sky above a colony. Efficient at transmitting terror and confusion, they rob an egg here or there, carrying it off to pounce upon the hard shell and consume the rich nutrients contained within. We wonder what the balance is, how somehow the numbers work out so that penguins and skuas both survive and thrive.
Neptune's Bellows beckons to passing vessels to have a look inside, to dare to slip between the rocky walls and see what is hidden behind the "door." We sail into the caldera under cloudy skies. The steaming black sands of Pendulum Cove are decorated with red rosettes of algal fronds and tiny boiled krill. Pintado petrels bob along the shore feasting on the planktonic soup. Embraced by the warming waters percolating from deep below we speculate whether the whalers and researchers of bygone years welcomed this recreational activity as much as we.
The past comes alive in our eyes at Whaler's Bay where the shores are littered with artifacts, now partly buried in lahar flows. How many times did they feel the land tremble as the volcano rumbled and tossed hot ash into the air? How did it smell when tall masted whalers sat at anchor and cast mutilated leviathan bodies into the bay? Or when the shore-based operation was boiling the bones? Did those who came after to study the skies feel the same shadows of the past even while they renovated and constructed comfortable living spaces? Now only the silence remains and signs of man slowly crumble. And we are left to wonder.
