Prince Olaf and Elsehul Bays, South Georgia
We are on the northeastern side of the sawtooth scimitar which forms South Georgia. The whole island lies athwart the powerful circumpolar current which drives eastward through the narrow gap of Drake Passage. It creates a vortex off each end of the island which swirls round into the lee side, stirring up the sea. For the last two days this turbulence has been augmented by powerful offshore winds sweeping off the glaciers which drive water out to sea, drawing upwellings to the surface. This complex maelstrom powers one of the greatest seafood restaurants on the planet, a year-round banquet which has been open for business for millions of years. And it feeds some 53 million seabirds, 4 million seals and cetaceans. This is why we are here: is there anything more spectacular than an ultramarine ocean, with flotillas of black-browed albatross, swirling silver clouds of Antarctic Prions, glistening macaroni penguins hurdling out of the waves, against a backdrop of purple sharksteeth mountains with giant glaciers for scarves? Ultramarine. That is the essence of South Georgia. A rock in the heart of the southern ocean. Its warmth comes from the ocean. Its weather comes from the ocean. The snow which feeds its glaciers comes from the ocean. The warmth which nurtures its green moss meadows comes from the ocean. And all the teeming seabird cities which have waxed and waned for millennia are fed from the sea. We too have come from the ocean, a tiny raft of amazed aliens, staggered to discover this oceanic oasis in a sea we thought was inimical to life.
This morning we called at Lighthouse bay and launched our fleet of kayaks. They paddled past the swirling brown tresses of giant kelp where fur seal pups cavorted like schooling fish. They peered into caves where the skeletons of murdered sealers moulder. They gazed up at hundreds of feet of buckled seabed strata. And were warmed by hot chocolate and schnapps brought by Willie and Melanie in a floating hot drinks stall. Some explored the next bay, Prince Olaf , where a British whaling station lay rusting beneath a spiky spire of a mountain, the station as dead now as the whales they once turned into farmland fertiliser. After lunch, we anchored in Elsehul and slid and slithered over greasy tussac tummocks which the fur seals had been using as mud sofas, until we were perched on a windswept clifftop over the bay. Just below us the breathtakingly beautiful Grey-headed Albatross nests, its chick a giant grey powder puff. To complete the magic, Light-mantled Sooty Albatrosses swept past our perch, just out of reach. Below us fur seals romped in the shallows, and surfed in on the Antarctic swells. It was a ringside seat in the Garden of Eden, where these children of the Southern Ocean thrive. Absolutely georgiaous .
We are on the northeastern side of the sawtooth scimitar which forms South Georgia. The whole island lies athwart the powerful circumpolar current which drives eastward through the narrow gap of Drake Passage. It creates a vortex off each end of the island which swirls round into the lee side, stirring up the sea. For the last two days this turbulence has been augmented by powerful offshore winds sweeping off the glaciers which drive water out to sea, drawing upwellings to the surface. This complex maelstrom powers one of the greatest seafood restaurants on the planet, a year-round banquet which has been open for business for millions of years. And it feeds some 53 million seabirds, 4 million seals and cetaceans. This is why we are here: is there anything more spectacular than an ultramarine ocean, with flotillas of black-browed albatross, swirling silver clouds of Antarctic Prions, glistening macaroni penguins hurdling out of the waves, against a backdrop of purple sharksteeth mountains with giant glaciers for scarves? Ultramarine. That is the essence of South Georgia. A rock in the heart of the southern ocean. Its warmth comes from the ocean. Its weather comes from the ocean. The snow which feeds its glaciers comes from the ocean. The warmth which nurtures its green moss meadows comes from the ocean. And all the teeming seabird cities which have waxed and waned for millennia are fed from the sea. We too have come from the ocean, a tiny raft of amazed aliens, staggered to discover this oceanic oasis in a sea we thought was inimical to life.
This morning we called at Lighthouse bay and launched our fleet of kayaks. They paddled past the swirling brown tresses of giant kelp where fur seal pups cavorted like schooling fish. They peered into caves where the skeletons of murdered sealers moulder. They gazed up at hundreds of feet of buckled seabed strata. And were warmed by hot chocolate and schnapps brought by Willie and Melanie in a floating hot drinks stall. Some explored the next bay, Prince Olaf , where a British whaling station lay rusting beneath a spiky spire of a mountain, the station as dead now as the whales they once turned into farmland fertiliser. After lunch, we anchored in Elsehul and slid and slithered over greasy tussac tummocks which the fur seals had been using as mud sofas, until we were perched on a windswept clifftop over the bay. Just below us the breathtakingly beautiful Grey-headed Albatross nests, its chick a giant grey powder puff. To complete the magic, Light-mantled Sooty Albatrosses swept past our perch, just out of reach. Below us fur seals romped in the shallows, and surfed in on the Antarctic swells. It was a ringside seat in the Garden of Eden, where these children of the Southern Ocean thrive. Absolutely georgiaous .
