Port Lockroy, Goudier Island, (64°50' S, 63° 30' W) & Andvord Bay, (64°48' S, 62° 38' W)
It is so easy to miss the first few words of the wake-up call as it is broadcast to one and all. Moments pass before the tendrils of meaning penetrate one's consciousness. However the words "It's a wild day!" hastened the process this morning. Here in the far south that statement was sure to mean that it was more than just "a blustery day" as our good friend Winnie-the-Pooh was apt to say. But, who lets wind stop a great adventure?
The wind whipped the tops off the waves and grasped the falling snow sending it sideways to meld with the fog into a filmy curtain of white. Jagged mountains and crevassed glaciers surrounded us, not obscured but softened to a surreal and sedate scene. A ghostly vessel appeared, its masts penetrating the mist like skeletal fingers. Was this a whaler from centuries past or had Charcot returned to his protected port now called Lockroy? Layers of time seemed to blend together as we inched closer and closer to the rocky shores of Goudier Island. A rusty chain coiled about a rocky ledge. How many vessels had found shelter here? How many whales were slaughtered for it was the whalers that had returned year after year to the Antarctic? A massive cetacean mandible lay on the shore like a sun-bleached driftwood log. A waterboat crumbled, turned into mud, only its bow still intact. It was no longer needed to ferry fresh water to the blubber processing vessels. Explorers too came here when shelter from the seas were needed. Their legacy lay all around in the trail of names on islands, straits, bays and coves. The flag of the UK, the Union Jack snapped rhythmically in front of the reconstructed buildings of Base A, Operation Tabarin, a WWII scientific and possibly defensive installation. Skis and dog sleds stood silent, empty, stimulating memories of years of huskies and the mushers that ran behind leaving lines in the snow and in the detailed charts they created.
Bravely we slipped from the protected cove and sailed across the Gerlache Strait dipping behind islands and into bays seeking smooth calm waters. Andvord Bay offered just what we were after. Glaciers streamed down mountainsides straight into the sea, their rapid descent written on the rough rent upper surface. With fierce protesting roars they disintegrated into snow once more cascading into the sea as a powdery waterfall. At times they cast their progeny adrift to be sculpted, tilted and turned by the fluid medium upon which they rode. Our kayaks paddled amongst the bergs and Zodiacs did too.
Snow fell more heavily coating boats and jackets alike with a blanket of white. What insanity took hold in this wintry world? Someone's imagination must have seen palm trees and warm sandy beaches for why else would bathing-suit clad bodies have jumped into the sea? With the water temperature at twenty-nine degrees Fahrenheit, the swim party was far from silent and shrieks echoed far and wide. Wash away the old. Get ready for the new. Happy New Years everyone!
It is so easy to miss the first few words of the wake-up call as it is broadcast to one and all. Moments pass before the tendrils of meaning penetrate one's consciousness. However the words "It's a wild day!" hastened the process this morning. Here in the far south that statement was sure to mean that it was more than just "a blustery day" as our good friend Winnie-the-Pooh was apt to say. But, who lets wind stop a great adventure?
The wind whipped the tops off the waves and grasped the falling snow sending it sideways to meld with the fog into a filmy curtain of white. Jagged mountains and crevassed glaciers surrounded us, not obscured but softened to a surreal and sedate scene. A ghostly vessel appeared, its masts penetrating the mist like skeletal fingers. Was this a whaler from centuries past or had Charcot returned to his protected port now called Lockroy? Layers of time seemed to blend together as we inched closer and closer to the rocky shores of Goudier Island. A rusty chain coiled about a rocky ledge. How many vessels had found shelter here? How many whales were slaughtered for it was the whalers that had returned year after year to the Antarctic? A massive cetacean mandible lay on the shore like a sun-bleached driftwood log. A waterboat crumbled, turned into mud, only its bow still intact. It was no longer needed to ferry fresh water to the blubber processing vessels. Explorers too came here when shelter from the seas were needed. Their legacy lay all around in the trail of names on islands, straits, bays and coves. The flag of the UK, the Union Jack snapped rhythmically in front of the reconstructed buildings of Base A, Operation Tabarin, a WWII scientific and possibly defensive installation. Skis and dog sleds stood silent, empty, stimulating memories of years of huskies and the mushers that ran behind leaving lines in the snow and in the detailed charts they created.
Bravely we slipped from the protected cove and sailed across the Gerlache Strait dipping behind islands and into bays seeking smooth calm waters. Andvord Bay offered just what we were after. Glaciers streamed down mountainsides straight into the sea, their rapid descent written on the rough rent upper surface. With fierce protesting roars they disintegrated into snow once more cascading into the sea as a powdery waterfall. At times they cast their progeny adrift to be sculpted, tilted and turned by the fluid medium upon which they rode. Our kayaks paddled amongst the bergs and Zodiacs did too.
Snow fell more heavily coating boats and jackets alike with a blanket of white. What insanity took hold in this wintry world? Someone's imagination must have seen palm trees and warm sandy beaches for why else would bathing-suit clad bodies have jumped into the sea? With the water temperature at twenty-nine degrees Fahrenheit, the swim party was far from silent and shrieks echoed far and wide. Wash away the old. Get ready for the new. Happy New Years everyone!
