Aitcho Island, South Shetland
We have had a charmed crossing of the notorious Drake Passage, blessed by good weather, and this morning still with our loyal escort of giant albatrosses. They followed us patiently, perhaps anxious we might get lost in the vastness of the Southern Ocean, at times even banking alongside the bridge to check that there was still someone at the helm. Understandable really, as there seemed to be more of us at the stern of the ship with cameras, trying in vain to catch the effortless grace of their aerial arabesque, a slow motion waltz on the winds that circle the globe down here at 60° South.
But all that changed with a cry of "Whales!" from the bridge which galvanised us all into a scramble for the bow. Dead ahead was a cannonade of tall bushy blows, then the hooked dorsal fins of a very active pod of fin whales. They ploughed in formation across our bows as we slowed to admire them: five tall spouts from different adults, and to our delight the puny puff of a young calf of the year. The excitement was building: next small groups of leaping penguins at the surface, then our first iceberg and by lunchtime islands in the mist. Land! Our first glimpse of Antarctica!
Now there was no stopping us. As the captain negotiated the treacherous reefs of English Strait, we were busy below decks climbing into long johns, fleeces, rainpants, gumboots, goggles and gloves to face salt spray and cold rain. South Shetland in late summer: you'd need to be a penguin to even think of coming here for a holiday. But once our eager feet hit the black volcanic gravel beach of Aitcho, it was pure magic all the way. Chinstrap penguins cackled from the slopes, skua thugs menaced a lone Gentoo penguin parent with a late chick, giant petrels cruised through like huge planes and fur seals surfed in the shallows. But it was the gentoo chicks which won our hearts: on the back slope out of the wind, these curious youngsters trotted up to us, pecking at straps or leggings, trying to work out who might donate a cropful of krill. With wide brown eyes, soggy grey and white tracksuits and floppy flippers they know nothing of the harsh world they must master in the next month. Little do they know those limp limbs will soon drive them deep into the frozen seas where krill swarms and leopard seals lurk.
Then, just when we thought it was safe to go back into the lounge, Tom called us back up for a breaching humpback whale. A lone female with her high-spirited calf allowed us to drift alongside and then laid on a complete evening cabaret of tail clapping, surface pirouettes and full breach against a distant rainbow. Both took their final bow and curtain call right alongside National Geographic Endeavour and a spellbound audience.
We have had a charmed crossing of the notorious Drake Passage, blessed by good weather, and this morning still with our loyal escort of giant albatrosses. They followed us patiently, perhaps anxious we might get lost in the vastness of the Southern Ocean, at times even banking alongside the bridge to check that there was still someone at the helm. Understandable really, as there seemed to be more of us at the stern of the ship with cameras, trying in vain to catch the effortless grace of their aerial arabesque, a slow motion waltz on the winds that circle the globe down here at 60° South.
But all that changed with a cry of "Whales!" from the bridge which galvanised us all into a scramble for the bow. Dead ahead was a cannonade of tall bushy blows, then the hooked dorsal fins of a very active pod of fin whales. They ploughed in formation across our bows as we slowed to admire them: five tall spouts from different adults, and to our delight the puny puff of a young calf of the year. The excitement was building: next small groups of leaping penguins at the surface, then our first iceberg and by lunchtime islands in the mist. Land! Our first glimpse of Antarctica!
Now there was no stopping us. As the captain negotiated the treacherous reefs of English Strait, we were busy below decks climbing into long johns, fleeces, rainpants, gumboots, goggles and gloves to face salt spray and cold rain. South Shetland in late summer: you'd need to be a penguin to even think of coming here for a holiday. But once our eager feet hit the black volcanic gravel beach of Aitcho, it was pure magic all the way. Chinstrap penguins cackled from the slopes, skua thugs menaced a lone Gentoo penguin parent with a late chick, giant petrels cruised through like huge planes and fur seals surfed in the shallows. But it was the gentoo chicks which won our hearts: on the back slope out of the wind, these curious youngsters trotted up to us, pecking at straps or leggings, trying to work out who might donate a cropful of krill. With wide brown eyes, soggy grey and white tracksuits and floppy flippers they know nothing of the harsh world they must master in the next month. Little do they know those limp limbs will soon drive them deep into the frozen seas where krill swarms and leopard seals lurk.
Then, just when we thought it was safe to go back into the lounge, Tom called us back up for a breaching humpback whale. A lone female with her high-spirited calf allowed us to drift alongside and then laid on a complete evening cabaret of tail clapping, surface pirouettes and full breach against a distant rainbow. Both took their final bow and curtain call right alongside National Geographic Endeavour and a spellbound audience.
