Crossing the Scotia Sea
With eventide on New Year’s Eve came the National Geographic Explorer’s foray into the Scotia Sea. Leaving the protection of the Antarctic Peninsula, and heading directly into the maw of a body of water made famous by Sir Ernest Shackleton’s improbable and difficult crossing in a small boat roughly 95 years ago, it was only natural to fear the worst. However, such trepidation, though not unfounded considering the historical and meteorological record, was quickly allayed.
Shackleton should have had it so good. But then again, the story of one of the greatest pieces of open-boat navigation against all odds would not have had the teeth, the verve of high drama, the air of man-against-the-sea survival that so holds sway over the minds of lovers of good yarns and would-be explorers that it does today. King Neptune had granted us a reprieve, and the stage was set for some well-deserved reveling. At the toll of midnight, bell-ringing, loud cheer and cocktails had rung in the New Year, a celebration not only of a new calendar year, but of a successful exploration of the peninsula region of the great white continent and anticipation towards the fabled southern green isle of South Georgia.
The sights, sounds, and smells of Antarctica had left an indelible impression, one that soaked our spirits to the core with an overhanging and pervasive notion that Antarctica was a special place indeed – remote, raw, unbridled. Despite fine weather and the modern amenities that twenty-first technologies had brought to bear on our expedition, it is still a location that is one of the harshest and unforgiving on the globe, a place that grants folly no reprieve. During our celebration, common talk focused on the glories of scenes witnessed but also on the extraordinary fortitude of all creatures, great and small, that make Antarctica (clearly as harsh and forbidding an environment on Earth) their seasonal home, particularly the ones driven here by ancient and base biological urges to engage in the most sensitive of endeavors – reproduction.
Well out to open sea our ship found herself swaddled in gentle waters and bathed in the warmish gray light of a benevolent day. The National Geographic Explorer was making good and even time on her northeasterly course towards South Georgia. No need for tight grips on the ship’s handrails or cautious warnings from the Expedition Leader about walking on slippery outside decks. None of us were possessed of wobbly gaits or stomachs of unease as we moved along the ship’s corridors and engaged ourselves in the continuing series of Lindblad Expeditions (LEX) educational presentations and discussions. And most telling - the dining room was virtually full for all meals; this was a ‘cruise’ in every sense of the word.
The expanse of water we were in is famous, and has been since historical times, for the presence of great leviathans. For decades this area was plied by maverick sailors and profiteers eager to exploit the region’s whaling riches. Though such enterprises are not yet the domain of history, most visitors to these waters shoot cameras, not harpoons. Eyes were trained, and senses heightened, for the possibility of seeing one or more of the great rorquals – largest of all animals.
It wasn’t long before efforts were rewarded with words from Expedition Leader Matt Drennan: “Ladies and gentlemen, this is a message from the bridge. We have spotted a series of blows on the horizon, still some distance away. The blows are tall, and we’re not sure what type of whale yet. There are also a number of fur seals in the water around the ship. So perhaps it’s time to gird your loins, grab your binoculars and cameras, and come out on deck or to the bridge.”
In short time, a positive ID was made; we had a group of perhaps five or six finback whales, second largest animal on the planet. Fins are potentially fast whales when on the move. Spotting them is no guarantee of up-close viewing. These individuals appeared to be moving slowly. Once we were upon them they perused the strange blue and white steel behemoth in their midst, moving from one side of the vessel to the other. Back and forth from port to starboard and back to port they went, mere meters in front of the ship’s bow. This went on for about 20 minutes. Despite their great size they possess a streamlined appearance with long, dark, broad backs and semi-prominent dorsal fins set well aft. Even their diagnostically white ventral right sides were clearly visible through the crystal waters of the Scotia Sea. Like a fleet of Polaris-class submarines which had surfaced for a brief reconnoiter, they eventually moved on and disappeared back into the deep.
With eventide on New Year’s Eve came the National Geographic Explorer’s foray into the Scotia Sea. Leaving the protection of the Antarctic Peninsula, and heading directly into the maw of a body of water made famous by Sir Ernest Shackleton’s improbable and difficult crossing in a small boat roughly 95 years ago, it was only natural to fear the worst. However, such trepidation, though not unfounded considering the historical and meteorological record, was quickly allayed.
Shackleton should have had it so good. But then again, the story of one of the greatest pieces of open-boat navigation against all odds would not have had the teeth, the verve of high drama, the air of man-against-the-sea survival that so holds sway over the minds of lovers of good yarns and would-be explorers that it does today. King Neptune had granted us a reprieve, and the stage was set for some well-deserved reveling. At the toll of midnight, bell-ringing, loud cheer and cocktails had rung in the New Year, a celebration not only of a new calendar year, but of a successful exploration of the peninsula region of the great white continent and anticipation towards the fabled southern green isle of South Georgia.
The sights, sounds, and smells of Antarctica had left an indelible impression, one that soaked our spirits to the core with an overhanging and pervasive notion that Antarctica was a special place indeed – remote, raw, unbridled. Despite fine weather and the modern amenities that twenty-first technologies had brought to bear on our expedition, it is still a location that is one of the harshest and unforgiving on the globe, a place that grants folly no reprieve. During our celebration, common talk focused on the glories of scenes witnessed but also on the extraordinary fortitude of all creatures, great and small, that make Antarctica (clearly as harsh and forbidding an environment on Earth) their seasonal home, particularly the ones driven here by ancient and base biological urges to engage in the most sensitive of endeavors – reproduction.
Well out to open sea our ship found herself swaddled in gentle waters and bathed in the warmish gray light of a benevolent day. The National Geographic Explorer was making good and even time on her northeasterly course towards South Georgia. No need for tight grips on the ship’s handrails or cautious warnings from the Expedition Leader about walking on slippery outside decks. None of us were possessed of wobbly gaits or stomachs of unease as we moved along the ship’s corridors and engaged ourselves in the continuing series of Lindblad Expeditions (LEX) educational presentations and discussions. And most telling - the dining room was virtually full for all meals; this was a ‘cruise’ in every sense of the word.
The expanse of water we were in is famous, and has been since historical times, for the presence of great leviathans. For decades this area was plied by maverick sailors and profiteers eager to exploit the region’s whaling riches. Though such enterprises are not yet the domain of history, most visitors to these waters shoot cameras, not harpoons. Eyes were trained, and senses heightened, for the possibility of seeing one or more of the great rorquals – largest of all animals.
It wasn’t long before efforts were rewarded with words from Expedition Leader Matt Drennan: “Ladies and gentlemen, this is a message from the bridge. We have spotted a series of blows on the horizon, still some distance away. The blows are tall, and we’re not sure what type of whale yet. There are also a number of fur seals in the water around the ship. So perhaps it’s time to gird your loins, grab your binoculars and cameras, and come out on deck or to the bridge.”
In short time, a positive ID was made; we had a group of perhaps five or six finback whales, second largest animal on the planet. Fins are potentially fast whales when on the move. Spotting them is no guarantee of up-close viewing. These individuals appeared to be moving slowly. Once we were upon them they perused the strange blue and white steel behemoth in their midst, moving from one side of the vessel to the other. Back and forth from port to starboard and back to port they went, mere meters in front of the ship’s bow. This went on for about 20 minutes. Despite their great size they possess a streamlined appearance with long, dark, broad backs and semi-prominent dorsal fins set well aft. Even their diagnostically white ventral right sides were clearly visible through the crystal waters of the Scotia Sea. Like a fleet of Polaris-class submarines which had surfaced for a brief reconnoiter, they eventually moved on and disappeared back into the deep.
