Drake Passage
During the ‘heroic’ age of exploration, scientists, profiteers, and adventurers made way to the fabled white continent on barks, clipper ships, and even some vessels of unique design, strengthened and specially equipped and adapted for trials in the ice and upon some of the most treacherous waters on Earth. Certain of these vessels’ maverick leaders even had their ships fitted with amenities that allowed for degrees of individual privacy and comfort theretofore unknown to the early sealers and whalers who began plying the Southern Ocean’s chilly waters almost a century earlier.
Most of us had read the stories of such men, their names at the heart of southern adventure prose, storybook pillars of the early twentieth century’s exploits in and around Antarctica - their names synonymous with daring, heroism, and against-all-odds survival. Having decided to follow in their tracks a century later we had cast the choice born of personal inspirations or lunacy (as some friends and family would surmise) that would lead us there. But how? And with whom? In preparation for such an undertaking we had diligently done our homework, bought the appropriate gear, and gleaned the salient facts from books, the web, and the advice of others. Somewhere in the process we had shrewdly decided to embark upon such a venture under the guidance of Lindblad Expeditions and the National Geographic Society aboard their new flagship vessel, the National Geographic Explorer.
After the seemingly endless hours of mind-numbing travel through airports and on airplanes we had finally arrived at our floating home for the next ten days, a lavishly-constructed and sensibly-appointed expedition ship. Even though men like Jean-Baptiste Charcot, the great French explorer and ‘gentleman of the Antarctic’ had gone to visionary lengths to upgrade the interiors of his vessels the Francais and the Porquois-Pas? a century before us with the more civilized and technological advancements of his time, he could never have dreamed what the future held for both ships and industries operating in the Antarctic at the dawn of the next century. What followed were the products of spirited competition in private enterprise, pushing technological innovation to greater heights. Our ship is, at present, in the arena of expedition cruises, or adventure travel, the penultimate culmination of such thought and effort.
We spent the morning perusing our new home, familiarizing ourselves with the vessel and all she had to offer. Even a cursory examination revealed a class act, perhaps not a revolution in nautical design, but at least the most artful amalgam of interior ship architecture and state-of-the-art equipment married for a specific purpose. With more detailed examination came the realization that the National Geographic Explorer was clearly re-fitted with expedition in any clime in mind. The twin goals of discovery and exploration had guided the template of construction. The mud room, strategically located between the port and starboard sidegates and boot-washing stations, with its high school locker room feel, was a hit. The lounge with the latest in audio/visual technology was a far cry from older expedition vessels equipped with one screen for a slide show and one transportable speaker. And the staterooms – well they are the quality of a three-star hotel.
The Antarctic was still some sailing away, but comfortably ensconced in our new surroundings it was time to cast our collective gaze to the sea. Some of the region’s seasonal avian residents, which call Antarctica and the waters around it “home turf,” surrounded our vessel. Mix nearly perpetual daylight with nutrient-rich waters and the region has the basic recipe for high-productivity. The day was crisp and fresh with southern winds. Stepping out on deck, where our noses ran and skins tightened with cool temperatures, we could see what creatures called this realm ideal.
Prions and blue petrels wove erratic flights through the troughs of short-period swells. White-chinned petrels, large and uniformly dark-colored, moved back and forth across our stern in even lines of flight. Giant petrels (northern and southern) coursed around the entire vessel like opportunistic dinosaurs taken to the wing. But from all quarters, myriad species of albatrosses (black-brows, royals and wanderers), graceful and majestic, carved long-period figure-eight patterns of motion on invisible currents of air – unrivaled masters of dynamic soaring. As dusk began to settle and turn our sky to more vibrant shades of the visible portion of the electromagnetic spectrum, our aerial shepherds faded into the night.
We continued to sail ever southwards.
During the ‘heroic’ age of exploration, scientists, profiteers, and adventurers made way to the fabled white continent on barks, clipper ships, and even some vessels of unique design, strengthened and specially equipped and adapted for trials in the ice and upon some of the most treacherous waters on Earth. Certain of these vessels’ maverick leaders even had their ships fitted with amenities that allowed for degrees of individual privacy and comfort theretofore unknown to the early sealers and whalers who began plying the Southern Ocean’s chilly waters almost a century earlier.
Most of us had read the stories of such men, their names at the heart of southern adventure prose, storybook pillars of the early twentieth century’s exploits in and around Antarctica - their names synonymous with daring, heroism, and against-all-odds survival. Having decided to follow in their tracks a century later we had cast the choice born of personal inspirations or lunacy (as some friends and family would surmise) that would lead us there. But how? And with whom? In preparation for such an undertaking we had diligently done our homework, bought the appropriate gear, and gleaned the salient facts from books, the web, and the advice of others. Somewhere in the process we had shrewdly decided to embark upon such a venture under the guidance of Lindblad Expeditions and the National Geographic Society aboard their new flagship vessel, the National Geographic Explorer.
After the seemingly endless hours of mind-numbing travel through airports and on airplanes we had finally arrived at our floating home for the next ten days, a lavishly-constructed and sensibly-appointed expedition ship. Even though men like Jean-Baptiste Charcot, the great French explorer and ‘gentleman of the Antarctic’ had gone to visionary lengths to upgrade the interiors of his vessels the Francais and the Porquois-Pas? a century before us with the more civilized and technological advancements of his time, he could never have dreamed what the future held for both ships and industries operating in the Antarctic at the dawn of the next century. What followed were the products of spirited competition in private enterprise, pushing technological innovation to greater heights. Our ship is, at present, in the arena of expedition cruises, or adventure travel, the penultimate culmination of such thought and effort.
We spent the morning perusing our new home, familiarizing ourselves with the vessel and all she had to offer. Even a cursory examination revealed a class act, perhaps not a revolution in nautical design, but at least the most artful amalgam of interior ship architecture and state-of-the-art equipment married for a specific purpose. With more detailed examination came the realization that the National Geographic Explorer was clearly re-fitted with expedition in any clime in mind. The twin goals of discovery and exploration had guided the template of construction. The mud room, strategically located between the port and starboard sidegates and boot-washing stations, with its high school locker room feel, was a hit. The lounge with the latest in audio/visual technology was a far cry from older expedition vessels equipped with one screen for a slide show and one transportable speaker. And the staterooms – well they are the quality of a three-star hotel.
The Antarctic was still some sailing away, but comfortably ensconced in our new surroundings it was time to cast our collective gaze to the sea. Some of the region’s seasonal avian residents, which call Antarctica and the waters around it “home turf,” surrounded our vessel. Mix nearly perpetual daylight with nutrient-rich waters and the region has the basic recipe for high-productivity. The day was crisp and fresh with southern winds. Stepping out on deck, where our noses ran and skins tightened with cool temperatures, we could see what creatures called this realm ideal.
Prions and blue petrels wove erratic flights through the troughs of short-period swells. White-chinned petrels, large and uniformly dark-colored, moved back and forth across our stern in even lines of flight. Giant petrels (northern and southern) coursed around the entire vessel like opportunistic dinosaurs taken to the wing. But from all quarters, myriad species of albatrosses (black-brows, royals and wanderers), graceful and majestic, carved long-period figure-eight patterns of motion on invisible currents of air – unrivaled masters of dynamic soaring. As dusk began to settle and turn our sky to more vibrant shades of the visible portion of the electromagnetic spectrum, our aerial shepherds faded into the night.
We continued to sail ever southwards.
