St Andrew's Bay & Grytviken
The day began with a dazzling sunrise, bathing South Georgia’s snow-clad peaks in gold. A faint rainbow appeared beyond St. Andrew’s Bay, then grew brighter, another herald of what was to be a memorable day.
Many of those in our midst are serious birders, and the bay rewarded them with the sight of 160,000 or more King penguin pairs. Committees of resplendent Kings awaited us on the beach and others cavorted in the surf as the Zodiacs arrived after a rollicking ride in a stiff wind. Soon we were tramping down the beach to a broad estuarial area and up expansive slopes where masses of Kings congregated, white chests agleam in the morning sun. No other stop on our journey has yielded such awesome penguin numbers. Farther inland, a scattering of reindeer—descended from animals brought to the islands by Norwegian whalers in 1911—added yet another dimension to the amazing wildlife scene.
A late morning lecture by naturalist Ian Bullock illuminated the remarkable attributes of the penguin, which possesses extreme garb for extreme conditions and, though unable to fly, is beautifully adapted to swimming and diving.
The National Geographic Endeavour departed St. Andrew’s Bay in late morning and in early afternoon dropped anchor by the old whaling station of Grytviken, where 15 persons dwell amid a vast assortment of rusting tanks, furnaces and beached hulks. The sky turned somber and the wind bore stinging sleet as we trudged up to the Whaler’s Cemetery, final resting place of Ernest Shackleton, courageous captain of the ill-fated Antarctic expedition that set out in 1914 in the Endurance. On a later mission to the Antarctic, Shackleton died in Grytviken in 1922. Ian Bullock paid tribute to the commander in a brief ceremony beside his grave, and David Barnes led a toast to Shackleton with what he described as the proper libation, Bushmills’ Irish whiskey. “Leave a few drops in your cups to pour on his grave,” David urged us, “so that he won’t feel the cold.” We obliged.
Grytviken’s museum offered a fascinating look at the tools of the whaling trade. Some of us wandered into the wooden Norwegian church which has stood in Grytviken since 1913. Barney Finch, our musician, sat down at the foot-pumped organ and soon the sanctuary filled with hymns—a sweet ending to this Palm Sunday spent in one of the world’s loneliest places.
The day began with a dazzling sunrise, bathing South Georgia’s snow-clad peaks in gold. A faint rainbow appeared beyond St. Andrew’s Bay, then grew brighter, another herald of what was to be a memorable day.
Many of those in our midst are serious birders, and the bay rewarded them with the sight of 160,000 or more King penguin pairs. Committees of resplendent Kings awaited us on the beach and others cavorted in the surf as the Zodiacs arrived after a rollicking ride in a stiff wind. Soon we were tramping down the beach to a broad estuarial area and up expansive slopes where masses of Kings congregated, white chests agleam in the morning sun. No other stop on our journey has yielded such awesome penguin numbers. Farther inland, a scattering of reindeer—descended from animals brought to the islands by Norwegian whalers in 1911—added yet another dimension to the amazing wildlife scene.
A late morning lecture by naturalist Ian Bullock illuminated the remarkable attributes of the penguin, which possesses extreme garb for extreme conditions and, though unable to fly, is beautifully adapted to swimming and diving.
The National Geographic Endeavour departed St. Andrew’s Bay in late morning and in early afternoon dropped anchor by the old whaling station of Grytviken, where 15 persons dwell amid a vast assortment of rusting tanks, furnaces and beached hulks. The sky turned somber and the wind bore stinging sleet as we trudged up to the Whaler’s Cemetery, final resting place of Ernest Shackleton, courageous captain of the ill-fated Antarctic expedition that set out in 1914 in the Endurance. On a later mission to the Antarctic, Shackleton died in Grytviken in 1922. Ian Bullock paid tribute to the commander in a brief ceremony beside his grave, and David Barnes led a toast to Shackleton with what he described as the proper libation, Bushmills’ Irish whiskey. “Leave a few drops in your cups to pour on his grave,” David urged us, “so that he won’t feel the cold.” We obliged.
Grytviken’s museum offered a fascinating look at the tools of the whaling trade. Some of us wandered into the wooden Norwegian church which has stood in Grytviken since 1913. Barney Finch, our musician, sat down at the foot-pumped organ and soon the sanctuary filled with hymns—a sweet ending to this Palm Sunday spent in one of the world’s loneliest places.
