My Antarctic travels reveal more than the differences between Weddell and Leopard seals. Or, how Gentoo penguins care for their young. My Antarctic travels reveal the power of the wind. And how much of an iceberg we really see floating above the water’s surface. Antarctica evokes awe. I discover anything can happen in Antarctica—which is exactly the way it should be. Wondering about how to travel to Antarctica? Read on.
A humpback whale breaks the water’s inky surface. Remains of barnacles, those ubiquitous ocean hitchhikers, appear on its bulbous body. Thirty feet from my sea kayak, I see its dorsal fin and tail disappear into the sea as if caught in slow motion. An iceberg provides a striking background to its dripping fluke. It takes a deep dive and I nervously wonder where and when it will resurface.
I’m in Antarctica, the most extreme place on Earth. A humpback whale is swimming directly beneath me. Justifiably, I’m a little nervous, but mainly I feel at peace.
The idea of Antarctica
I can’t recall what inspires my Antarctic travels. But it will surely have to do with a combination of three things I crave: adventure, wildlife, and a desire to go places before everyone else gets there.
I ask Rick, my 78-year-old stepfather if he’d like to join me. The conversation goes something like this: “Rick, do you want to go to Ant—”
“YES!”
I could well have been asking Rick to go to Antwerp. Rick is up for anything, which is one of the reasons I ask him. He doesn’t bat an eye. Antarctica, Antwerp, Antigua. He’s in.
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Antarctic Travels: Quark’s Ultramarine
There are two ways to get to Antarctica—by airplane or by ship. Ships typically depart from the southernmost tip of Argentina, from a city named Ushuaia. I choose Quark Expeditions’ ultra-modern, Ultramarine. Quark has decades of experience in polar travel. Their two-year-old Ultramarine has a maximum capacity of 199 guests. It’s purpose-built for polar travel and is purely expedition-based. These two factors weigh heavily in my decision.
Purpose-built means the ship was designed from scratch in order to handle polar conditions. Expedition-based means the trip is all about wildlife, excursions, and the environment. No cringe-y nightly shows or formal dinners.
Base Camp
The Ultramarine is the equivalent of a mountain climber’s base camp. It has everything we need to stay safe, keep warm, and be well-fed on our daily adventures. For instance, Deck 2 has two ready rooms where each guest has a personal cubby for outdoor gear, life-saving equipment, and muck boots. Deck 2 is designed to fast-launch twenty Zodiac boats that shuttle intrepid explorers around the sea with the speed and precision of a military operation.
Deck 5 is where to find the main restaurant, Balena. Balena’s ever-changing menu has options from fresh tuna to filet mignon. It also has a daily ice cream station where the chef recreates my childhood fave—the Chipwich. There is no all-day buffet, but I can promise that no one on the Ultramarine goes hungry.
Deck 8 has two twin-engine helicopters used for flight-seeing, heli-trekking, and heli-landings. Deck 7 has features designed for self-care—a sauna with floor-to-ceiling windows, and the aptly named Tundra spa. Bistro 487 and the Panorama Lounge are also on Deck 7—with spaces designed for maximum relaxation between excursions.
Antarctic Eco-Matters
Quark Expeditions has a strong sustainability and eco-conscious mindset. They care about the planet and show it. A few examples include the lack of single-use plastic on board the Ultramarine. Instead, guests are given two soft water bladders that can be refilled at stations throughout the ship. The boat is practically paperless. Computer displays on each deck outline the day’s events and an onboard phone app provides instant access to information.
Our muck boots are disinfected after each polar landing so as not to spread avian flu. For the same reason, we aren’t allowed to kneel or place any equipment on the continent during excursions. The group of crazy (I mean, adventurous) explorers who sign up to sleep one night on the continent are only allowed to take a sleeping bag. No food. No drinks. And no tents. They are told not to pee on the continent, either. How this played out is anyone’s guess.
Quark has its eco-mindset firmly set. It also has a team of expedition guides I want to be when I grow up.
Explorers Wanted
Our Expedition Leader is named Abbey. Along with the Captain, she’s in charge of, well—everything. Abbey wakes us from our polar slumber each morning via the PA system. Each evening she (and the team) presents a recap of the day’s events and a briefing for the following day’s Antarctic travels.
Abbey’s sentences often begin with ‘If conditions allow…’ or ‘We are hoping to…’. This isn’t because Abbey is ill-informed. It’s because from day to day no one but Mother Nature knows quite what the Antarctic has in store. If this doesn’t pique your interest, perhaps Antarctica is best visited from your couch with David Attenborough and the BBC.
For example, the day we are due to explore Hidden Bay, Mother Nature decides to deny us entry by creating winds the Ultramarine can’t battle. A humbling moment like this makes each day a true adventure in Antarctica. It also makes it difficult to be Abbey.
Antarctic Travels: The Ultramarine Dream Team
The Expedition Team is a multifaceted group of explorers. Fabrice is Ultramarine’s ornithology presenter. He is also a biologist, a children’s picture book author, and a skillful Zodiac driver. Michelle is the onboard photography guide. She is also a trained field guide and fluent in Spanish, French, Catalan, and the Queen’s English—a bonus for many European and South American passengers.
Ross is a 26-year-old British historian. He treats polar history with the gusto of a Broadway performer on opening night. History was my least favorite subject in school (sorry, Ross), yet I’m riveted by every talk he gives. I go to the lounge early for a front-row seat to his Shackleton presentation. I’m not the only one. Ross has a talent for storytelling that goes well beyond his years.
The expertise and unity of the crew, expedition team, expedition leader, and captain (140 people strong) are critical to the journey’s success. When I spend ten hours in my cabin on lockdown due to a category of wind just shy of hurricane strength, I want to know that my fate is in the hands of experts. That way I can best enjoy my pan-seared Dover sole with lemon and couscous while watching The Secret Life of Walter Mitty on my flat-screen TV without a trace of anxiety.
Cabin Fever
My room is big—only marginally smaller than my first studio apartment in NYC, and with more closet space. The bathroom is modern with an oversized mirrored vanity, a walk-in shower, and heated floors that are perfect for drying wet gloves or hats overnight. While built-in bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and body wash containers are in line with the no single-use plastic model, it also means nothing is falling off the shower ledge as we cruise through Antarctic waters.
Cabin 325 has a large picture window facing the sea nearly at sea level. I’m on Deck 3, the lowest deck for cabins, and I like the view more than I anticipated. I sit in the deep window frame with a pillow each night to watch the sea for whales and the sky for birds. I count wandering albatrosses, storm petrels, and Antarctic prions as the sun sets. January is summer in Antarctica, so it stays light well after I’ve gone to bed.
This window is a backstage pass to Antarctica’s glory. I don’t even need to leave my room to experience it.
The Drake Passage, Part 1
The Drake Passage is infamous. These three words conjure up age-old explorers, choppy, turbulent waters, epic winds, and crushing waves. In the factual sense, the Drake Passage is the shortest route from civilization to Antarctica. It’s 620 miles wide, and over 11,000 feet deep, with water passing through it at up to 200 million cubic yards per second. I’m not one for numbers, but that sounds pretty intense. In the abstract sense, the Drake Passage is one of the most thrilling and exclusive adventures on the planet.
I lift my gaze towards the open sea as we leave the safety of the Beagle Channel. Who knows what awaits—which is another part of the adventure of Antarctic travel. Waves gently roll for hundreds of miles with nothing to break their undulating stride. Our two-day passage proves to be eerily calm—an extreme often referred to as the Drake Lake. Guests toast the sea gods with another cocktail. And another.
None of us think about the fact that we will have to come back. It’s just as well.
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Outside, it’s Antarctica
It’s 630am. I race to my cabin window. A world of polar white greets me. I stumble as I get dressed. I grab my binoculars, camera, and heated vest. It may be early, but the rattle and hum of the ship are palpable. The combined energy of 136 toddlers waking up on Christmas morning. I’m afraid if I waste even one moment, Antarctica might disappear.
We have arrived at Hughes Bay, which lies along the west coast of the Antarctic Peninsula. It’s 26 miles long and may or may not have been the site of Antarctica’s first mainland landing in 1821. None of this means anything to me right now. I’m taking my first polar breaths and catching the first polar breezes on my cheeks. I’m awe-struck by the first windswept, snow-covered landscapes of Antarctica.
Sixty seconds elapse before I see a glossy humpback whale leisurely swimming off the ship’s bow. I’m stunned into silence. I’m not alone.
Antarctica is otherworldly
How can one render the vastness and otherworldliness of Antarctica? A photographer can capture it on film, but depth of field limitations are a hindrance. An artist can draw it but is bound by the edges of the canvas. I’m visual by nature, tied permanently to my camera. But try as I might, the only way I can describe it is through sound.
I hear the rhythm of waves propelling and releasing icebergs, whales trumpeting, and wind whistling. I hear the ice cracking, the deafening echo of ice shelves calving, and distant avalanches roaring. The ship keels and creaks.
I close my eyes—humbled and ever-so-slightly afraid. It dawns on me just how far I am from home, my kids, and my husband. At 7am, Abbey’s voice rings across the ship. It’s time to get breakfast and suit up for the Zodiacs.
Antarctica, we have arrived.
Antarctic Travels: A typical day is never typical
“Tern!”, shouts Fabrice, with the enthusiasm other guides use when spotting whales. Fabrice is all about the birds. Our Zodiac group looks up in unison to see a snow-white Antarctic Tern glide overhead. It looks like it’s wearing a black cap and red lipstick. Anyone who ignores birds in Antarctica is missing out.
A typical day in Antarctica is never typical. The two daily excursions that await us may be by Zodiac, sea kayak, stand-up paddle, or helicopter. The excursions take anywhere from 2-4 hours depending upon how sidetracked the guides get chasing spy-hopping whales or a raft of penguins. This leaves little room for downtime. We eat, have coffee, suit up, and get back out on the water. This is not a leisure cruise, mind you.
Above and below the surface of Antarctica
Each of the 136 passengers on the Ultramarine is invited to take a 15-minute heli-flight. Having two helicopters on board is a perk exclusive to the ship. The opportunity to see Antarctica from above is a total thrill. By the end of the expedition, I’ll have racked up multiple vantage points from which I experience it. Above sea level, at sea level, and below sea level. (The below-sea-level experience is fleeting, not to mention numbing.)
One evening, Abbey alerts us to a trio of orcas off the starboard side of the ship. Their dorsal fins and tell-tale black and white torpedo-shaped bodies bring a hush over the crowd. At 10pm, the sun is still high in the sky. A rose-tinted light is cast over the snowy mountain range and is mirrored on the rippling water.
One day we spot a Weddell Seal dozing on a teetering tabular iceberg. He yawns and scratches his long, dove-gray whiskered face. He raises a fin in acknowledgment. We respond with a hundred continuous SLR clicks. Photoshoot complete, he returns to his nap. Anything can happen in Antarctica, and everyone wants to capture it.
Sea Kayaking, For The Win
Rick and I are two of only sixteen passengers who are part of the sea kayaking program. We sign up for it the day we put down our deposit and count ourselves lucky for having secured a coveted spot. I’m not exaggerating when I say 120 passengers are jealous of us each day we put on our dry suits.
“How different can it be from the Zodiacs?”, you may wonder. In a word, very. Kayaks are stealthy, quiet, provide legitimate exercise, and are solo (or tandem) endeavors. In a kayak, we are even closer to the sea, the ice, and the wildlife.
We kayak through small, bergy bits (a technical term I learn from our fearless guides, DT and Sarah) and larger growlers. DT tells us we only ever see about 10% of an iceberg above the water’s surface. I have an a-ha moment about the idiom, ‘That’s just the tip of the iceberg…’ I’m guessing most people don’t have to go to Antarctica to learn.
Taking our time on our Antarctic Travels
I watch the sun eke its way through dense, gray cloud cover—savoring the landscape while Rick paddles. In case you’re concerned about Rick’s welfare, this arrangement has been pre-organized. Rick paddles and I take pictures. That’s the deal. Plus, he’s an excellent kayaker. He went to sleepaway camp for 30 years.
Despite Camp Chickawah’s tutelage, DT has to adjust Rick’s foot pedals in the middle of the sea. Twice. I channel inner peace and exhale. DT is surprisingly patient—a big Aussie that none of us wants to disappoint. So if DT isn’t in a rush, neither am I. Pedals locked in place, we catch up to the rest of the kayakers.
A sharp breath escapes from a humpback’s blowhole. Before I can blink, the whale is before us, nearly upon us, and then underneath us. One hundred Ultramarine guests on land with binoculars are oozing with jealousy. Anything can happen in Antarctica, as every day continues to prove.
A collection of penguins
I geek out on collective nouns for animals. Don’t judge. For instance, a group of puffins is called a circus and a group of jaguars is called a shadow. Imagine my delight to learn the collective nouns of penguins! Bear with me, you’ll love this.
The collective nouns of penguins are determined by where they are and what they are doing! Colonies of penguins are the most commonly known term for a group of penguins, but huddles and rookeries are others. Walking penguins are called a ‘waddle’ and swimming penguins are called a ‘raft’. Am I the only one who loves this stuff? Fabrice?
We see three of the four types of penguins that live in Antarctica; Gentoo, Adélie, and Chinstrap. In January, the Emperor Penguins are further inland. I push away my disappointment and enjoy the 100,000 penguins at hand. Or, should I say, at my feet.
The Penguin Highways of Antarctica
Our Zodiac landings allow us to walk alongside and observe these fascinating creatures. Penguins are the only animal on Earth that look cuter as adults than as babies. Our two hours on Danco Island are an introduction to penguin life I’ll never forget. And that’s not only because it smells so bad.
On Danco’s rocky shoreline, Gentoo penguins waddle as far as the eye can see. They build nests by brazenly stealing their neighbor’s rocks. Then they squawk at the same neighbor who steals the rocks back. They create convenient paths along the steep mountains to waddle up and belly-slide down—penguin highways. Our guides tell us that penguins always have the right of way. No one argues.
Gentoos have orange bills, a white triangular patch on their otherwise black heads, and are inherently curious. We are asked to stay 15 feet from them, but every time I turn around I find one staring up at me quizzically.
On another penguin landing, we observe (and by observe I mean take 4000 photos of) the slightly smaller Chinstraps. Chinstraps are defined by a black stripe that runs across their throat. There are four million breeding pairs of these feisty little penguins throughout the Antarctic. We see most of them.
The Adélie Penguins are the smallest (and cutest!) of the Antarctic penguin species. Adélies have a white ring around their eyes and a mostly feather-covered bill. Nothing sums up cuteness like a waddle of Adélies balancing on a rocking iceberg before they take the polar plunge. There you go—a fine intro to Antarctic penguins. You’re welcome.
Antarctic Travels are about one thing
In Antarctica, it’s all about the wildlife, but it’s also all about the ice, and the landscape. Let’s agree that it’s all intertwined. I allow for transcendental moments every day. I’m spoiled by them.
Today we see a raft of penguins! Today we watch an enormous ice shelf topple dramatically into the sea! Today we pass through the narrow Lemaire Passage! Today we see orcas hunt a humpback! Today I purposely throw myself into the ocean! Antarctica is a world of hyperbole! I can’t use enough exclamation points to make my point!
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The Drake Passage, Part 2
It’s immediately clear our return crossing will not be another Drake Lake. For a start, Abbey announces we’re heading back a ‘touch’ earlier than planned. At dinner, plates rattle and waiters weave around unstable guests. There are far fewer diners in the restaurant than usual. A telling sign.
Despite deteriorating conditions, those who can, party on. We have drinks at the bar and eventually head off to count Gentoo penguins in our sleep. Throughout the night, the waves and wind increase in severity.
By 9am, it’s obvious we’re in for a wild ride. I’m struggling a little to get to the Panorama Lounge for a much-needed shot of caffeine when Abbey pipes up over the PA system. “For everyone’s safety, we will be on cabin lockdown for the next ten hours. But fear not, all is well!”, she says energetically. “Room service will be coming around shortly.”
Satisfied with my marching orders, I get into my cushy robe and enjoy a movie marathon that involves a Sir Edmund Hillary documentary (but I hate history, Ross!) and The Life Of Pi. I look out the window at what I later learn are 30-foot waves. The wind strength moves the needle to 11 on the Beaufort Wind Scale. A scale that maxes out at (what I also later learn) is 12. We are one notch shy of hurricane-strength winds. In Antarctica, anything can happen. I remind myself that this is what I signed up for. I hope Rick did, too.
Surviving The Drake Shake
Do some passengers despise the passage? Definitely. Do some get sick? Ummmm yes. But do we all agree it’s a right of (Drake) passage? Well, I haven’t taken a formal poll, but yes, let’s agree!
Eventually, we round Cape Horn, and the waters still. We’re allowed to leave the cabins. Feeling like released hostages, we toast the sea gods (yet again) and behave like we’ve weathered something really big.
Indeed, we have.
Processing Antarctica
I visit my sister a few days after my Antarctic travels. When I wake up at 630am, it’s still dark outside. The sun slowly rises as I head north. Puffy clouds in the distance take me back to the whipped cream peaks of Antarctica. The currents beneath the Delaware Memorial Bridge remind me of kayaking with Rick.
I see a bird swoop overhead and think “Tern!”, channeling my inner Fabrice. But alas, it’s a turkey vulture circling roadkill over the NJ Turnpike.
Over the next two hours, my mind processes the vast, otherwordly continent I left behind. I recall the passengers who I befriended and the crew from who I learned so much. I think of the sky, mountains, and sea. The seals and penguins.
And of course, the whales.
I’m home. Far from the most extreme place on Earth, but brimming with endless reminders of an awe-inspiring journey. In Antarctica, anything can happen. And that’s fine with me.
Have a question about Antarctic travel? Or any travel, for that matter?
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Trip of a lifetime, Jamie! This is amazing!
SIGN ME UP!
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