We have captured the colors of her depths, breathed in her wild perfumes, walked across her spectacular contours, been shaped by her weather. But perhaps Antarctica's greatest beauty is indeed skin-deep. For across the sea, her skin, lie her most memorable features.
Here ice moves like a pack of ragged albino wolves. This morning it crept in ever thickening force around us as we stood on the continent, on the volcanic terrain of Cape Burd. Here too pack ice so immense that it turns Antarctica's entire face a solid white. This afternoon we nosed our ship into a giant piece over 2 miles across, drifting in the Prince Gustav channel. Incredibly, we were able to set up a gangway that enabled the guests to walk out of the tender entrance and straight onto the ice. Dozens of footsteps criss-crossed frozen animal tracks. Galley staff served hot chocolate while guests crafted a snowman. Adelie penguins tobogganed as the ROV was lowered. And a river of red parkas bled to the edge of the ice where the kayaking platform awaited.
If the sea is indeed Antarctica's skin, to paddle across it in a kayak must be the most intimate experience of all. Far from the panting of Zodiac engines, the humming of the ship, the calling of the guests, the whirring of cameras and general flurry of activity, the kayak enables you to slip into her sighing silence. Inside, the only sounds are those of your partner's body shifting against the rubber, and the dipping of each paddle. Outside, water dripping from shining icicles, penguin bodies belly-flopping, distant calving of glaciers. There is an infinite sense of space: above, below and all around. There is a unique sense of solitude: fellow humans vanish from the picture, and for an hour or so you can believe you are alone. And there is a perspective unlike any other: only centimeters from the surface of the sea, icebergs tower above you, their undersides shine like enormous emeralds just out of reach, and seals look you straight in the eye.
Standing again on the pack ice, I watched as the crane raised the kayaks back to their resting place on the top deck. A gentle wind moved like a powder puff, dusting soft snow across the frozen face. Later that evening as the sounds, smells and sights of the ship embraced us once more, what I was most aware of was the ache in my arms.
The last reminder of my own private passage across Antarctica's skin.
Here ice moves like a pack of ragged albino wolves. This morning it crept in ever thickening force around us as we stood on the continent, on the volcanic terrain of Cape Burd. Here too pack ice so immense that it turns Antarctica's entire face a solid white. This afternoon we nosed our ship into a giant piece over 2 miles across, drifting in the Prince Gustav channel. Incredibly, we were able to set up a gangway that enabled the guests to walk out of the tender entrance and straight onto the ice. Dozens of footsteps criss-crossed frozen animal tracks. Galley staff served hot chocolate while guests crafted a snowman. Adelie penguins tobogganed as the ROV was lowered. And a river of red parkas bled to the edge of the ice where the kayaking platform awaited.
If the sea is indeed Antarctica's skin, to paddle across it in a kayak must be the most intimate experience of all. Far from the panting of Zodiac engines, the humming of the ship, the calling of the guests, the whirring of cameras and general flurry of activity, the kayak enables you to slip into her sighing silence. Inside, the only sounds are those of your partner's body shifting against the rubber, and the dipping of each paddle. Outside, water dripping from shining icicles, penguin bodies belly-flopping, distant calving of glaciers. There is an infinite sense of space: above, below and all around. There is a unique sense of solitude: fellow humans vanish from the picture, and for an hour or so you can believe you are alone. And there is a perspective unlike any other: only centimeters from the surface of the sea, icebergs tower above you, their undersides shine like enormous emeralds just out of reach, and seals look you straight in the eye.
Standing again on the pack ice, I watched as the crane raised the kayaks back to their resting place on the top deck. A gentle wind moved like a powder puff, dusting soft snow across the frozen face. Later that evening as the sounds, smells and sights of the ship embraced us once more, what I was most aware of was the ache in my arms.
The last reminder of my own private passage across Antarctica's skin.
