Telefon Bay, Deception Island (62° 56', 60° 41') – 7/1/18 11:30pm
Watching the Chinstrap Penguins today was like watching a soap opera,
but with far more deadly consequences. The chicks were one to three
weeks old, fluffy and very cuddly looking. Returning penguins display
and call to their mates and enter into noisy, mutual displays before
handing over responsibilities for the two chicks. Nesting birds squabble
with their neighbours – seemingly over pebbles for the nest, social
space or just irritating behaviour. Sometimes the squabbles extended
beyond squawking and vicious fights developed with pecking and wing
flapping until the offender was driven from the colony.
Life is not easy for penguins. Returning from the sea after their
40km fishing trip the penguins porpoise in towards shore in schools to
run the gauntlet past patrolling leopard seals. We watched as a seal
caught and then shook a penguin out of its skin, all the better to
gobble down the good bits. The seals may be slower but they have a big
advantage as landing on shore is not easy. The penguins have to time
their landing on the rocks to match the swells and then pop out and
hopefully land upright on the rocks. From here it's a steep climb up to
the rookery and the penguins jump and waddle up the ramp in order to
regurgitate their feed of krill for the youngsters. Walking is not their
strong suit: it's a matter of waddling, flapping and the occasional hop
to beat an undignified file up the hill.
Just as bad as the leopard seals are the ever-vigilant skuas, a nasty
larger form of gull with very little in the way of manners. They are
always flying overhead like angels of death, on the lookout for
unguarded eggs, defenceless babies or even just a weak adult on its own.
If they come anywhere near the colony, the penguins join forces to flap
and peck the intruder away, and the penguin can be vicious despite it's
cute reputation.
Observing the daily life of a penguin makes one think – what would a
visitor think of the daily life of an Antarctic sailing tourist? Our
group of nine is not exactly in its natural element (with a few
exceptions), but we have been adapting well to the pressures of 'boat
life'. The main challenge is dealing with the extremely limited space
and avoiding constantly stepping on each other's toes.
A fundamental principle is that of "pass me the…" or "would you mind
just doing the…". There is so little room to move around in the cabin
that if everyone were to grab whatever they needed or to do the small
thing that needed to be done (the usual, and generally efficient, way of
life at home), we would never get anything done. As a result, if you can
see someone closer to the thing that you need or the small task that
needs to be done, you must ask them without any shame to grab it/do it
for you. Indeed, employing this rule is a virtue, not a sign of sloth.
A few other general points about 'boat life'. Fresh water is extremely
limited, consisting of only the supply we took on board in Ushuaia plus
whatever we make ourselves (using the water desalting machine onboard).
Despite what you might think a water desalting machine doesn't mean
unlimited water – it uses fuel (another rapidly expendable resource) and
isn't amazingly fast. The upshot is that we use salt water whenever we
can: to cook the pasta, the clean the dishes, and to wash our gear. And
for the rest, we use as little fresh water as we can. Taps are never
left running into the drain for any decent period of time, fresh running
showers are non-existent (we use bursts of water at a time to sud up and
rinse down), and in general we try to drink as much of the stuff as we can.
Specific to our climate are a few features. The sun sets at about 11pm
where we are and gets up again at 4am, and as a result we have vast
quantities of daylight hours for activities. This means we have to be
careful to maintain a semblance of routine to avoid becoming uncivilised
– there are very few external cues to tell you to have lunch or to get
ready for bed. Things are definitely getting easier now that we are at
anchor and off the watch system (for now).
Another aspect of Antarctican life is the cold. Sometimes we are treated
to a balmy day, equivalent to a dubious Wellington winter day with a bit
of a gale, and sometimes it's dark, freezing and wholly unfriendly.
Particularly at night, the temperatures drop to single figures or below,
and as a consequence we often sleep rugged up in sleeping bags with a
few pieces of clothing on. Normal shoes wouldn't cut it, so we wear
Crocs or similar on board (insulated gumboots outside while sailing) and
good tramping boots with multiple pairs of socks out on land.
Tomorrow we pick up the kayaks from the cruise ship that has transported
them down for us, and we might manage to fit in a decadent hot pool –
not on board, but on shore, in one of the geothermally heated tidal
pools that are common here on Deception Island. It's sometimes hard to
remember that we are anchored in the crater of an active volcano
sometimes, but two scientific bases were destroyed by eruptions in 1967
and 1969, and the bay we are rested in didn't even exist before then!
Ross/Liam
