From there we wandered through the ruins of the old whaling station. Approaching the edge of the grouping of buildings, we were surprised to find a sailboat tied up at an old whaler's dock. Tim and Pauline Carr greeted us warmly. They had sailed all the way to South Georgia Island from England on their small craft. The boat appeared impossibly small (only ten or twelve meters in length) to have made that long journey. They invited us to come aboard, and Pauline shared some harrowing stories of her own encounters with the fur seals, confessing that she had taken to carrying a big stick when she hiked around the island. Brandishing the stick usually discouraged an attack, but not always. "Last week I was walking down the beach, and this big brute lumbered up and grabbed the business end of my staff in his mouth. We played tug-of-war for quite a few moments, but he finally let go." She warned us about beaches farther along the coast where the really big herds of fur seal were entrenched. "Two sea kayakers came here a few months ago, after paddling back from Hound Bay. They tried to make camp there for the night, but the seals were so aggressive they had to get back in their kayaks and paddle on to another beach."
We returned to our kayak and paddled northward along the rocky, corrugated shoreline that stretched northward beyond Grytviken cove. As we approached each beach, we could smell the distinctive, heady aroma of sea animals that feed on a diet of fish and krill. Almost every landing spot we found was packed with penguins and herds of fur seals. We paddled back to the Shuleykin before dark. The ship weighed anchor and moved farther down the coast during the night.
For the next three days we explored the protected eastern side of the island, launching each morning and paddling the most interesting stretches of the rugged shoreline. Having unladen boats made it easy to land and launch on the steep, rocky beaches. After paddling all day in the biting cold, it was a relief to return to the haven of the Shuleykin each night. A hot sauna and a warm meal seemed preferable to remaining ashore in the midst of the territorial fur seals after dark.
One morning when a moderate swell was running, Jonathan capsized in the icy water during an attempt to launch from the mother ship. After ducking back into his cabin for a dry pair of socks, he got back in his kayak and launched successfully. "That water was a bit cold," he admitted later. "But I'm glad it happened here, within easy reach of my dry cabin, and not in Greenland where Olaf and I camped out of our kayaks continuously for ten days."
The next day we entered a large, sweeping inlet named St. Andrews Bay. A mile or so of broad beach swept around to rocky points at either side, bisected by a large, silt-colored stream that rushed from the mountains above, down to the sea. Dozens of fur and elephant seals guarded all but a small section of the beach, but we aimed for that spot and were able to land without incident. Every stretch of beach not fully occupied by seals was covered by juvenile and adult king penguins. Both sexes of the stately kings sport vivid golden yellow markings on the sides of their heads, similar to the emperor penguins that live on the Antarctic mainland. They waddled about, uttering a medley of hoots, squeaks and trumpet sounds, and waving their flipper wings emphatically to resolve territorial disputes. Their nesting sites extended along the banks of the river as well, and up into the hills above. The naturalists onboard the Shuleykin had told us that this colony alone probably numbered over 200,000 birds. For the most part they seemed unperturbed by our presence, although we were careful not to blunder into their nesting areas. The skies above the penguin rookery were filled with circling, predatory skua gulls. As I watched, a pair of powerful gulls swooped down on a nest that a penguin had stepped away from for a moment and devoured its unguarded egg.
We followed the river up into a steep-walled canyon in the mountains above, where hiking on the loose rock became increasingly difficult. We spotted a herd of wild reindeer, descendants of animals that whalers had brought from Norway nearly a century ago. They were the only land-based mammals we saw on South Georgia Island. They appeared wary and rather weatherworn, a small vestige of man's early presence on the island like the old whaling station at Grytviken.
Our final day paddle along the coast of South Georgia Island led us deep into Drygalski Fjord, near the southernmost tip of the island. Paddling into the fjord was like entering into a flooded and frozen Yosemite Valley. Glacial ice, instead of waterfalls, flowed silently down from the towering cliffs above our heads. The mountains rose up steeply from the sea to form a continuous range of sharp-edged peaks that reminded me of the Alps. Even here in the fjord, each time we paddled around an exposed point, we felt a sudden increase in the energy of the ocean swells and wind that were wrapping around from the south. I shuddered when I contemplated what kayaking along the exposed, storm-battered western side of the island would be like.
Olaf had told us about his friends, an American and two Australians, who came here last year and tried to paddle all the way around the island. They started up north by crossing over to Bird Island and then proceeded south along the west coast of the main island. Conditions quickly grew so intense that they had to land through big surf and rocks and portage back across the mountains to reach the relatively protected northeast coast again. They then paddled down to the southeast tip of the island, past where we were now, and tried to make it around Cape Disappointment. Once again, when they reached the fully exposed side of the island, breaking waves and howling winds forced them back.
At a signal from Olaf, the group headed to a beach at the back of a small, rocky cove. A herd of fur seals was gathered around in a circle, watching two bulls who stood facing each other, lunging at each other and roaring. We assumed that since they were busy fighting among themselves they wouldn't pay any attention to us, so we landed. But when a young bull shuffled over and tried to nip Phil Rasori on the butt, we decided it was time to get back on the water and continue exploring the fjord.
Reboarding the Shuleykin that evening, we headed west around Cape Disappointment. For the first time, we were headed straight into the full force of the Antarctic weather. While sailing in following seas earlier, the bow of the ship had risen thirty feet above the water; now it became engulfed in white water each time we collided with a big oncoming swell. None of my paddling companions voiced any regrets about the fact that our boats were lashed down on the aft deck again. I made my way back to the fantail and gazed at a jagged row of deep blue mountain peaks, slowly vanishing into the darkness behind us. I could see why the early explorers had described South Georgia Island as "the Himalayas of the Southern Ocean."
Throughout the night I was awakened by grinding sounds and shuddering sensations echoing through the ship. The captain ordered our forward speed reduced, first to 10 knots, then even slower, as trained eyes constantly scanned the sea ahead. Most feared by Antarctic seamen were growlers, low, dense masses of ice that lie mostly beneath the surface of the sea and are nearly invisible. But apparently the ice pack wasn't yet thick enough to be a threat to the tough skin of our ship, and we plowed slowly onward.
The next morning we awoke to a sea filled with millions of broken pieces of ice the size of pianos or smaller, interspersed with larger, glistening blue icebergs. Our trip leaders described this as merely "brash ice" conditions, and reassured us that it posed no threat to the thick steel hull of the Shuleykin.
Olle Carlsson, a Swedish naturalist and one of that extraordinary breed of folks who feel compelled to return, year after year, to Antarctica, observed that the El Nio cycle had brought exceptionally heavy ice conditions to the Southern Ocean this summer season. "For centuries," he explained, "a river of ice has flowed away from Antarctica in all directions into the sea." Scientists estimate that more than 348 cubic miles of icebergs calve away from the continent each year, from a vast ice cap that is nearly 5000 meters thick in places and comprises 70 percent of the world's fresh water.
The next afternoon, as we arrived at the South Orkney Islands, two dagger-like peaks rose up in a lowering sky. "I doubt they've ever been climbed," reflected Olaf, staring up at the ice-covered pinnacles. We gathered on the deck, hoping we would be able to launch our boats, but as we entered Gibbon Bay on Coronation Island, pack ice driven by strong westerly winds grated ominously against the armored flanks of the Shuleykin, ruling out any chance of paddling. We moved around to the lee side of the weatherworn point, but found the wind still howling, and the brash ice just as thick as before. Returning to Gibbon Bay, we spotted a jagged lead that had now opened in the ice, leading toward shore. Still, Jonathan Chester, the expedition's leader and a veteran of many long Antarctic journeys, remained uneasy. He was concerned that a shift in wind direction might slam the lead shut as quickly as it had opened, trapping any kayakers who had paddled away from the ship. We settled for a fast run toward shore in a Zodiac to get a closer look at the wildlife there.
Twenty minutes later, we approached a powerfully built, ten-foot-long leopard seal resting on top of an ice floe. As I stared into his glistening black eyes, I recalled the riveting account I'd read of two of Shackleton's men being attacked by one of these animals during the months they were stranded on the drifting pack ice. A huge leopard seal had pursued one of the terrified men, first atop the ice and then by diving into the water and following the man's shadow as he ran across the ice. Then the leopard seal burst to the surface ahead of him and charged again. Fortunately, Frank Wild, Shackleton's second-in-command, arrived with a gun at that moment and shot the big carnivore as it turned to charge him.
From the South Orkneys, we continued southwest across the Weddell Sea toward the mainland of Antarctica. About halfway across, when everyone had become accustomed again to the steady droning of the ship's engines and the rhythmic rolling in the open sea, a pod of orcas surfaced near the ship. The captain immediately ordered the engines reduced to idle, and passengers and crew rushed on deck. The sleek, powerful cetaceans repeatedly burst to the surface, the sound of their explosive breathing clearly audible. Their big dorsal fins knifed across the surface of the sea and their glistening black backs flexed as they swam. They were obviously aware of the ship looming above them, but, like most of the other wildlife we encountered in Antarctica, they seemed completely unconcerned by our presence. A half-hour later, the whales dove and vanished as suddenly as they had appeared.
As we approached Hope Bay on the relatively sheltered eastern side of the Antarctic Peninsula, I sprinted up to the bridge to get the latest weather information. Like all of the sea kayakers onboard, I was praying that the powerful winds that had been blowing since we left South Georgia Island would fall off. Still, conditions remained unsettled as we drew near the mainland. The wind blew steadily at about 20 knots with occasional higher gusts, and the surface of the sea was covered with whitecaps. Jonathan decided it was too dangerous to launch the kayaks.
Once again, we resorted to a Zodiac ride to shore. When we saw the icy surf and howling wind that the crew had to negotiate to get us ashore, however, we once again appreciated Jonathan's judgment. We stepped ashore on the Antarctic continent, where a rookery of Adlie penguins huddled on a small, windswept, rocky beach. The omnipresent predatory skuas circled watchfully overhead. Within moments of our arrival, the wind began gusting even more strongly and the surf crashing on the beach seemed to be steadily growing more powerful, so everyone made a dash for the Zodiac. We made it back out through the surf, but had to turn quickly to avoid a football field-sized iceberg that the wind was driving between us and the mother ship. If we had been in the folding kayaks, it would have been very tough, perhaps impossible, to get off that beach and punch through the six-foot shore break.
That night we cleared the Antarctic Sound and headed north towards the South Shetland Islands. The weather seemed to be settling down at last. We arrived at Baily Head on the west coast of Deception Island, about 120 miles north of continental Antarctica, early in the morning of February 8. The ship's charts revealed a unique, ring-shaped island: a circle of volcanic hills and mountains surrounding a flooded caldera.
Already in our dry suits, seven of us assembled on the fantail in the soft pastel light before dawn. There was a moderate swell running, and the weather to the northeast was clear. Olaf, Dana, Jonathan, Philip, Jan, canoeist Larry and I all launched our boats from the lowered platform. We turned north, toward a pair of dramatic sea stacks that our map designated as "Sewing Machine" (a massive, box-shaped rock) and "Needle" (a slender spire of stone that rose about fifty feet above the surface of the sea). Olaf remained alert for breaking waves or tricky currents as we approached the two edifices of gray, polished granite, but everyone passed through the gap between them without a problem.
We continued along the coast, paddling through glassy seas, and rounded a final point of north-thrusting land. Shielded now from the prevailing western swells, we were able to kayak right up to the base of the palisade of brown and olive-colored cliffs that rose nearly straight up, to a height of about 300 feet above the water. Hundreds of sea birds, mostly gulls and cape petrels, circled in the sky above or peered down at us from their nests on the ledges high above.
We came to a hundred-foot-wide opening in the cliffs, beyond which we could see the island's flooded inner caldera surrounded by snow-covered mountains. We soon discovered why the early sailors had named this Neptune's Bellows. The wind whistled through the narrow channel, most likely katabatic winds generated by icefields around the caldera. I remembered Olle's description of katabatic winds he had experienced around mountains in Antarctica, rising from 5 to 75 mph in a matter of minutes. Luckily, the winds remained moderate that day, and we slipped through the Bellows without incident.
Ringing the caldera, buildings and machinery that had once digested cetaceans now lay crushed and scattered by the repeated onslaughts of mud and lava. Volcanic eruptions had rocked the island for years, forcing the British and Norwegians to abandon their whaling operations there long ago.
We paddled deeper into the caldera, toward a beach where clouds of steam rose up from geo-thermal springs and hung suspended in the cold, still air. Approaching a cloud of steam on a nearby beach, we found a pool of heated water bubbling up invitingly. Without bothering to strip off my dry suit, I lay down, immersing myself up to my neck. After hours of kayaking, the warmth soaking into my tired muscles felt wonderful. It was a satisfying conclusion to kayaking at last among the wild, beautiful islands of Antarctica.