About five minutes ago we were sailing along the Drygalski Fjord, stones of Gondwana on one side, hundreds of millions of years old, stones of . . . well, another slightly more recent time on the other, and the distinctive aquamarine water infused with glacial sediment from several tidewater glaciers that flow into the fjord. Some of the glaciers are jumbled, tumbling disorderly down steep banks, others flow uniformly down gentle inclines. There's something about those smooth ones: ageless, unbroken, beckoning. They make me dream of long journeys in white places.
The Drygalski Fjord, like pretty much every single landing since we left Ushuaia ten days ago, was an exercise in the unlikely, the impossible, the uncontainable. An exercise in excess. I don’t even know where to start trying to share what we have seen, where we have been. . . . and just how unspeakably fortunate we have been with the conditions everywhere we have visited on this trip so far.
Our days at sea so far have been eerily calm, so wind-free that the birds that normally accompany us at sea have been absent, relying as they do on the windy updrafts for transport.
Our first few landings were in the Falklands, which I loved. There was an energy about that place that just did it for me. The first place we visited was called West Point, and it looked for all the world like the coast of Wales, or how I imagine Scotland or Ireland might look. Undulating hills, deep green grasses and lush moss beds, gradual slopes that give to pretty, rocky bays. We took a walk across open fields to a black-browed albatross nesting site nestled in amongst the tussock. Yes, nestled in the tussock, but also on the back side of the island, where those gradual slopes rise sharply up and then plummet into the sea as fierce craggy cliffs and vertical shelves. The ocean pounds the rocky shore far below, and the prevailing wind sweeps up the coast with fervour. These albatrosses (and a small population of rockhopper penguins) have found themselves one of the most dramatic, picturesque nesting sites I’ve ever seen. They’re in a small gully, but profoundly exposed to the elements.
The chicks were larger than I expected. Far bigger than most other self-respecting birds can ever expect to get. They were . . . I don’t know . . . the size of a 3 month old kid? Bigger? With their fluffy down it was hard to tell. Suffice it to say that I would have had my work cut out for me trying to pick one up. We stayed there for an hour or so, watching their down ruffle in the breeze, watching the adults soaring overhead on the updrafts, returning occasionally to feed their young. I genuinely don’t understand how the chicks survive in their downy coats, sitting as they do atop what are essentially small plinths made of mud. The sea spray, the inevitable rain . . . I am constantly humbled by the wildlife here, and this place was no exception.