Gold Harbour, South Georgia
Summer days at the beach, a popular pastime for centuries, conjures up images of gathering family and friends. Burdened with all the necessities for fun and frolic or rest, they pour from the mode of transport and stake out a pleasing patch of sand. A bag lies here, a blanket there, and of course the picnic basket is a focal point. In a stereotypic scene a line of ants marches forth, antennae keyed upon the food contained therein.
Here in the southern summer on the edges of South Georgia, we go to the beach quite often, borne by Zodiac. We too carry an array of gear, some for personal use and some for communal application. Huge orange waterproof bags corral and protect our inflatable personal floatation devices. Soon a mountain of cases and bags, walking sticks and jackets accumulate to mark our landing spot. The only thing lacking is the picnic basket. No food goes to shore in this wild and precious place. Is the scene now set in your mind? We think of all of you back home and want to share our tale by painting a picture of our day in a most familiar way.
OK, so now let’s change the portrait a bit. First of all, erase the idea of bathing suits and instead dress us all in red jackets or orange float coats, rain pants and knee-high rubber boots. When at fifty-four degrees south latitude summer doesn’t always guarantee bright sunny days, although we’ve had our share. If we say we woke up singing “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas” you’ll definitely understand the weather today. Snowy sheathbills drifted to the deck like snowflakes and snow petrels floated by as if borne upon the wind. Both were somewhat ethereal, camouflaged in the falling snow. The tussock grass that backed the shore cradled snowy puffs, it’s linear blades radiating outward, each supporting a glistening row of six-pointed lacy shapes. A glacier edged up to the cliff face where portions poised ready to fall while another segment stumbled down a steep valley to a milky lake far below. Yesterday it might have been more sharp and well-defined but today each ledge or ridge or prominence and mountain peak was blanketed by snow. The trumpeting of king penguins filled the air like carolers might sing, the fluffy chicks supplying the high soprano notes.
There is just one more thing to change from our summer picnic portrait. There were marauders. They just weren’t ants. They weren’t slugs either although their movements were somewhat reminiscent of those strange invertebrates. They seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once. Hundreds descended upon our spot swarming over everything, mouthing and testing and pushing. Five hundred pound elephant seal pups, newly weaned and deserted by their mothers are a most inquisitive lot. Their soft brown eyes like a fish-eye lens reflected back our own images as they peered up expectantly as if to say “Are you my mother?” To hesitate was a mistake. Heads pushed from behind, expectant mouths tried to nurse from knees, boots became chin-rests and laps a pillow for a whiskered head to rest upon. Orange bags were mashed into the ground. Tripod cases were jungle gyms. Walking sticks were teething rings. We gathered our things and fled away. Away to the south we are bound now, the seas rising and falling. As we leave, we all agree that beaches don’t invoke the same memories as they did before!
Summer days at the beach, a popular pastime for centuries, conjures up images of gathering family and friends. Burdened with all the necessities for fun and frolic or rest, they pour from the mode of transport and stake out a pleasing patch of sand. A bag lies here, a blanket there, and of course the picnic basket is a focal point. In a stereotypic scene a line of ants marches forth, antennae keyed upon the food contained therein.
Here in the southern summer on the edges of South Georgia, we go to the beach quite often, borne by Zodiac. We too carry an array of gear, some for personal use and some for communal application. Huge orange waterproof bags corral and protect our inflatable personal floatation devices. Soon a mountain of cases and bags, walking sticks and jackets accumulate to mark our landing spot. The only thing lacking is the picnic basket. No food goes to shore in this wild and precious place. Is the scene now set in your mind? We think of all of you back home and want to share our tale by painting a picture of our day in a most familiar way.
OK, so now let’s change the portrait a bit. First of all, erase the idea of bathing suits and instead dress us all in red jackets or orange float coats, rain pants and knee-high rubber boots. When at fifty-four degrees south latitude summer doesn’t always guarantee bright sunny days, although we’ve had our share. If we say we woke up singing “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas” you’ll definitely understand the weather today. Snowy sheathbills drifted to the deck like snowflakes and snow petrels floated by as if borne upon the wind. Both were somewhat ethereal, camouflaged in the falling snow. The tussock grass that backed the shore cradled snowy puffs, it’s linear blades radiating outward, each supporting a glistening row of six-pointed lacy shapes. A glacier edged up to the cliff face where portions poised ready to fall while another segment stumbled down a steep valley to a milky lake far below. Yesterday it might have been more sharp and well-defined but today each ledge or ridge or prominence and mountain peak was blanketed by snow. The trumpeting of king penguins filled the air like carolers might sing, the fluffy chicks supplying the high soprano notes.
There is just one more thing to change from our summer picnic portrait. There were marauders. They just weren’t ants. They weren’t slugs either although their movements were somewhat reminiscent of those strange invertebrates. They seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once. Hundreds descended upon our spot swarming over everything, mouthing and testing and pushing. Five hundred pound elephant seal pups, newly weaned and deserted by their mothers are a most inquisitive lot. Their soft brown eyes like a fish-eye lens reflected back our own images as they peered up expectantly as if to say “Are you my mother?” To hesitate was a mistake. Heads pushed from behind, expectant mouths tried to nurse from knees, boots became chin-rests and laps a pillow for a whiskered head to rest upon. Orange bags were mashed into the ground. Tripod cases were jungle gyms. Walking sticks were teething rings. We gathered our things and fled away. Away to the south we are bound now, the seas rising and falling. As we leave, we all agree that beaches don’t invoke the same memories as they did before!
