Half Moon Island, the South Shetlands
“Blue skies and following seas” is a sailor’s way of wishing good fortune to a fellow mariner. Blue skies and following seas took us the rest of the way across the infamous but not-so-malicious Drake Passage this morning. We were escorted by hordes of seabirds circling our ship: four albatross species from immense wanderers to an ever so elegant light-mantled sooty albatross, southern fulmars, pintado petrels, and tiny storm petrels dancing in the wake of our ship. By noon the South Shetland Islands were in sight and the excitement level rose noticeably. After a morning of education regarding penguins – presentations on penguin biology, the Oceanites monitoring program, and our behavior around the birds – we were ready for the real thing.
Half Moon Island, tucked into a protected bay of Livingston Island, was selected for our first landing. Donning parkas and rubber boots (note for any who might be reading this in contemplation of their own future trip to Antarctica: yes, you do need the boots!) we boarded our Zodiacs for our first Antarctic landing. On the beach waiting to greet us was a committee of chinstrap penguins and a few gentoos. Your first encounter with penguins, like many other “firsts” of your lives, is an occasion to be remembered and cherished. Cameras quickly emerged from pockets and backpacks to document the moment. We soon found that if you get down to the level of the penguins they are as curious about us as we are about them.
Above the beach on steep rocky slopes we found the nesting chinstraps. A nest for a penguin is a pile of stones that elevates the two eggs above the snow, water, and other nasty stuff that might do harm to the developing young within the eggs. Penguins spend much of their “off-time” (that is, while their mate is incubating) adding stones to the nest. The stones might be collected away from the colony, carried from abandoned nests, or stolen from the neighbor’s nest; it really didn’t seem to matter. Occasionally the need for self-expression would sweep through the colony. Birds that were not actually incubating would raise their bills to the sky, spread and flap their little wing/flippers, and burst forth with a raucous call. The behavior was contagious and soon the brisk Antarctic air was full of sound. Then, the need to vocalize would wane; peace would return to the colony as the birds continued with their important tasks of keeping the eggs warm and protecting them from the marauding skuas.
Word circulated that a different penguin, a macaroni, had wandered into the colony. This bird is larger than the chinstraps with golden plumes decorating its forehead. It is uncommon in Antarctica (it has a more northerly sub-Antarctic distribution), so we made the trek down the island to see and admire it. That, plus the Adelie penguins that came up on the beach to see what was the commotion, made this a four-penguin-species day. It was quite a beginning to our voyage in Antarctica.
“Blue skies and following seas” is a sailor’s way of wishing good fortune to a fellow mariner. Blue skies and following seas took us the rest of the way across the infamous but not-so-malicious Drake Passage this morning. We were escorted by hordes of seabirds circling our ship: four albatross species from immense wanderers to an ever so elegant light-mantled sooty albatross, southern fulmars, pintado petrels, and tiny storm petrels dancing in the wake of our ship. By noon the South Shetland Islands were in sight and the excitement level rose noticeably. After a morning of education regarding penguins – presentations on penguin biology, the Oceanites monitoring program, and our behavior around the birds – we were ready for the real thing.
Half Moon Island, tucked into a protected bay of Livingston Island, was selected for our first landing. Donning parkas and rubber boots (note for any who might be reading this in contemplation of their own future trip to Antarctica: yes, you do need the boots!) we boarded our Zodiacs for our first Antarctic landing. On the beach waiting to greet us was a committee of chinstrap penguins and a few gentoos. Your first encounter with penguins, like many other “firsts” of your lives, is an occasion to be remembered and cherished. Cameras quickly emerged from pockets and backpacks to document the moment. We soon found that if you get down to the level of the penguins they are as curious about us as we are about them.
Above the beach on steep rocky slopes we found the nesting chinstraps. A nest for a penguin is a pile of stones that elevates the two eggs above the snow, water, and other nasty stuff that might do harm to the developing young within the eggs. Penguins spend much of their “off-time” (that is, while their mate is incubating) adding stones to the nest. The stones might be collected away from the colony, carried from abandoned nests, or stolen from the neighbor’s nest; it really didn’t seem to matter. Occasionally the need for self-expression would sweep through the colony. Birds that were not actually incubating would raise their bills to the sky, spread and flap their little wing/flippers, and burst forth with a raucous call. The behavior was contagious and soon the brisk Antarctic air was full of sound. Then, the need to vocalize would wane; peace would return to the colony as the birds continued with their important tasks of keeping the eggs warm and protecting them from the marauding skuas.
Word circulated that a different penguin, a macaroni, had wandered into the colony. This bird is larger than the chinstraps with golden plumes decorating its forehead. It is uncommon in Antarctica (it has a more northerly sub-Antarctic distribution), so we made the trek down the island to see and admire it. That, plus the Adelie penguins that came up on the beach to see what was the commotion, made this a four-penguin-species day. It was quite a beginning to our voyage in Antarctica.
