Drake Passage
The Drake Passage, an infamous span of the southern ocean whose tempestuous nature is legendary, exacted a noteworthy toll upon the National Geographic Explorer and all aboard during her initial run toward the white end of the bottom of the world. Our crossing could aptly be labeled as difficult, if not somewhat brutal. However, with dawn came a fresh beginning, a renewed faith in favorable change, and perhaps a reinvigorated notion concerning the power of prayer. Fifty knot winds, rolling graybacks capped with plumes of white spray, and an overall angry ocean had melted into a gently-undulating, rhythmic procession of long-period swells. They still carried some of the fuel that the low depression cell had generated, but their wind-driven fires of motion had been quelled.
The morning was bright, the sun shone, and the sky was luminous and seemingly endless. A few low stratus clouds pocked an otherwise limitless blue sky. A bevy of seabird species continued to shepherd us towards the great white continent. Rafts of pintado petrels wove in and out of our vessel’s wake, prions carved quick and erratic paths of flight through the swells’ troughs, white-chinned petrels and giant petrels moved across the horizons in long-period arcs, while all around the great aerial aces, the albatrosses (principally black-browed and some gray-headed) dynamically soared on invisible currents of air. However, it was the largest of all seabirds, the great albatrosses (wanderers and royals) which occasionally flew in and out of view that elicited the greatest sense of awe. These magnificent birds, with bodies the size of small children and wingspans the length of a small-bed pickup truck showcased themselves as unrivaled kings of flight – graceful and effortless.
Antarctica is seasonally home to impressive groups of animals. Large and small, waterborne and winged, great masses of some of our planet’s most well-known creatures converge upon the white continent to take seasonal advantage of the great food production generated at its base by the sun’s perpetual energy. It is for these animals, some breeding and others feeding in the crucible of omnipresent daylight, that human tourists also brave the elements and make a migration of their own to view this uniquely-timed show.
A crisp horizon and clear sky set the stage and raised hopes for an encounter with the great cetaceans that call the waters of Antarctica their seasonal dining room. The call came early and the show was a stunner. A series of blows came from all quarters around our ship. The National Geographic Explorer was, in short time, in the middle of a sizeable group of humpbacks. The bridge crew sensitively and deftly maneuvered the ship in time with the whales’ movements. Three females with calves were all, at different times, clearly viewed through the liquid-crystal waters of the southern ocean. Others, immature leviathans and perhaps large males, repeatedly threw their flukes high in the air before diving, giving all of us clear shots at the individually-patterned undersides of their tails. A few individuals lobbed their tails and flapped their flippers against the ocean surface, the nature of which is still a source of speculation to scientists. No matter the reason – for tourists this is infrequently witnessed behavior - special indeed. Their diagnostically-long pectoral flippers, raised flukes, and even the barnacles and hair follicles on their blubbery hides were details only attainable because of the careful and stealthy approach of our vessel’s bridge crew. From the bow and decks we all had dress circle seats, and the show did not fail to impress.
The Drake Passage, an infamous span of the southern ocean whose tempestuous nature is legendary, exacted a noteworthy toll upon the National Geographic Explorer and all aboard during her initial run toward the white end of the bottom of the world. Our crossing could aptly be labeled as difficult, if not somewhat brutal. However, with dawn came a fresh beginning, a renewed faith in favorable change, and perhaps a reinvigorated notion concerning the power of prayer. Fifty knot winds, rolling graybacks capped with plumes of white spray, and an overall angry ocean had melted into a gently-undulating, rhythmic procession of long-period swells. They still carried some of the fuel that the low depression cell had generated, but their wind-driven fires of motion had been quelled.
The morning was bright, the sun shone, and the sky was luminous and seemingly endless. A few low stratus clouds pocked an otherwise limitless blue sky. A bevy of seabird species continued to shepherd us towards the great white continent. Rafts of pintado petrels wove in and out of our vessel’s wake, prions carved quick and erratic paths of flight through the swells’ troughs, white-chinned petrels and giant petrels moved across the horizons in long-period arcs, while all around the great aerial aces, the albatrosses (principally black-browed and some gray-headed) dynamically soared on invisible currents of air. However, it was the largest of all seabirds, the great albatrosses (wanderers and royals) which occasionally flew in and out of view that elicited the greatest sense of awe. These magnificent birds, with bodies the size of small children and wingspans the length of a small-bed pickup truck showcased themselves as unrivaled kings of flight – graceful and effortless.
Antarctica is seasonally home to impressive groups of animals. Large and small, waterborne and winged, great masses of some of our planet’s most well-known creatures converge upon the white continent to take seasonal advantage of the great food production generated at its base by the sun’s perpetual energy. It is for these animals, some breeding and others feeding in the crucible of omnipresent daylight, that human tourists also brave the elements and make a migration of their own to view this uniquely-timed show.
A crisp horizon and clear sky set the stage and raised hopes for an encounter with the great cetaceans that call the waters of Antarctica their seasonal dining room. The call came early and the show was a stunner. A series of blows came from all quarters around our ship. The National Geographic Explorer was, in short time, in the middle of a sizeable group of humpbacks. The bridge crew sensitively and deftly maneuvered the ship in time with the whales’ movements. Three females with calves were all, at different times, clearly viewed through the liquid-crystal waters of the southern ocean. Others, immature leviathans and perhaps large males, repeatedly threw their flukes high in the air before diving, giving all of us clear shots at the individually-patterned undersides of their tails. A few individuals lobbed their tails and flapped their flippers against the ocean surface, the nature of which is still a source of speculation to scientists. No matter the reason – for tourists this is infrequently witnessed behavior - special indeed. Their diagnostically-long pectoral flippers, raised flukes, and even the barnacles and hair follicles on their blubbery hides were details only attainable because of the careful and stealthy approach of our vessel’s bridge crew. From the bow and decks we all had dress circle seats, and the show did not fail to impress.
