What’s it like on an Antarctic cruise?

“Good morning, everyone. Good morning!”

Her Canadian voice was my favourite wake-up call, piped into our room each morning usually pretty early. The gruff Russian guides never seemed to do this; this was probably to the benefit of all aboard. Everyone wants to avoid waking up on the wrong side of the bed, but in Soviet Russia, wrong side of bed wakes you. So, no Russians. Sometimes it was the up-beat young American guy and one time, the three guides named Sarah scared us all by doing a freaky trio. But the Canadian was my favourite, her tone always perfectly setting the scene for another great day.

It always began like that. My cabin mate Ryan and I would be sound asleep until the loudspeaker crackled its interruption into our dreams. I’d look over at his bunk. “Sleep well?” “Yeah” “Breakfast?” “Yeah”.

Seriously. Just like the old story: “It was a dark and stormy sea. Two men of few words sat in a boat. Said the older one to the younger one…”

Life on an Antarctic cruise is presumably similar to every other nice cruise I’ve never been on. Before this, I’d only spent a few nights on a ship. Once, in the cowboy days of backpacking Europe on a Eurail and a meal every three days, I slept in my sleeping bag on the deck of the ferry between Le Havre and Rosslare with all the other grotty youths of 1991. I was so poor on that trip I lived on a packet of biscuits most days, all I could get with my meagre handfuls of Francs, Deutschmarks or whatever else they had in the pre-Euro Dark Ages. Another time, with Yon, we sort-of-slept on a dinky little boat which crawled through the balmy Nicaraguan night at about three knots, from one end of Lago Colcibolca to the other. There was nothing to eat on that thing either. Worst of all was the terrible seasickness I suffered on the wild and tempestuous …English Channel, on a sailing trip in 2005. They did have decent food, but most of mine ended up over the side.

None of those experiences were remotely like life on the MS Ocean Diamond. After the lovely wake up call and cursory conversation, and more cheery greetings from other crew, we sat in the dining room. Apart from the door staff who insisted – with friendliness, but insistence – that we sanitize our hands in the February 2020 new normal of coronavirus, it was just like a nice hotel. I mean, that and the icebergs outside the window. The table had floral arrangements, the buffet had an omelette station some days and noodles the next (catering to all the Chinese guests who weren’t there thanks to coronavirus travel restrictions). Friendly staff in formal hospitality suits kept your tea or coffee cups full. The food was pretty good, too. Plenty of fellow passengers dug into the various kinds of cooked meats that people still seem to like for breakfast. I went for the fresh fruit and freshly baked bread with smoked salmon, as always forming a habit instantly and having the same thing every day. Sometimes we’d find the other guys from our informal little group, other times we’d sit, luck-of-the-draw style, with someone really interesting or someone…less so. And yes, some of them doubtless thought the same of me.

Usually by then we’d know the day’s agenda – a Zodiac cruise here or there, back to the ship for a big buffet lunch, and then another Zodiac cruise and a shore landing. And then, another huge meal, this time a five course a la carte dinner complete with free flow wine (though not for this guy, dosed up on seasick meds contraindicated to anything nice to drink –  I smiled meekly for water so many times I actually felt sorry for the wine waiters when they came my way). After breakfast there was time to rustle up your gear for the Zodiac trip (or occasional morning landing).

First, you have to get there…

But before any of that happened, I had to get to the port. Ushuaia calls itself “fin del mondo” – the end of the world – and not for nothing. Argentina’s southernmost port is the embarkation point for many Antarctic cruises (Chile’s Punta Arenas is a degree and a half of latitude further north). Getting to Ushuaia from Washington DC took almost 24 hours: from Reagan to Miami, then a night-flight to Buenos Aires, a cross-town journey to the other airport, and a flight down to Ushuaia.

I gave myself an extra day in Ushuaia to avoid problems like lost luggage or flight delays. It’s a worthwhile destination with great hiking options – like my cool raid on Ojo del Albino – and a nice relaxed vibe. In summer, a good number of visitors must either be waiting for, or just back from, an Antarctic cruise. I visited the maritime museum which had a fantastic collection of models of Antarctic exploration ships, many of which seemed to have sunk; a map of Cape Horn (the southern tip of South America, in waters we would sail through) showed a disconcerting number of shipwrecks.

Usually, there would be a big pre-departure briefing for all passengers at a hotel in town. But in February 2020, coronavirus was spreading outside China. So, instead, we got a note saying that was cancelled and we should show up instead down by the wharf the next day. Temperature checks on the gangway for all – kind of pointless, given what subsequent cruise ship disasters showed – and then we were allowed aboard.

Before long, I’d explored the whole ship, finding the best outdoor areas (good view, out of the wind) and working out the quickest way from one place to the next. This was going to be my home for the next nine days.

Lifeboat Drill

There was a series of briefings over the next little while. But first, we all piled into the “lounge” for the lifeboat drill. Somewhat to my surprise, the MS Ocean Diamond only had two lifeboats. I remembered about the Titanic – I’d thought ever since that thing sank in 1912 there was a basic rule about “enough lifeboats for all aboard”. Turns out the two lifeboats could take 142 souls apiece, enough for pretty much everyone on board. There were many life-raft pods around, too, once I paid attention. The evacuation procedure clearly relied on there being a bit of time before we sank – I guess there was little chance of being torpedoed like in those old Saturday matinee films I saw as a kid. And even the Titanic took a while to sink after ramming that iceberg. So fair enough, I guess.

When the alarm sounded, we were supposed to “dress warmly” and grab the big orange life vests and muster in this lounge. Someone would then lead us out to the deck where the lifeboat hung in its davit, one port, one starboard.

All I could think of was 142 cold, seasick people bobbing around in what looked like little more than a fibreglass tube. A Boeing 737 takes 142 people and is about 35 meters long; this thing squeezed that many into about ten meters long and roughly the same width. Check this video to see what a sardine can it would be. I promise you, two minutes after launching into those southern seas, that thing would be a literal shitshow of flying vomit (yeah, I know). Better than dying, probably, but only just.

That was it for safety drills and then there was a cocktail reception. Again I thought of the Titanic. Something about the proximity of carefree cocktail parties and a small quantity of lifeboats in icy waters just doesn’t sit well with me. But we lived and I am sure it would have been fine had that alarm gone off for real.

Zodiac cruising

Cruising around in Zodiacs is a big part of Antarctic voyaging. We did it twice a day other than on the sea journey to and from the Antarctic peninsula. In a Zodiac, we were essentially sitting at sea level, our butts on the inflatable pontoons just an arm’s length from the surface. I could easily get my waterproof camera underwater on just a short stick. When the engine is off, you drift amongst the ice – you can hear penguins calling, and you’re at eye-level with seals lazing on bobbing ice floes. It’s about as intimate as you can get without diving in.

The ship had a pair of huge cranes on the stern, and some talented crew would unload about ten Zodiacs from a giant storage rack. We would then embark via a platform at the waterline, either at the stern or on one side of the ship.

I’d studied up online before I went, so I knew a pro tip. I didn’t put on any of my heavy outdoor gear in my room. Between room and Zodiac was usually at least half an hour of waiting around inside – maybe more in our case because our gang were a bunch of slackers and we were always in the last Zodiac away. Squeaky wheels, Eric the Polar Explorer called them, though there were a couple of days when he could have used some grease. Instead, I carried my outer jacket, life vest, hat and gloves, and just popped them on when I finally saw the last of our guys show up (progressively more bleary eyed each morning thanks to the extremely high professional competence of those wine waiters). This way, I was cool as a cuke when I got on the Zodiac, not an overheated sweaty mess. This was important for me, because being an overheated sweaty mess is a surefire way for me to get motion sick in a Zodiac.

Zodiac etiquette became pretty obvious pretty fast. There were only a few rules. First, always ask the Zodiac driver before standing up. Second, try to give others a chance to fire off 300 frames at the seal you just fired 300 frames at. Because you sat facing inwards, and obviously you couldn’t stand up at all unless the boat was stationary or moving very slowly, it was hard to see things sometimes. This naturally led to the temptation to stand up, or to swing your lens across someone else’s face and get another 245 frames of that seal. I always rode with the same people on the Zodiac, and we were all pretty good about it (they were, anyway; I hope they felt the same about me).

Landfall

Setting foot on strange land. There’s nothing like it. I had mixed emotions about it on this trip though – there was nothing remotely like the visceral, almost out of body feeling I had at the summit of Stok Kangri despite Antarctica being a long held dream. But at a more practical level, it was exciting and satisfying. That first splash-crunch of my boots in the shallow water and pebbles on the beach at Half Moon Island was special – and we weren’t even really in Antarctica yet (Half Moon is in the South Shetlands, a good 120 nautical miles from the Antarctic Peninsula). Later, we would land on islands in the peninsula, and then on the mainland itself. They made a bit of a fuss about “the mainland”, as though setting foot on that as opposed to an island two hundred meters off shore made much difference in a continental landmass bigger than Australia. Still, I only cracked out my lucky prayer flags (the same ones from the summit of Stok Kangri) when touching the continent itself.

There were six landings in all, five of them at penguin colonies. There were, as a natural result of this, a lot of close encounters with penguins. These were such joyful experiences I will write much more about them at another time. Those little birds waddle around without a care in the world for the humans observing them. We, on the other hand, all exercised great care – treading softly, standing clear, freezing in place if a penguin wanted to cross our path – if humans showed each other as much respect as we all showed those penguins, my goodness, the world would be a lovely place.

Gentoo – among the best-recognised penguins, with bright orange beaks, and white patches above the eyes. Lives in the sub-Antarctic (South America, northern Antarctic peninsula), loves to eat krill, not endangered

Adélie – the classic tuxedo penguin, black-and-white, lives all around the Antarctic coast, also loves to eat krill, also not endangered

Chinstrap – looks like it’s wearing a helmet. Guess what it likes to eat?

know your penguins

Like I said, watching penguins was a fantastic and humorous experience. I will write more about this later and show some more photos – I got some good ones. But you can’t move on without seeing how penguins swim. It wasn’t easy to capture, because they move so fast, but I did it. These things swim like dolphins, fast and sleek, leaping out of the water for just long enough to catch some air, then splashing back underneath to pop up again a second or two later. It never got boring watching this.

The Drake Passage

After the last day down south, at the deck barbecue and Farewell to Antarctica Party, the Expedition Leader started to brief us about the journey home. A big Canadian guy about my age, maybe a bit older, he gave some details about logistics, then said, “And the Drake is just the right amount of rough, and we’ll talk about that”. Except we never did.

What was “just the right amount of rough”? Just right for us landlubbers, or just right for a crusty old sea dog like him? Because that’s what he was, big beard and all. I never found out but I’m certainly glad it wasn’t rougher. Whether I’d held it all together until then with the scopalamine or nothing but mental willpower I couldn’t say, but I did know I was not keeping it all together much longer. After dinner that night, despite the party I was sure would come and would have enjoyed, I bailed on my friends and lay down in bed.

I stayed there the next 24 hours, living on muesli bars and crackers I’d brought precisely for this purpose. It wasn’t even a storm. I’m just a wimp. The sea looked calm out the window, but if you watched, you could see a nice big rolling swell cutting diagonally across our route. That meant we rolled a lot and pitched a bit and my inner ear was basically like “fuck you”. (You know, to cut a long story short). A couple of times in my bed I almost felt I was going to be thrown out of it – not violently, just that we kept rising and rising and rising and just when I figured I’d leave the bed and faceplant upwards into the ceiling, we sank and sank and sank until my mind tricked me into believing I was pulling gees. As long as I lay there, I was ok; sleep was comfortable and welcome. Standing up, even to visit the bathroom, was not fun. And looking down, to get a head start on packing my stuff, for example, was definitely not okay.

On the last full day, I made myself get out of bed and stay out. Breakfast first, though I didn’t eat much, and then I grabbed my cameras and went on deck. I stayed up there as much as I could. The wind helped, seeing the horizon helped too, but I was still a bit queasy for most of the day.

It was beautiful out there. The sea rolled across our heading, the wind blew over the bow, and first one, then two, then about twenty big sea birds were wheeling and gliding in the wind around us. I stared at them, transfixed – firing off the remains of my flash cards, too – and remembered one of the briefings we’d had on board. These wandering albatross could circumnavigate Antarctica (someone put a GPS tracker on one to prove it). They rarely landed, just flew around and around, sometimes very high, sometimes so low they’d disappear from view behind a small wave.

Land Ho!

And then, suddenly, it’s all over. You disembark without fanfare, onto a bus which drops you at a luggage store. This time yesterday you were on the bow of the ship watching albatross play in the wind. Now you’re having coffee with your new friends until everyone heads for the airport. We did some shopping – for the wife, gourmet chocolate (hit) and penguin earrings (miss); for the kid, a soft cuddly seal (giant hit). We had lunch, and then I drifted around on my own a bit before being the last to board my plane. Last in the Zodiac, last on the plane.

And then, to remember

I first began to process my thoughts on the flight from Miami to DC, after a sound sleep on the red-eye from Buenos Aires. Where to begin? I could barely remember the names of the places we’d been – Danco Island, Cuverville Island, Neko Harbour were just a few – and without access to my photos I couldn’t disaggregate the images in my mind. Whales, seals, penguins, ice, penguins, ice, penguins and more ice. It was all merging and swirling around, just like the clumps of brash ice that now, 30,000 feet over North Carolina, might as well have been moon rocks they were that far out of reach.

“What are you writing”, she asked. The woman next to me seemed friendly, so I explained. I’m trying to gather my thoughts about my trip to Antarctica.

Now, a month later, it might as well be ten years. So much has happened in the world since then. The pandemic that I joked might leave me stranded in Argentina after my cruise has indeed shut down the entire world. Thousands have died, hundreds of thousands are sick, and in some countries, the horrible disaster has only just begun.

But if I close my eyes, I can still get back there. If I close them hard enough, I can even start to think what it all meant. Because this story was just about what you do on a cruise to Antarctica. I haven’t even begun to talk about what Antarctica does to you.