shore of the cosmic ocean

Our lab on board the Gould is all packed up into several metal trunks, which are now tied securely to bolts in the wall.  By tomorrow we’ll be in the Drake Passage once again, northbound for South America.

The last few days have been a nonstop show of stunning scenery and Antarctic shenanigans.

On our way back north from Charcot Island, we took the inside passage, squeezing in between the Antarctic Peninsula and the islands just off its coast.  Steaming through the Tickle Channel, the ship had to steer through a gap in the mountains that was so small I couldn’t even see it until we were practically in it.

I’ve recently achieved Shellback status, meaning I’ve undergone the traditional “ceremony” for those who have crossed the Antarctic Circle in a ship.  What this more or less entails is a hazing ritual inflicted upon us by those who had crossed in the past.  Events of the day included:  bobbing for squid, a 5-gallon bucket of freezing seawater on my head, embarrassing songs and dances for King Neptune, and the disgusting “Whale’s Belly” … I won’t give too much away, in case any of you should some day partake in this ritual.

After the hazing, we spent a few hours exploring Prospect Point–including sledding down a glacier on trash bags, and a boat-wide snowball fight.  It was the sunniest, calmest, clearest day we’d had yet, which was great, aside from the horrible sunburns most of us got.  Heading back to the Gould in our Zodiacs, we had to fight through more brash ice than I’ve ever encountered.  The water was so clear that we could see down to the submerged portions of the icebergs.  Everything was bright white and blue, like some kind of oversaturated, overexposed photograph.  This whole continent is very monochrome and very bright.

Last night we stopped at Palmer Station for a final cargo load and a Superbowl party.  Components of an Antarctic Superbowl party:

Barbecue on a grill someone had welded together specifically for our Superbowl dinner?  Check.
6-hour-long sunset?  Check.
Penguin-watching during halftime?  Check.
Jumping into water with icebergs and humpback whales?  Check.
10,000-year-old ice in my drink?  Check.

The Gould left the pier at Palmer around 05:30 this morning.

Antarctica is beginning to transition into winter, which means we may actually get an hour of darkness tonight.

I woke up this morning after semi-consciously dreaming that I was inside a Slurpee machine.  Turns out, my dream was influenced by the slush-thunk-slush-slush sound of the ship’s hull breaking through sea ice.  I immediately ran on deck to check it out.

We’re now in the area of Charcot Island.  The scenery here is exactly what I used to picture when I thought of Antarctica…  Enormous icebergs, as tall as houses and as long as trains, were everywhere.  Stretching between the scattered large bergs was a gently rolling expanse of white, the remains of winter’s pack ice.  Crabeater seals snarled at the ship as we crept along.  Every time we hit a particularly large chunk of ice, the whole ship shuddered.

In recent news:

* We launched a Zodiac this morning in search of a penguin colony, reported to be on the island a few decades ago.  No one has set foot on Charcot since the 1920s.  The birders weren’t able to find a good landing spot, but did catch sight of a couple penguins on the island.

* Yesterday we discovered two new islands.

* Two days ago we made a stop at Rothera, a British Antarctic base.  The base overlooks a bay which must be some kind of iceberg dump–the place is full of them.  In the afternoon, we were challenged to the annual Gould vs. Rothera soccer match, which is played on the base’s air strip.  The match was postponed because a twin-otter plane needed to take off, but we eventually played… and lost.  At night the Rotherans hosted a dance party, complete with live entertainment and a front end loader as the backdrop for the stage.

Ships make an unbelievable number of noises.  Engine rumble, generator
rumble, water sloshing in pipes as the boat rocks, waves crashing against
the hull.  The thunk of ice as we plow straight through it (quoth Chance
Miller: “It’s like we’re driving a giant Tonka truck!”).  Loose porthole
covers creaking.  The bow thrusters, which sound exactly like a rocket
launching, and are conveniently located just below my bunk (least favorite
wake-up call ever: “GADOOOOSHHHS HSHKSKKSKS  KSKSKSSSSSH HHHHHHHHHH!! KSSSHRRRRRSSSSSSSOOOOOOOSHSHHHHHH!!!!!”).  The hydraulics on the several-ton crane on the back deck.  The sonar ping every two seconds (nicknamed “The Chirp,” it sounds like a cross between a faucet dripping and a bird).

When I’m not on the boat, I suddenly realize how quiet it seems.  Where’s
the electronics-buzz?  Isn’t the engine running?

Today I got off the boat for the first time in about three weeks.  We’ve
left Ocean Station Obama (which turned out to be a big hit
with the press), and circled back to pick up the birders.  Five days ago
we left the birders (two people who study penguins) to stay in a
minivan-sized, leaky makeshift hut on Avian Island.  The island is home to
something like 80,000 breeding pairs of penguins, along with elephant
seals, fur seals, and a few other birds.  Avian is beautiful.  It also
smells like a thousand port-a-johns shoved into a bad seafood restaurant.

Before picking up the birders, we indulged in a little tourism with the
Zodiacs.  We lowered the Zodiacs into the water with the crane, and
motored out to a nearby rocky beach at the foot of a glacier, where we
found an old british airplane wreck, and an abandoned Chilean Antarctic
base.  Now overrun with angry elephant seals and a handful of Weddell
seals, the base consisted of a few old wooden shacks perched high on the
rocks.  ”Rustic” might be generous.  Most of the paint had peeled off the
buildings, and the wood was beginning to rot away.  Eerily, though, the
interior of the buildings seemed untouched.  Old bedding was still on the
cots, skis were still leaning against the wall, pots and pans were left
sitting on the counters, and photos of naked women were still stuck on the
walls.  O, Antarctica.

Tomorrow we’ll make a stop at Rothera, a British Antarctic base, before
steaming 20 hours to Charcot Island, which will be the farthest south the
Gould has ever been.