The Antarctic: Day 2

Day Two – Monday, Jan 17

   Morning wakeup call is at 7:30.  Breakfast at 8:00.  The known world is already aware I don’t backtrack and I don’t eat breakfast.  Today, I make an attempt, mainly to be sociable.  With tragic results.  Despite the gentle crossing we are luckily experiencing, I no sooner finish with my meal than that sudden, desperate acidic panic that arises in your belly and worms its way rapidly up to your snout makes its ugly presence known.  I maintain my decorum, mumble about “needing fresh air,” and rush outside to the rail.  Out it all flies.  Luckily, have had the presence of mind not to face into the wind, for a contrail about twenty yards long now parallels the exterior deck railing.  There is evidence of similarly afflicted fellow travelers subtly adorning portions of the rail.  I return to the dining room to rehydrate.  Marco takes a look at some breakfast residue that stuck to the collar of my jacket.  “Look, Simon,” he says.  “That damn Yankee is out there chumming for sharks already.  Is that fair?”

   Afterward, more hydration (wrong stuff though, I chose orange juice).  Then a lecture on “Myths and Maps of Antarctica” by Danny, our Scottish geologist, on the observation deck.  Fascinating stuff, how Antarctica was first presumed to exist based on the presence of The Arctic (as basically a counterweight) and then discovered in fact in bits and pieces, slowly over time.  I sit in the middle of the room, and forget to keep my eyes on the horizon.  At the moment the lecture ends, more panic.  Luckily Judith-Ann knows right where the barf bags are.  She gets one to me just seconds prior to the “Thar She Blows!” call goes out.  I fill two bags with orange juice residue.  After that, it becomes a collective project to get me rehydrated, comforted, and put to bed for a nap.  Will, the ship’s doctor (everybody’s favorite person on board for the first two days at least) gives me a sea sickness shot in the bum.  I am not the only one, it appears.  Naturally, lunch is skipped.  When I get my wits about me and sea legs restored, I return to the dining hall to rehydrate.  Water only this time.  I ask Simon what I missed for lunch?  “Oh, just the usual fried Penguin,” he quips.

   In mid-afternoon, Lori (a U.S.A. member of the Expedition Staff) provides a very memorable lecture on the whales and porpoises of Antarctica.  It is accompanied by a detailed slide show, multiple close-ups, and acoustic recordings of the specimens.  One of the most fascinating photos, was of an Antarctic (grayer than usual) Orca Killer Whale attacking a larger Minke Whale.  In another video, we see five Killer Whales rushing a flat iceberg, on which seals are basking.  The Killer Whales push forward side-by-side to create a massive bow wave, which washes the seals off their perch and into the waiting mouths of other Killer Whales on the other side.  In another bizarre video, a Penguin jumps into one of the Zodiac inflatable boats to escape onrushing Killer Whales.  The KWs seem to respect the Zodiacs and keep their distance.  The penguin thereby gains confidence, and struts around the gunwales of the inflatable surveying his most likely point of re-entry to avoid the waiting prey.

   Tonight for dinner, the salmon agrees with me.  No nausea.  But it seems the rest of the boat is catching up.  We find many of the passengers immediately returning from meals, that classic wan look upon their face and their legs wobbly, to nap.  The observation deck is not nearly as full as it was at the start of the voyage.  As long as we are crossing the Drake (and Sir Francis Drake never sailed in this portion of the Atlantic) you are either walking like a newborn calf to get from here to there, seated for a meal, or recumbent in your bed.  The sun has yet to make an appearance.  And I am learning to keep my eyes on the horizon, when in transit, after meals, and immediately after a focused exercise like blogging.  Near the end of the evening, I am out on the stern deck of the ship, watching birds in our wake.  They rarely land, and when they do it is on water.  Yet their life is here.  They are not landlubbers.  Petrels, I believe they are named.  Fascinating that they can find enough out here to eat.   And yet, these are rich feeding waters.  That is one reason the whales return here seasonally, because of the abundance of krill (small shrimp) which is near the lowest order of the food chain in the Antarctic.  While on deck, a wind gust comes up and sweeps my name tag away.  “Oh, don’t worry about THAT,” Marco says breezily.  “With this current, when we get to The Peninsula there will be some penguin with a tag saying LAWRENCE on his chest, and I’m sure he will try to sell us pictures.”