Deception Island and Whaler's Bay
Morning light comes long before most of us raise our heads from bed. By five or six am it has a pewter hue, the sky a pale and brighter grey, the sea like polished charcoal. Deception Island this morning was frosted white. All of it that is except for a strange dark silhouette like a jagged bite taken from the sky. Baily Head appeared ominous, mysterious and foreboding. The ship rose and fell gently on the swell as we inched closer, binoculars trained upon the shore. White froth surged back and forth upon the black sand. A Zodiac slipped from our mother-ship to take a closer look. OK? Yes, it was OK to go. We were here for adventure and now that the challenge of landing at possibly the most spectacular of all chinstrap penguin colonies had been deemed doable and safe, we were ready to go. Skilled drivers and shore men ensured our beach ascent and we set off to enter an unexpected world.
Thousands of little soldiers, black caps secured by straps tucked just beneath their chins, marched in formation to and from the water’s edge. None varied from their path, always keeping to the right as if traveling upon a North American highway. They gathered in crowds upon the shore. None of us could ascertain just what the critical mass was, what the stimulus was that caused them to plunge into the icy surf and dash away quite gracefully. Once in the sea there was no hesitation for a leopard seal lurked nearby seeking the slow or unwary. We paralleled the busy route and found ourselves in colorful suburbia. Green algal meadows carpeted the hillsides between individual chinstrap colonies, each like a bustling apartment complex. As in most cities crime reared its ugly head. Thievery was common. But clever skuas were only trying to make a living for themselves and by stealing eggs they controlled the penguin population.
The skies cleared as the morning progressed and by the time we slipped through Neptune’s Bellows into the throat of the volcano, blue dominated above. Whaler’s Bay was like a book where one could read hundreds of years of history if one looked closely enough. Its cover was the caldera produced ten thousand years ago. Remnants of recent volcanic eruptions painted glacial tongues with swirling patterns of fallen ash and scoria. Mud flows or lahars tried to mask a graveyard where sailors and whalers were laid to rest. Thousands of great whales, reduced to skeletal fragments, still spoke of years of massacre. A whaling station metamorphosed into a scientific research facility and it too now was gone, leaving only echoes within the decomposing buildings. Leaving to leaf through the pages of time, other members of our ship board family embarked upon a kayak journey. Three miles later at the head of the bay in Pendulum Cove, weary muscles welcomed a dip in geothermally warmed waters.
Morning light comes long before most of us raise our heads from bed. By five or six am it has a pewter hue, the sky a pale and brighter grey, the sea like polished charcoal. Deception Island this morning was frosted white. All of it that is except for a strange dark silhouette like a jagged bite taken from the sky. Baily Head appeared ominous, mysterious and foreboding. The ship rose and fell gently on the swell as we inched closer, binoculars trained upon the shore. White froth surged back and forth upon the black sand. A Zodiac slipped from our mother-ship to take a closer look. OK? Yes, it was OK to go. We were here for adventure and now that the challenge of landing at possibly the most spectacular of all chinstrap penguin colonies had been deemed doable and safe, we were ready to go. Skilled drivers and shore men ensured our beach ascent and we set off to enter an unexpected world.
Thousands of little soldiers, black caps secured by straps tucked just beneath their chins, marched in formation to and from the water’s edge. None varied from their path, always keeping to the right as if traveling upon a North American highway. They gathered in crowds upon the shore. None of us could ascertain just what the critical mass was, what the stimulus was that caused them to plunge into the icy surf and dash away quite gracefully. Once in the sea there was no hesitation for a leopard seal lurked nearby seeking the slow or unwary. We paralleled the busy route and found ourselves in colorful suburbia. Green algal meadows carpeted the hillsides between individual chinstrap colonies, each like a bustling apartment complex. As in most cities crime reared its ugly head. Thievery was common. But clever skuas were only trying to make a living for themselves and by stealing eggs they controlled the penguin population.
The skies cleared as the morning progressed and by the time we slipped through Neptune’s Bellows into the throat of the volcano, blue dominated above. Whaler’s Bay was like a book where one could read hundreds of years of history if one looked closely enough. Its cover was the caldera produced ten thousand years ago. Remnants of recent volcanic eruptions painted glacial tongues with swirling patterns of fallen ash and scoria. Mud flows or lahars tried to mask a graveyard where sailors and whalers were laid to rest. Thousands of great whales, reduced to skeletal fragments, still spoke of years of massacre. A whaling station metamorphosed into a scientific research facility and it too now was gone, leaving only echoes within the decomposing buildings. Leaving to leaf through the pages of time, other members of our ship board family embarked upon a kayak journey. Three miles later at the head of the bay in Pendulum Cove, weary muscles welcomed a dip in geothermally warmed waters.
