Was it the moon or the sun, that silver orb hanging high in the sky? It could have been either one blurred by the clouds, except that the hands on the clock still hovered in the pre-dawn realm. Thin clouds washed across the face of the full moon while in the east a lemon-yellow sky was edged in pink. White caps smothered the sea and periodically the floor canted slightly uphill. With a flash of green the sun rose behind us and we slid into position to wind our way through the “Wooly Gut,” a narrow, swirling pass between West Point Island and the larger bulk of West Falkland. Flocks of elegant brown hooded gulls raced beside us while shags struggled against substantial gusts. We stared at the vibrant colors on the wind chart and wondered how our day and the one to follow might go. The Falkland’s northern isles hid a special surprise where wind and weather didn’t matter and we put the future out of mind to savor another adventure.
A refuge in a storm, a safe haven from the north winds, a sanctuary for life, New Island could be described as all or any one. It seemed as if we had been transported to a tropical isle with white sandy beaches swarming with life as we landed in Settlement Cove. Dozens of young dolphin gulls, old enough to fly but not old enough to feel independent squawked and begged, harassing their red beaked elders. Kelp geese postured and paraded. Striated caracaras shrieked and battled over a tasty rabbit. A young black-crowned night heron, usually quite secretive, wondered what all the fuss was about and joined the raucous beach party.
The ground rose away from the landing drawing us to a gentle climbing trail bordered by nasty gorse on one side and flaxen grasses on the other. Our noses twitched recognizing the pungent odor of a seabird nesting colony. Perched at the edge of a precipitous drop, a thriving city was discovered. Gangs of juvenile shags meandered the dangerous alleys between decaying nests, used not too long ago but battered by their enthusiastic explorations. Periodically “Johnny Rook” swept in, intent on murder, not thievery. Nearby hungry albatross chicks perched on chimney pot nests, sedately waiting for a returning parent and his or her tasty load of food. Flight feathers and body contour feathers were becoming evident on these downy grey chicks. Frequent stretching and flapping of wings indicated that it would not be long before they too would soar upon the wind. There was another inhabitant present but their stillness made them almost invisible to our eyes. The usual grumpy demeanor of the rockhopper penguins was not at all evident today. The chicks were gone. The adults had fattened. Now was the time of moult, the time when all one could do was stand quiet and miserable until new feathers grew. Periodically their true personalities seemed to emerge as red eyes flashed in response to giggling laughs generated by the strange capes and coats they appeared to be wearing.
Skies of blue and pleasant temperatures tempted us to linger. But alas, it is with reluctance we bid adieu to the friendly Falkland Islands. The seas have calmed and we turn to the west, our voyage nearly through.
