Antarctica: Disembarkation

Five thirty the alarm goes off. The night before still seems like it was the perfect idea.

No regrets to be had as I shove final items in my pack, and take pictures of the boots I walked across Canada in back in 2006, the boots I injured my knees in in Tokyo in 2008, the boots that saw me through the Alps and the Andes. The boots that never made it to Australia. Personified more than an Ikea lamp, waiting in the rain, are memorialized before being left behind.

For some time I'd thought about offloading them. And all my hikes are behind me now. They'd been encrusted with the water's salt, and were far past their prime. Still – it was hard to let them go. But attachments are made to be broken.

Showered, stationary and not grasping walls for once, I stumbled like a zombie up to breakfast. Halls were emptying of luggage. Passengers were making their way back to dry land. People were congregating hoping for final goodbyes, parting hugs, and final words.

With all things at their end, we made our way down the gangway to the waiting bus that took us to Ushuaia airport. There, within the gift shop, terrible products were observed. And exhaustion almost brought me to purchase terribly unneeded items. Saved, at last, I was by the realization of free wifi.

For the first time I had contact with the world outside. E-mails were made to confirm plans for California, and Japan thereafter. I'd need to make Singapore, Hong Kong, and China plans before long. But there was still time for that. Not much, but some. Off we were called to the plane said to be waiting at the gate.

The plane was not there. Nor was it there an hour later. But soon thereafter we boarded, sat down, and I promptly passed out. Sleep was much required by this point. A momentary awakening came as the food tray rolled by, and then I was out once more until the touch down in Buenos Aires. Ah Buenos Aires, back again.

Bussed to the hotel where the next two nights would be spent, bags were tossed in rooms, and rather than drifting off to sleep we gathered to wander Florida street from end to end, passing multiple McDonald's, Burger Kings, and sandal shops. I had Caramelized Milk Ice Cream. Where else can one get such a flavour? Bed Bug infested hostels were also passed. Good riddance.

The streets were much the same as they were when I last wandered them, except I saw seven goths and two people wearing LOST shirts. These aberrations made me wonder two things – had LOST become even more fantastic since I'd been away, and was there a goth convention in town? Where were these people two weeks ago?

For the first time in two weeks, we all felt hunger. It was about tea-time, our usual third meal. And yet no food was brought to us. There was no one making their rounds to keep our glasses full of water. For that matter, we had no glasses to speak of.

For the first time we appreciated the meals with which we had been provided.

On the boat a buffet of fruit, yogurt, bacon, pancakes, eggs, hash browns, sausages, and all other tasty treats were laid before us. Lunch time was a salad bar, and a buffet of hot treats which ranged from meats, to pastas, to all number of things looking to fill ones belly. There were also vats and vats of desserts. Every three days there would be a separate tray of fresh cooked foods. Tea time was sandwiches, and dinner was served from one of three choices.

On the boat we didn't eat because we were hungry, we ate because food was there. And at the time that seemed like more than enough reason.

Bellies always full we never knew hunger. Now, walking the streets, hours before our next meal, the feeling was - novel.

At seven forty-five the feeling of living in a televised re-run, and the thought of bellies waiting to be filled, ended. A bus picked us up to drive us to dinner, which would be accompanied by a tango show. Before we ate we were given lessons to the dance. Ridiculous lessons which I think I might try to remember for a drama game, or opening exercise to break the ice with new classes.

And then the meal began. I would have pumpkin pasta, salad, and poached pears. The tango show would last three hours. While this might seem wonderful to some, or terrible to others, it was made acceptable by the addition of an open bar. Asking for a beer and a coke confused the waitress. Someone else at my table spoke up indicating that I wanted them separate, saving me from a potentially disastrous mix.

For three hours we watched people dance in different costumes, loosing all track of the plot. It started in 1900, went to 1940, and at some point I think one of the female dancers was metaphorically raped. It was all very confusing. Others seemed to rectify this with bottle after bottle of red wine. Red wine. Ugh. Who drinks that stuff?

Between dances an old man sung. Speaking Spanish may have made the progression of events more understandable, but perhaps not. Perhaps the plot was as impossible to understand for all viewers as it was for us.

Three hours passed and we boarded a bus. Sure the bus had no driver. And sure two strangers hopped on it. And sure when we got a driver he said he'd take us to the wrong place – but none were in much state to complain. Mostly there was laughter at the confusion.

For what it's worth, we ended up where we should have – and then beds allowed for comfortable lapse into darkness. While I was warned of my roommates snoring, I heard nothing, and slept peacefully in comfort. Beds that do not try to toss one from their surfaces are a rare and wonderful treat as of late. And the pillows, finally the right size to fit my sleeping patterns? A true delight.

Any Port in a Storm

The Drake continues to shake, though at breakfast only two glasses break. No tables are empties of their contents. People begin to recover.

The dinner that was so haphazardly glossed over, yesterday, now comes back to my memory as one that was fraught with problems and disaster. Unlike the first breakfast, no chairs broke and no people were sent flying over tables – however, wine bottles, and glasses, did smash to the floor as the boat pitched. Near the end of supper as the service staff was stacking up dishes on a table to clear them away, that table's cloth was frictionlessly tempted to fall to the floor, taking all those items piles on to with it. And jugs of water placed precariously near the edge of service stations, boarded by coffee cups? These items didn't all make it either. But, at least the water jugs were made of plastic.

I wonder if we'll ever see statistics about the things broken on this vessel?

Cape Horn was passed as we all stood in the bridge, being thrown hither and thither. What fun! Closed toed shoes are advised.

After breakfast we are told that the ship is bouncing around too much for some of the morning lectures. I once more begin to power through my novel, trying to offload whatever weight I can before I fly.

One by one we are called down to settle our tab. My visit to the doctors ran me 29USD. Not all that bad to prevent the trip from being the most disastrous thing I'd ever experienced. Sea-sickness. This is not a pleasurable thing. And the amount of people still locked in their rooms as the Drake continues to quake, speaks wonders for how important any sort of pill, tab, or patch to remedy the situation can be.

Lunch time, a final lunch, with a final dessert. This lunch is good, but not nearly as exciting as the hamburgers and hot dogs from the day of the wedding proved to be. Meal time conversations run their course, as all things start to come to a rest.

It is announced that today's engine room tours are canceled. It is said that this is due to some sort of crisis in the engine room. I imagine the first engineer just can't be bothered. And I don't blame him one bit.

In the lounge, before dinner, the stashes of vodka we all thought we would need are collected together. A bottle of tangerine, one of peach, and one of raspberry. None of us drank as we thought we might. There was so much to do, and so much to see, and even a moment hung over would mean missing part of the adventure. But here, in the final hours, we gathered and attempted to make a dent in the collection. Vodka, it turns out, is not any of our favourite drinks. Unless it's Ukrainian. And made at Antarctic research stations. Then it's bloody magic.

At dinner I try to sit at a table with some folks I know, for a final chat. I get looks from the two sitting on the end of this table. They promptly evict me, telling me seats are reserved for two others. There has never, this whole trip, been such nonsense, and it's always sit where you will when you will. This is why we all carry books to the table, to save our seats. But – one speaks up. I can honestly say there have only been two people on this trip I've felt some hostility towards, but on a boat, we keep our mouths shut. When I am evicted, I smile, and move one table over – peopled with a group of similarly delightful people who I've come to enjoy. One nods towards the lady who sent me packing, and quietly mouths to me, “she's a cow!”

Someone else having said it, I can smile in reply, and move on.

Now, it may seem petty to have added this – but it illustrates an important aspect of the trip: Two weeks is a long time to keep idle politeness in check.

This table change has led to some great education, I might add. The island of Guernsey. One of the British Isles. I had no idea such a place existed, but now come to realize that while under British rule, they have their own government, currency, and closed off culture that leads – it would seem – to cultural madness. It is quite an amazingly unique part of the world, as are the other islands around it, and ones that i will look into closer in due time.

It's strange to be informed of places that you had no concept of even existing – it's like being told there's an eighth continent, and wondering how you'd missed it all these years.

Midway through our meal, the boat stops shaking, the forks come to a rest, coffee stops leaping from within the cups. And outside, there is no longer open seas, and endless horizon. Outside are the city lights of Ushuaia. Outside is the proof that we are home. Antarctica is behind us, and real life only a threshold away.

For some this means work, and family, and daily routine. For others it means travel where thought needs to be made as to where sleep will come, and how food is to be gathered.

The dream has nearly ended. But not quite.

After dinner, a final dinner, we head to the lounge where a movie starts to play. “What's it about,” I ask. She – whom I slid across hallways with on the first day rolls her eyes at me and replies, “Antarctica.” Of course.

The bottle of Raspberry vodka is grabbed, and we head off to the Polar Bear Bar.

It's the first time that I've been there this trip for any purpose other than simply looking outside through their glass walls. Sprite is used as a mixer, and over the next five hours the bottle is emptied between all those who wish to drink from it. It is the perfect ending to the trip. It is the necessary ending to the trip.

For some time the sense of mope-mope-mope that often accompanies the closing of one chapter was threatening to fall upon me. But this evening proved to be the closing that was required to make passing on perfectly acceptable.

Long conversations were held with all the right people, while jaw dropped faces, and open eyed expressions were passed on from those completely trapped between tables and walls by intoxicated conversationalists recounting the same discussion had twelve times over.

Openings, and chiming, “hellos,” were timed between passing moments of, “smell ice do ya?!”

Photographers, often locked away in sleep from nine pm stayed awake through talks of relationships, the following of passions, and lives to be lives – well until the morning had set in. Promises to get in touch when cities were passed through, made, and doctors explaining why lack of commitment is the perfect way to carry on between moments of dropping that sea sick patches might just be placebos paved the way for some to carry on to bed.

And finally officers discussed drinks by the liters, death is one engine stops, and strange sounds coming from the roof.

Pink bottle carried away, empty, by bar staff and clocks ringing four, it was finally time, after all moments had reached their optimum conclusion, for sleep. Back in my room I laid my head to pillow for the next ninety minutes that would be granted as rest.

Tiger hats, and yellow caps – photographers new and old – vodka from the continent – ice, penguins, whales, and dolphins – games invented – landings missed – waters tossed – blues never seen.

Once More Through the Drake Shake

We had left Antarctica behind us, and were now headed back across the Drake Passage. This strip of water is known for some of the roughest traverses. While, for many people, it can be the quiet, peaceful, Drake Lake – for us it was the time honoured Drake Shake. There would be no peace for us as we were again delighted to find walking in a straight line more difficult than for a Russian after two liters of vodka, neat.

I looked at my book, the final adventure of DI Rebus, and attempted to read some more of it. But through the windows the horizon was playing all sorts of tricks. Not only was it coming up, just to hide itself once again, it was coming up at angles one could spend hours with a protractor trying to figure out. And never the same one twice.

“Doctor, please come to reception. Doctor, to reception.”

No rest for him this day, as calls were made more than they had been since our first passage. People whom I'd seen every day for over a week were suddenly locked in their rooms, seemingly tied to their beds, emerging only for meal times, and often not even for those.

Lectures went on in the lounge, describing the eating patterns of Humpback Whales, and Orcas. We played a game, it was called – try to stay awake. With the rocking of the boat, the darkened lights, the comfortable chairs, and the soft voices lulling one off to Nod, it was a game hard to win. Still – the presenters played a game all their own. For two weeks they'd been playing it, and it was only now in the final moments that we grew wise to it. Before each lecture they gave, two words were pulled from a hat.

Interdigitation, and slovenly. What does interdigitation mean? I'm not sure. Neither did the presenter. But it was his job to work both in to the next one hour presentation. We stayed alert, now keen on this attempt to spice up their own talks, and heard above the slovenly eating patterns of the humpback, and how Orcas could be distinguished based on the interdigitation on their dorsal fin. Do their dorsal fins have interdigitation? No. But were we wise to the dropping of this word? We wouldn't have been.

And it makes me think back to the other lectures I had heard, wondering what nonsense was spread around there. It also made me think that such a game would be interesting to play while teaching back in “the real world.”

The next lecture mentioned how sea-sponges looked like a 1957 Chevy. Something was out of place with this comment. This was the word drawn from the hat. The hat, of course, being nothing more than an envelop with the words “this is a hat” printed on the side.

And then it was time for lunch. Some people showed, some people did not. It was delicious. It strikes me that I've not often discussed the food on this ship. Always there, it just seems something taken for granted. There was delicious mousse.

In the afternoon, I found two half moon swivel chairs and used one to rest my behind, the other for my feet. It was the most comfortable two chair combination I'd yet come across (all chairs being bolted to the ground, and thus unable to move.) And in the middle of the boat, it was relatively free from nauseating rocking.

Here, for three hours, I sat and I read. And well the Ian Rankin novel is no more of an academic text than, say, DS9: The Never Ending Sacrifice (which is not to be confused with the soul key – as the former was quite well written, and the Soul Key was pretty terrible. Dan Brown could have done better. I shudder at the thought.) it was quite good. Very quickly I was sucked into the world of seedy Edinburgh, taken back to my weeks spent there, and all of a sudden I wondered should I have started with the final book in the 17 volume epic?

At four thirty I was dragged back to the chilled waters, as an announcement claimed that engine room tours would begin shortly. Nothing was off limit on this vessel. We stood on the bridge, we wandered the lifeboats, and we would now see the engine room.

Being led through it by the first engineer, we were warned, in other words, that what we were entering was akin to the world of Astar – the robot. He can put his arm back on, you cannot. Play safe.

Every two steps, as the boat swayed left to right, would see you passing some moving part, sharp tool hanging from chairs, or wiring unconvincingly insulated. We were told not to touch anything. If the boat causes you to fall, fall – do not grab a thing. And should the watertight doors start to seal, let them close. They will not open for you, and people have been known to be chopped in two by these monsters.

Yes, it was a delightful playground of cold war wonderlands. I felt like I was inside the video game, Missile Command. This made more sense when I recalled the boat was built in the mid seventies.

Climbing back above water level, where tea time sandwiches were abundant, and instant death or dismemberment seemed far away, I returned to watching lectures, and reading. My eye grew heavy, yet it was still so early. Not even dinner. I'd take a nap. This seemed a most gracious use of my time, and lying on my stomach, I could manage enough surface area to not be tossed onto the cold, carpeted, floor. Also – I was best to make the most of my window while I still could.

Dinner came and went, and in an attempt to wake myself, I stood outside, took a walk around the ship. The crisp air worked its magic momentarily, but back inside I once more grew dreary. I thought that I could stay up for the evening game, but after one or two questions all was for naught. I would find myself thrown atop the blankets, quickly asleep.

In sleep the rocking did not stop. In sleep dreams did come.

It seemed every hour I was roused from my slumber, sure that I was in an airplane hurtling towards the ground. The sound was right, the motion fit, and the speed seemed elevated. The dream images that backed these sensations up did nothing to help my false perception.

It's strange – after the fifth theoretical plane crash, you really stop to care. It just grows annoying that you're awake once more, gripping on for dear life. I can rest on my back or my stomach, but not sleep that way. And on my side? In the great Drake Shake? Staying attached to ones mattress is hard, and terrible, work.

Saying Good-bye to the Penguins - or - One Wedding and a Polar Dip

Deception Island, Whaler's Bay. The sun is shining, the sky is blue; it's the perfect place for a swim. Or a wedding.

The sun is shining, and the sky is blue, so why is it that I can't seem to move forward? Every time I lift my foot to take another step, I seem to float backwards like an ethereal spirit trapped about a Scandinavian passenger ferry. When I make contact with the solid ground once more, it lands in the same position from where it lifted off. The winds blow at more than thirty knots, and the ice on the deck does nothing to improve the progress-requiring friction.

Grasping for rails, and clinging to whatever their hands manage to come in contact with – ropes, pulleys, other peoples jackets, or arms, I find solace in the fact that I am not alone in my struggles. When I reach the front rail, I make sure to grasp on, and not let go. It would be such a shame to miss the passing through Neptune's Bellows, especially with the lighting conditions being what they are.

With great ease, my beard takes on a life all its own. No longer is it a part of me, but instead a creature all its own. At times it feels great hatred for he who had kept it imprisoned, reaching up to block the world from me. At other times such a withholding of sight doesn't seem enough, wrapping around my neck in a hope to strangle away all future breath. My only respite comes from the moments when internal disagreements cause it to break from single minded directives, splitting in the middle, an attempt to escape without cohesion. It is during this moment that I can manage to tame it, and return to a life lived under my own control.

This return does not happen until a number of people had taken a number of pictures of me during these moments, of course, but that's all part of the charm, I'm sure.

With the bellows entered, the wind seemed to die down somewhat. Heading back to our cabins and dressing in our cold weather gear, with a tiny alteration, we made ready to land at Whaler's Bay.

Situated under an active volcano, ash coats much of the beach. Much of the whaling station that served this area at the turn of the century, had been washed to sea during a volcanic eruption in the mid seventies. Buildings, oil barrels, and a cemetery for those whose life was lost in the line all now lay beneath the waves.

An airplane hanger, some huts and a number of oil barrels loom large as our zodiacs pound the waves, kicking ocean spray in the face of those, unlucky enough to pull a front seat, While they would normally be the main draw for this stop, they find themselves avoided. The few seals laying near the beach garner some attention, but even they are quickly passed by as the parade up to Neptune's Window, an opening in the cliffs, begins.

A constant stream of people climb the path as each new zodiac unloads ten more units to join in the march. Once all guests had arrived, a ceremony was to begin. The wedding of two passengers. In snow suits, they stood ready to exchange vows, but before that could begin, a veil was adorned on the bride. At this height the winds whipped with the same fury they had on the upper decks, hours before. To keep the veil in place, and offer some form of comfort, a frost fighting thermal headband was placed atop.

Streaming through the breeze this veil added the final touch of beauty to the ceremony, and added a great depth an interest to the wedding photographs – especially when taken at close range with a 10mm wide angle lens by a professional photographer. And there, with the wind muffling, vows were exchanged. And the two were pronounced husband and wife.

Depending on your understanding of, and take on the legal system, you may not agree that the two were joined. And while I was of this mind at first, seeing two people in love, exchanging rings, making vows, and being at peace with one another – why should there be limitations on who can join together these people, and what right is there to say that such a connection can only be made in certain locations? Furthermore – why should papers and legal documents have any control over how people wish to spend the rest of their lives? These people were married this day, looking over the ocean, on a barren rock in Antarctica, with seals barking below, birds swooping overhead, and the waves crashing into the cliff face on which they stood.

And then we all ran down to the water for a swim.

Perhaps we didn't all go for a swim – but nearly a third of us did. And maybe we didn't run down, the winds were picking up, lessening the lower we descended. For a moment I thought I might not go in. While I wore shorts on deck in the morning, I was now prepared to admit – the first honest and true time this trip – that I was a little cold. I wondered how jumping into the water would play against that.

It is said that if you dig down into the beach you will uncover pools of water heated nearly one hundred degrees from the volcanic activity. There was a time that these pools would be constructed for those who braved the surf, to warm up afterwards. This is no longer allowed in Antarctica, through the attempts to keep the landscapes pristine, and unaltered by man as much as possible. We'd just have to take their words about the warmth trapped away.

Behind a floating dock, visible in picture postcards of the whaling station floating in the bay decades past, now resting upended upon the shore, we changed out of our gear. It's only when the gear is taken off, outside, piece by piece, that you really come to understand how much you're wearing. Stripped down to my bathing suit, I was ready to enter the waters.

The few whom had plunged in ahead of me entered with a scream, and exited with many expletives shouted for all near, and far, to hear. They then quickly grabbed for a towel, and returned to dress once more.

I walked in slowly, coming to terms with the water temperature, and when up to my waist I pushed into the surf, taking a few strokes, to make it an official swim. Eyes open underwater, I was surprised with how brown and murky it was. On the surface it appeared so clear. While it was cold, it wasn't breathtakingly so. For a moment I thought about kicking around for some time longer, until I made a move to stand, and could not feel the bottom. Fear pulsed through me – what if there was a rip? What if there was an angry leopard seal? Suddenly my attempts to reach shore seemed as hurried as those of all others.

Back on dry land I grabbed a towel and made my way, slowly, back to my clothes. The cold was not me enemy here, but instead the stones beneath my feat. I would much rather have stood, wet and in the winds, than feel the sharp rocks underfoot.

Watched by a seal, I re-dressed and boarded the zodiac back to the MS Expedition. There was a sauna on board. I discovered this on the first day, but could never think of a time when it would be needed. Now, when all feeling in toes had abandoned me, it seemed the perfect time. Inside were other swimmers, also trying to warm their toes. Only the toes seemed affected.

It was there that stories of the cold were exchanged. Some claimed it to be freezing, and painful, for others it wasn't so bad. I put forward the idea that cold water swimming is like getting a needle at the doctors. If you expect it to hurt, it will – if you don't, you'll be fine. It's all internal, and all in your mind. And if you want the experience of talking later about the time you went into the Antarctic waters, and were chilled to the bone, frozen in a heroic act, well then you'll start to self narrate it moment of, screaming and shouting as you leave the sand behind. And that's fine. Subjectivity, rather than objectivity, is rule here. And really, that's how it should be.

Hibernation until lunch seemed to be a general rule – and it was then that I ran into Anna. “How'd the swimming go?” I asked her. She paused a moment and then claimed that she did not go in. I reminded her that she had made a promise to another passenger that she would. And that's when the hitting began. The violence in these people, I tell ya.

The afternoon took us to a chinstrap penguin rookery. This was our final excursion – our last time in the zodiacs, our last time putting on the auto-inflating pressurized life jackets, our last time stepping foot on the strange continent. But no one was thinking of that as we fought the ocean, each swell testing the watertight seal on pants and jackets as we made a hard turn towards the shore. And then once on land, all thoughts were towards the elephant seal on the shore. It was our first sighting, and our last opportunity to see one. While not the odd looking male, it was still a good spotting.

Blue sky overlaid snowy peaks, reflected in crisp lakes below. The scenery was spectacular, as we had come to expect. Somehow each departure managed to be just a little beyond the one previous. I wondered what those who stayed the twenty-five day trips would end up seeing. Still, walking along a path to reach the far shore, passing chinstrap penguins, stopping to photograph one or two while heading towards the gentoos, I felt that this trip had been the perfect length, and I had seen everything – and more – than I could have hoped for.

There, as penguins porpoised in to the land, I watched a disturbance in the distance. A bird circled some far off splashes, that grew closer. A leopard seal had caught a stray penguin, and was thrashing it around on the surface, rending its flesh, turning once cute bird into an afternoon meal.

As the final bites were taken, and the waters returned to their peaceful calm, we were called back to the landing crafts. Or final excursion was at an end. Walking those last steps over the slippery ice, and jutting rocks – stopping now and then, granting penguins the right of way as they crossed paths – it finally dawned on me that the trip was nearing its conclusion. Those people with whom time had been spent, on land, would rarely be seen over the next two days, and after that, perhaps never again. These animals that had traversed from foreign to well known, and well loved, may forever remain locked away from sight. The lands that once were seen as barren, now viewed as beauty, were closing their doors, setting the chairs on the tables, and sweeping up the floors.

As with all endings, returning to the boat was bitter sweet. Dinner was mostly silent. And afterwards, I could not keep my eyes open. Sleep called, and I answered, earlier than I had before. The sun had set on this adventure.

Tramping Through Antarctica

Some good news... One of the cameras that died yesterday has sprung back to life. I hold out hope that mine is soon to follow. Sure, why not, yeah?

Still – I had the little camera that Jason Edwards (his last name having just been discovered – go check out his work.) lent me, and in the weather we were experiencing today, it was just perfect. A small waterproof, scratch proof, camera. Out of all the people shooting I think I may have just had the easiest time at it.

The snow was coming down in large flakes. Throughout breakfast I was overcome with Christmas cheer. Carols were awkwardly streaming through my thoughts. I tried my best not to hum them, but was not always successful in this endeavor. I was all geared up for the morning excursion, just as the announcement played that, even though we were in one of the most sheltered bays in all of Antarctica, the water was far too rough for a safe landing. No morning excursion? This was something we'd not been forced to deal with since the crossing of the Drake. What on Earth were we supposed to do for the next four hours between breakfast and lunch?

Creating our own game of “how old are the staff” seemed to work wonders. There has been great debate over the various ages, and few clues present themselves. In a pack a number of us headed over to the staff bio board where subtle hints made themselves known. Some mentioned members having been married for fifteen years, others listed jobs dating back to nineteen-sixty-six. By putting together these hints we were able to form educated decisions. Others were drawn into our puzzle as they passed by. Once we had finished, we had accurately determined the ages of three people on board. Three down – six mysteries remain. Not even staff members know the ages of their co-workers. Some of them were drawn into the enigma, a they shed light on their own situation.

But this game could not last. Eventually no new information would present itself, and we were forced to give up until we obtained something more. Reading was attempted in the lounge, but that soon turned to napping. I made a point of heading out on deck to see what I could see. It was warm, relatively speaking, and I decided to switch back to shorts. It had been some time since I wandered, knees reveled for all to see.

Once more I stood on deck in shorts, short sleeves, and sandals. But I must stress that I was dressed for the cold weather. On my head there sat a toque. Always be prepared, that's my motto.

I have lost all credibility with the passengers when I talk about temperature. I tried to explain that it wasn't actually cold – but me standing there dressed as I was, nestled between people all done up in puffy snow suits, with matching suspender pants, scarves around the lower part of their faces... well, something wasn't adding up. I tried to pull the I'm Canadian line, but other bundled Canadians disposed of that myth. I tried to pull the I'm a big guy card, but there were guys bigger than me shivering in the snow. Perhaps it's a combination, or perhaps I'm just built for cold weather survival, as I've often suspected. Cold is lovely, but the heat? No thank you. Twenty eight is just fine. Any hotter, and well, I'll see you tomorrow.

Still – my outfit did garner a number of photographs. And while I do love to be photographed, as I do so love myself, that wasn't the reason for it. I wasn't trying to stand out. I just feel comfortable, and alive, with a little chill running through me. It was my intention to stand out on the deck to wake up, and wake up I definitely did. It wouldn't be until late at night that I let loose so much as a yawn.

Sailing past icebergs, and mountains, we had a new element added to the mix. Off in the fog two other vessels past, ghosts on the horizon. Some described them as resembling the Flying Dutchman, though I'm relatively sure they were Antarctic cruise ships owned by European nations. But you never know. Best not to rule anything out.

Then lunch was called. Somehow, by some miracle, the four hours had passed even without a landing. And after lunch we were to head out to a beach where we would do some hiking up a nearby hill. I know, I know, I said no more hiking - but this is Antarctica! When else will I get this chance? And so my pledge is broken, and once more I will return to the walking of which I did so much in the dawning of my journeys.

Landing on the beach my first thought was, “I thought I'd seen penguins. Now[!] I've seen (all caps) penguins!”

Hundreds of the small birds lined the shore, waddling amongst the whale bones that had washed up on shore. The rib reminded me of that which hangs above the town square in fair Verona (where we laid our scene.)

Watching as they all waddled in a straight line, begging for food from their mothers, we giggled at how silly they looked. I don't think any of us thought of the fact that we were wandering in a line nearly five dozen strong on our way to the top of the hill.

Now, there's one thing that you don't realize about penguins. It just doesn't come across in the video, or the images. Penguins... well, they poop a lot. And poop? It's never a pleasant smell. Though the freezing cold may help to keep the smell down, there's just no avoiding it – penguins? They smell. And their poop? It's technicolour! It can be green, red, brown, pink, blue... It can be everything! Penguins... ugh.

But they were lovely, and in such numbers, and ever so close. You just wanted to pick one up, squeeze it, and take it home with you. Though I'm told this is a bad idea, on account of the previously mentioned smell. Lovely little critters.

Once I'd reached the top of the hill, however, and the bird population had thinned out, my thoughts turned from cute cuddly characters to personal photography, and acts of war. The pocket camera was having a tough time in the cold, as cameras are wont to do. For every frame or two that I shot, I'd need to warm the battery some degree. But the pictures taken were exactly what I wanted.

Some travellers have been upset and disappointed with the weather here in Antarctica. Presumably they saw the blue skies, and reflective snowscapes in the promotional material and assumed that's what this continent would look like. For myself, having no expectations, this is what I thought Antarctica would resemble. Grey skies, cold winds, heavy snow. And this is what my photos have tried to show. Standing in the distance along a field of white, with the sky, nearly the same colour, behind me proved to be the perfect metaphor for this land. Loneliness, abandonment, cold – in more ways that just the temperature.

I may have also been wearing my Boba Fett hoodie at one point, in order to have images taken resembling said Bounty Hunter stationed on the ice planet of Hoth. But if I did such a thing, I'd probably make no mention of it. That would just be far to silly, indeed.

And then the war began. My anime-loving chat-partner from the bow may have been buried in the snow by one such as myself, along with the help of her sister. And sure it all started out as fun and games, but then then projectiles were fashioned, and orbs of frozen white began to make their way through the air, every now and then hitting one who was not participating. At times this would draw them into battle, others it just led to scornful looks.

Eight year old me would be very proud, eighteen year old me would shake his head, and current me? Well the feeling you get when you shove snow down the back of someones parka, leading the to get it out, only to the cry of, “Oh! Now it's down my front!” Well that's like the voices of angels, isn't it?

Rules were established, clean snow only. None of the red regurgitated fish guts, or the green penguin poop, or the yellow lemon flavoured variety could become fashioned into weapons. Only the fluffy white stuff. And for a time this was good. Multiple projectiles were flung through the air, lost against the overcast sky. There was no defense, there was no avoiding. There was only the reliance on your enemies poor aim. Temporary allies were made, and soon turned against. Lisa in her Fruits Basket hat at times would team with me against her sister Kim. But no alliance forged in fire can be expected to truly last, and soon as one of us had turned our back on the other, a cease fire would come to a splatting end.

Rules made are meant to be bent. Clean snow only, yes, but little was said about the addition of water from a newly formed stream, rushing down the hill as the ice melted. Calvin would have been pleased with the mathematics involved in creating the perfect slush ball – a deadly weapon in any snowball fight. Lisa hurled yet another ball my way, and without pause, taking the hit, my new weapon saw its first, and last, use on the field of battle. Connecting with her cheek, and spreading across her face, over her eyes, and into her open – gasping – mouth, the effect had been devastating.

“It tastes like fish!” Was all she could scream. And for a time the battle was stopped, as laughter filled the air.

Slide attacks, arm fulls of powdery clouds, and random digging were all tried, but nothing worked so well as the simple snowball. It makes you wonder who threw the first snow ball at a friend, and if they knew what a piece of history they were undertaking.

Further down the hill the red, green, and yellow snow became far more plentiful. The only source of fresh material was found, newly fallen, on the side of rocks. And as such the battle slowed, Kim, and her Tiger hat, escaping on a zodiac out across the sea.

The final ground attacks were let loose, as Lisa succeeded in hitting my neck, just right so the ice would become trapped in the back of my jacket, slowly to melt and chill all the way down my spine. In turn, I then worked to force snow down her back, and in her attempt to remove it, she screamed, “and now it's down my front!” I was vindicated.

Seated across from one another, Lisa and I were placed on the final boat. Eyes locked on one another, pleasantries were exchanged, but busy tongues do little do disguise active hands. Each of us was collecting what little bits of snow has fallen onto the inflatable boat. Smiling faces each spoke of the knowledge that no end had yet come. And though we failed to attack during the journey (knocking one another into the ocean, while as hilarious as the idea of pegging a penguin with such an attack, was agreed upon as being just as ill conceived) the second the boat slowed, the war began anew, other passengers delighted that the fallout failed to reach them..

It wasn't until the mudroom, life jackets removed, waiting to go to our rooms, that the final gun was fire. From within my pocket I removed a hidden weapon, and threw it through the air at my unsuspecting partner in battle. As it connected, arms were raised high in the air, and victory was mine!

It wasn't until I returned to their room to borrow Kim's memory card (who had taken some lovely shots of the battles, penguins, and other such momentous from the excursion, that I realized just how doomed I could have been. As the door opened Lisa held out a cup of snow declaring, “look at this!” I slammed the door, fearful of attack. The snow had been collected from within her jacket – some cruel person had stuffed it there to prolong the agony. But as the door was re-opened, I was assured that there would be no violence anymore. The memory card was borrowed, and peace had returned once more.

The rest of the day would see me chatting with Anna (annazhu.com) and Jason (bio-images.com), photographing the insane amount of gear they had – all laid on Jason's roommates bed to dry, and victory-champaign from last night's game for dinner. Anna was gifted with some though she bailed to sleep, leaving out team before the game began. This was deemed acceptable at the time, as her violent streak wouldn't be revealed until the next day.

Today My Camera Died - or - Ukrainian Station Vodka Fun

Today my camera died. And it will not be coming back to life. It is a crushing blow - but it is not the worst thing that could have happened. I tell myself this to get through the pain.

It's strange how we become attached to objects. They have no feelings, one is as good as the other. And yet that one item, after a while, takes on personality. I knew my camera well, and I knew its quirks. You may say that if I buy the same model it will be good as the old, but that's not quite true. This one had a scratch on the back of the LCD – I have no idea where the scratch came from. It just showed up one day, and added to the character. You couldn't change the ISO settings – that button stopped working some time back in Namibia. And a week later the delete button no longer responded. This things that made is a lesser machine added to what made it my machine, and I learned well to work within the limitations.

Today nothing works. When I stepped onto the boat, and tried to check the images I had taken it refused to respond in the same way that my GPS just wouldn't turn on months back in Cambodia. I never thought that the camera would last the year – but I had hoped it would carry me through Antarctica. This is the one place that is so different, and will never be seen again. And yet here is where it died. And this upsets me.

It's not just the camera that has died, but all the future images that will never be taken now. When I land in America – very soon now – I'll buy a new one. But until then... I don't think it's the money that concerns me – although the money will be an issue. And what do I replace it with? The same model? A low-end DSLR, as I've been thinking of upgrading lately? I thought my next camera would be a DSLR – I decided this yesterday. I just didn't think that I would be needing that new camera quite so soon.

I still hope against hope that it will rise from its grave like the hero at the beginning of Altered Beast, but really I know better. I held the same hope for the GPS and other such things that have been lost or broken along the way.

It's just sad is all. And I think I'll mope for an hour or so. Perhaps after dinner I'll be better – and then I can talk about what a fantastic day today was. And believe me, it was!

Alright – mope over. Time to talk about the day.

We started early in the morning coming to rest just off shore from a group of buildings along the shoreline. It's strange to see what might almost resemble a small town if one didn't know better. In a land where the most one ever comes across is a dilapidated wooden hut caving under too many years of too much neglect, seeing modern structures, water towers, and antennas poking up from the snow, is just about as foreign as things come.

We had arrived at Vernadsky Station. Once a British scientific research base, it was sold to the Ukrainians for the large sum of one pound. Of course this sale did come with a few catches. For one, the Ukrainians had to continue to research started by the Brits. They had to continue studying specific aspects of the upper atmosphere. They also had to keep the base manned and well maintained – perhaps not always the easiest and most inexpensive of tasks.

Before entering the station we headed to a neighbouring island which was home to Wordie Hut – a wooden sign proclaiming this area as British Crown Land was left to mark their claim, no longer held. These signs are fleeting, most fallen to the elements, being nothing more than basic wood nailed together, older than most people that will ever come to see it. Here in Antarctica things are different. The elements are different – a desert, rain hardly falls at all – one of the driest places on the planet, all things seem to be well preserved.

The beach and island here seemed to be nothing more than precariously piled stones. Rocks, broken ever smaller over the years, formed a small piles, then a larger one, then a larger one. They crackled and scraped underfoot, shifting with every attempt to reach a higher plateau. From the top an unobstructed view of a sheer wall of ice presented itself, something eternal, powerful, and seemingly unchanging – though that it anything but the truth.

Seal bones, and half discarded flippers are strewn around the island. The predator that tackled these animals can only be guessed at – I would assume a leopard seal, as there are few predators in this part of the world, and fewer still that would venture far inland.

The island on which Vernadsky was stationed was a completely different story. Leopard seals made their home in these areas as well, as penguins knowingly waited on shore, standing all in a line hoping for the waters to become safe once more to slide, waddle, or hop back into. But there were no bones left to cover the stones, no buildings filled with ancient typewriters, ink ribbons, gas masks, and novels from a bygone area. And no ghosts were left to wander hopelessly. Here there were men – living men offering a guided tour of something only dreamed of.

Here in the station our passports were stamped with an official seal, rather than the play stamps that can be arranged for at tourist stations back in the Argentinian mainland. And here there was what passed for a post office – stamps being sold, and canceled, before the postcards made their long journey to whatever destination was decided upon.

In the heated building we were told to remove our boots before being shown around. This required the removal of my rain pants as well, capped with waterproof booties. The relative indoor temperature became far more pleasing with this accomplished. Then in we wandered.

The base has been male only since the first expedition which saw four women out on the ice. But no longer are they within these walls. The ladies washroom seems strangely out of place, often unused. It is the word often that I question silently, without voice.

If you'll look to your right, you'll see the men's bathroom. I would remember this for later, and then on your right the weight room – walls plastered with pictures ripped from magazines, and posters special delivered, of women in all sorts of lurid poses. Once more the male dominated aspect of the base becomes apparent. Back on the left a scientist is working in his lab, really a small office with a laptop and a microscope more than anything else, and back to the right more office space. Desks are covered with photographs of wives, children, and loved ones not seen for more than a year at a time. Without doubt internet allows for communication that would be all but unthinkable to those that came before, but that's when the wind is blowing the right way, the rain has stopped falling, and the ice isn't covering the transmitters. Which is to say, the internet works when it feels like it. And not a moment before.

In the main assembly room, where we took off our boots, a flat screen monitor hangs over the exit door displaying current weather conditions, and a duty roster complete with pictures of all the staff making ridiculous faces. Nearer still is a white board that is used to record every instance a worker steps outside into the cold, where they are headed, and how long they will remain outside for.

In the darker months the weather can change in an instant spelling disaster for all those unlucky enough to be caught in the cold. The bottoms of peoples feet have been known to fall off in these terrible conditions – their soles calcifying, and finally detaching leaving nothing but sticky raw flesh underneath. In times like these explorers have been known to glue, and tie, the dead skin back to the new, allowing for more miles to be covered lest they fall prey to the elements.

Should something terrible go wrong here there is one zodiac tied to the dock, bouncing against the shore with every wave. The sense of abandonment and loneliness must be overwhelming at times. The passing ships that send landing parties to visit, such as ourselves, during the warmer months – they must work wonders for morale. But then when the ice freezes, once more the inhabitants of this land must find themselves very much alone.

It is not impossible to picture a most distressing horror tale transpiring here, where faded messages seeking help play out in looped recording over the broadcast radio, while lights flicker inside, generators falling silent, and the last e-mails sent from the work stations seeming disheveled at best. The one link to the outside, the zodiac, would be raging against the shore, partially untied, or perhaps missing – found beached on an island miles away. The only thing still working would be the warm lights, and repeating album, playing in the well stocked bar. An eerie sign of civilization when so much else has gone wrong.

Which brings me to the next stop in our tour – Faraday Bar. Perhaps the Southernmost bar in the world. Tantalizing bras hang from model ships, while another – donated by a passing German woman – takes up an entire wall panel just off to the size. The size of that can only be guessed at with comedic gestures. Jumping halfway into the alphabet might get you close to the truth.

The vodka sold there has all been brewed in house, and after so many months abandoned by the world, they've got quite good at perfecting their craft. This was either the smoothest vodka I have ever had, being swallowed without so much as the slightest tint of burning aftertaste, or it has been watered down. The truth is impossible to guess at. Had I had this vodka anywhere else in the world, I would not have hesitated for a moment to assume it was cut half and half – but after all, these are Ukrainians, lovers of vodka, and all vodka related products. Perhaps here, in Antarctica, I really did have the best shot I'll ever have in my life.

It can now be said that I've drank in six of the world's seven continents. (It should be noted that some people on board are confused when they hear this, as they'd been taught there were five continents – north and south American simply being one continent, America – and Antarctica, which stands somewhere off to the side.) More importantly, as I made my way down to the washroom on the lower level, I have also used the toilet in six of the world's seven continents. When I make my way to Australia, and complete this circuit, I will feel quite proud of myself, quite proud indeed.

And let me tell you, they have some inappropriate reading material stashed away in their toilets. Once more – male dominated, alone for over a year. One makes due with the limited supplies one has, I'd assume.

Morning became afternoon became late afternoon. The winds picked up, the sky began to let loose a torrential rain, and the waves began to swell. For one of the driest places on Earth, we must have hit well over fifty percent of the annual precipitation.

Down in the mudroom we all made ready to board our zodiacs for an unforgettable cruise around icebergs, and islands. I made sure to step back to the end of the line, allowing me to board the boat with our NatGeo photographer, Jason. He had given a brief lecture about photography, and so much of what I had forgotten as I slipped into the digital age, where single frames no longer seemed important, as the mass-produced bulk images would often allow for one or two solid images, came flooding back to me. I wanted to see how he worked, hoping to allow myself to return to such styles of shooting sometime in the future. Perhaps, I thought, an DSLR would help me to focus. Yes, I could shoot that way with what I have now, but my camera still felt more of a toy than a full on tool. In the year to come, I thought I might want to upgrade.

Ten minutes on the water was enough for me to give up on capturing any decent frames. Ten minutes and my lens was smudged with the rain, and placed within a plastic bag, tucked away under my rain jacket, trying to protect it from the elements. I would not fight the weather for potential shots that would never turn out. I would simply enjoy the experience of bouncing over the rough seas, the rain pelting my face – tiny stinging pinpricks as we pushed ever forward.

While some drivers turned back early, we stayed out as Jason had a shoot to complete, and some images demanded being shot. He held his cameras into the wind, and rain, and salt water pounding over the sides – daring the weather to ruin his sensitive electronics. His assistant Anna shot the same. Two other photographers followed suit, especially when a friendly and curious leopard seal approached the boat, just as we began to pass a large archway of ice – cracked and threatening to collapse at any moment.

While they were busy trying to dry their lenses, finding all papers and cloths and clothes saturated within brief moments, I simply enjoyed the presence of the animal. It had been so long since I'd tried to see the world without a lens stuck between it and myself, that I had forgotten just how wonderful it could be.

The seal came close to us, dove under, and popped up again. For ten minutes we watched as it played near us, rushing forward, and escaping back. Kneeling in the bottom of the zodiac I rested my head on the inflated pontoon. A moment later when the seal popper up, its head no more than a foot from my own, its eyes locked with mine, I knew that I would trade this moment for nothing else. The rain still bled down from above, and with desperation the photographers tried to ready their gear to take one or two shots of this experience, but as for myself? For that instance I was in a world all my own.

And then it was gone.

Bounding across the sea, we made way back to the ship, the dark skies creating an ominous sense of things to come, realizations that were still nearly half an hour away. Boarding the ship at the gangway, waiting for the swell to lift you half on board, before the inflated craft was removed from underfoot by the sea slipping ever lower, was an effort in patience, and dexterity. But once completed, safe in the mudroom, people could hardly resist describing their experience. It had been cold, it had been rough, it had been painful. It was the perfect weather, and the perfect experience for such a treacherous and dangerous continent. This was not the Antarctica shot in so many magazines, and pictorials – blue skies and sunny days. This was Antarctica as it is embodied by those who had to trek across it over the past hundred and fifty years.

And then back in my room, when I tried to review the pictures on my camera, disaster struck. It would not turn back on.

My camera was dead.

Wandering the halls and talking about the experience, it was mentioned to Jason by another passenger, that my camera had met an untimely fate. Apparently I was not alone. He had some minor problems with a lens on the excursion, Anna lost a body, another passenger in our zodiac lost a body, and yet another lost a lens. Our trip was cursed from the start. And yet all of us agreed that whatever the price, it had been worth it for the experience.

Few things could ever capture what those moments had offered.

It must be said that Jason is one of the most genuine people I've come across. He's kind, and passionate about his work. He will spend time looking at everyones work, and offering to help them improve their pieces. In anyone, this is rare; in a photographer this is almost unheard of. Ego is a big part of the business, and for many there is a constant struggle to one up the others. Jason is, though he would never say it, one of the best photographers in the world – highly regarded as being in the top running for all Australians. Of all the photographers that have contributed to the National Geographic Archive, he ranks number two in those with the most images.

And yet, once more, he is a genuinely nice person. It seems almost impossible. When he heard of my plight, without hesitating he called me to his room and lent me one of his 12MP point and shoots, waterproof this time. While I may not have my 500mm equivalent lens, or my manual settings, this camera would let me keep shooting, keep recording, and keep my head on straight until the end of the journey. And, you know, maybe my camera will have returned to life by then? I've been told that sometimes the inner workings can take nearly a week to dry. Now I'll hold off on false hope for seven days, rather than just the night. I give it a 1/100 chance of returning. I don't think any salt should have got inside, as my camera was in a plastic bag, and under my raincoat. Here's hoping. But – either way, I had something to shoot with.

And for an hour in the afternoon, I stood on the bow deck taking pictures as we went through a small channel, no more than a mile wide. Icebergs floated between the shores, requiring pinpoint accuracy by the captain as we made our way from one side to the other. At times we seemed to miss the floating ice by no more than two meters.

On either side the peeks rose up around us. The clouds wrapped around the points, while the snow tried to settle, hanging in midair, not yet turned into an avalanche by sheer force of will.

I stood in my pants, a long sleeved shirt, and sandals. Everyone else was bundled for the cold. For an hour I stood as one by one people left the deck, heading for the heated cabins within. One girl, wearing a yellow Fruits Basket hat, stayed for most of the trial. We discussed anime, and manga, and Tokyo. And once more I felt a sense of home, within a geeky subculture. At the end of the Earth, it's good to find common ground.

During the same year, though her in mid high school, while I was in first year University, we both powered through Neon Genesis Evangelion is a terrible marathon that left us both asking ourselves, What the [expletive?!]

And then she too was gone. It was Jason and myself standing on the bow, hail throwing itself against us. As he worked to take a shot of me with his 10mm fish eye lens, I tried my best to keep my eyes open – I love hail hitting me right in the eye. It's awesome!

But the shot? Not all that terrible if I say so myself, even with the low light conditions. The effect of a 10mm can be quite spectacular.

And after some time, talking with him about his job, and his recent shoot highlighting the bush meat trade, I realized that such a job was not for me – and never would be. Yes it was adventurous, and glamorous, but to be away so long, and to face dangerous beyond anything I had ever anticipated as a child, flipping through that yellow bordered magazine, which was always held with such respect – the only magazine that could never be torn apart or cut up for school projects. Next time I look through the shoots contained within I'll not be able to view them without questioning just how they were taken, what lengths the photographers went to to obtain them, and just how spectacular they truly were.

Earlier Jason had shown an image of a kangaroo Joey snapped within its mothers pouch. Seeing it I just though, well of course that picture exists, a good photographer can take pictures of anything. Not for a second did I anticipate all that had to come into balance for such a shot. Jason showed up at a gas station in Australia at the same time as a researched who had worked with a specific kangaroo years past pulled in to fill up. That specific kangaroo just happened to be passing the area at the same time, and was noticed to have a Joey on board. After some quick conversation, it was decided that perhaps Jason could get close enough to take the shot. Crawling on his belly, while the researcher worked the animal Jason got close. He attached a ring flash to his lens, and guessed the distance from the end of his lens, to the baby within the pouch – there would be only one shot at this. Slowly the researcher eased open the pouch, and Jason slipped the camera inside: Bang! Bang! Bang! Three shots were hammered out, the lens was removed the pouch was closed, and the kangaroo bounded off back across the desert.

The result? Beautiful, eerie, spectacular. And the result of an almost impossible succession of events. Next time I see view the works of great photographers I'll not just see the image and judge whether I like it or not. No, now I will be aware of the whole store, the one that happens out of frame, beyond where even the widest lens can shoot. I'll view the story of the person behind the glass.

When I went inside, leaving Jason alone on the bow, no doubt reenacting the scene from Titanic, I was met with stifled laughter and chuckles as I headed into the forward lounge, where all the passengers were watching the daily recap. Apparently I looked quite cold, quite wet, and quite humorous.

At dinner I heard tales of at least two other cameras meeting a terrible fate through the course of the day. Others, surely, had come to a tragic end as well.

And after dinner there was a round of “Guess my Antarctic Bluff” where a word was given, and three definitions were displayed. It was up to each team (from 2 – 6 people) to guess the correct definition to the word. Our meager team of three worked to the best of our ability – getting the first word wrong, but then nailing the next six. If you've ever wondered what a FUD was, I think you should do the research and discover the truth behind that acronym. It's a goody. When we missed the final word, number eight, I was crushed. And slightly annoyed. Still – when all was tallied it seemed our team had won. Not only had we won, but with six correct answers we might have been the best team to have ever played. I still felt bad about missing number 8, but the bottle of wine we received helped smooth everything over.

It would be saved for next night's dinner. For now I was off to sleep, camera beside me on the floor. I began to read Exit Wounds – an Inspector Rebus novel – by Ian Rankin for a few moments. The foggy world of underground Edinburgh was enrapturing, but I could only keep open my eyes for so long, and then I was asleep.

Antarctica Continent Proper

At about one thirty in the morning I found myself on the floor of my cabin. A perfect start to a perfect day.

Apparently the rough waters weren't all behind us. Though we were hugging the coast, the waves were still picking up, and the swells still spilling things around the room. Namely, me. At one thirty I was woken up by the feeling of my body connecting with the floor. Once more, I must ask why they put the beds aligned from bow to stern on the fourth floor? None of the other beds are set up this way, for the very reason that you will be rocked out of them this way.

It seems everything works on the lower, cheaper, decks – but once you're in the more expensive cabins things just stop making sense, and start falling apart. Still – I have my window. And, you know, that's lovely. Every night I try to get my four hundred dollars of excitement out of it. I'm sure I'm doing very well in that regard. Not to mention the piece of cardboard from a 100 Pipers Scotch box is working wonders, jammed into the frame, preventing an ear piercing screech as metal rubs against metal with every swell.

Sleeping through rough waters is one thing, and not that hard until you fall with great force, but going to sleep, when you're ever conscious of the need to keep balanced? That's a far more difficult task. I do believe it was about an hour later that I finally returned to slumber. As we were surrounded by fog, I couldn't even count the passing icebergs to help me drift off.

Five hours later I woke up, and grabbed a quick shower, followed by a quicker breakfast. Once more I rushed to put on winter socks, thermal pants, pants, thermal shirt, shirt, gloves, toque, jacket, wet pants, and boots. I felt like Thomas in his snowsuit. especially when it dawned on me that I needed to use the washroom. Curses!

When I was in the mud room I decided that I wanted to take a picture of the life jackets. I don't know why I felt I should do that, as I'd already taken one – and really... not that exciting of a shot. Still, as I turned my camera on and pressed the shutter I was welcomed with a message telling me I had no memory card. It was in my room, plunged into the laptop as I backed up images! Up two flights of stairs I ran, down the hall, grabbing the card, and then running back again just in time to make the last boat as we headed for yet another landing.

This would be our chance to step out onto the Antarctica continent proper. Not just an island, or an ice field, but that honest to goodness, ground under your feet, connected to oh so much more ground, continental Antarctica. This would also be the first time my waterproof pants with waterproof socks attached to them, would be put to the test. Yes, I'd stepped in buckets of cleaning fluids momentarily in them already, and yes they said they were waterproof – but my rain coat says it's waterproof too – and that is a boldfaced lie! Swinging my legs up and over the zodiac I plunged into the icy water, up to my knees. Huh – still dry. Good. What a wonderful thing to have! I'm sure I'll find all sorts of uses for these pants in the future – hiking through streams, fishing in rivers and lakes, I don't know – they're waterproof – and have little feety socky things in them. There much be more uses!

I walked up the rocky beach, which surprised me as I pictured this part of the world as nothing more than snow and ice. To see bare rock? Well that's not what television had led me to believe!

For the first time this trip, the sun started to come out. The clouds were burned away, and blue sky became the dominant feature in just about every photograph. The sky helped accent the blues in the ice floating off in the ocean, and worked to contrast the snow peaks. It was a beautiful day on land, helped along by two molting penguin colonies. Just as I'd done in South Africa, I took pictures of the birds with a little penguin toy my aunt had lent me for just such an occasion.

Sitting on the snow, I found myself watching them more than I'd intended to. I didn't think I cared about penguins – but once you see them, all small, fluffy, cuddly, and waddling around like a small child – it's hard not to personify them, and want to give them a wee squeeze. Still, we made sure to keep a good five meters away from them at all times, lest they walk towards us – which they didn't. This upset many of the travellers. Apparently some people come here to hold penguins. A reasonable goal, destined for tragic disappointment.

Hundreds of pictures later, exploring this part of the ice, and the other, we re-boarded the zodiacs and headed back to the MS Expedition. Three hours we'd walked around on Antarctica. For three hours we enjoyed the sun, the snow, the pieces of ice floating in the water (if you hear cracking, run – don't look back – just run, those pieces can snap your ankle in two.) and watching as large pieces of cliff-side snow breaking off, and tumbling into the waters below.

It was spectacular, and I couldn't help but feel – someone like me? It doesn't seem like I have any right to be in a place like this. But once again it just goes to show how easy travel is. It's not for certain types of people, it doesn't require much work or effort. Anyone can make it to Antarctica if they really want – I know people who spend more on alcohol in a year than this trip would cost. It's all about choices. Anyone can come and walk these pristine landscapes, and view this unimaginable expanse – and after seeing it for myself? I think everyone should.

In the afternoon we took to the seas in the zodiacs and cruised around islands, past more sheets of ice, and through waters seldom glimpsed. Floating amongst the pieces of oxygenated ice, white, tinted blue, was a piece of ice nearly completely its own element. Rather than opaque, it was perfectly clear, a beautiful floating gemstone, dark against the water's surface.

Our boat, driven by one of the guides, pushed beyond the distance of where the others dared to travel. We found caves in icebergs, and pressed through the floating crystalline surfaces glimpsing skies wrought with emotion, clouds formed liked waves against the horizon. And in the distance a small seal played in the water, flipping above the surface, only to dive under once more, waving with its fin, as if it wanted us to come closer.

We were led, it seemed, to a large flat piece of blue ice bobbing with the passing waves, on which three other seals lay, perfectly displayed against the blue black expanse closing in on all sides.

While in some drives it may seem a waste if large animals are not glimpsed, here in Antarctica, simply being out on the water, and taking in a landscape that looks so different than any other place on Earth, the scenery is more than enough to satisfy. I've seen snow, and I've seen ice all my life. I've seen water frozen over, and ice floating as it waits in macabre fashion for the thaw, but I'd never before seen such a place as this.

Back on the ship we were greeted with a mug of hot chocolate, mixed with a splash of peppermint schnapps and Bailey's. If there is a better way to enter the warmth from out in the cold, I could not think of it. And for the next few hours we talked about what we had seen, and sat in circles all saying the same thing, “isn't it amazing?” Half hearted plots of hijack the ship so as we would never have to leave were formulated. Well, never leave until the food stores ran low, and the water tanks ran dry. Then we could leave – but not until!