South Georgia
“You said this was a short cut. Look at me. I’m up to my navel in water and the bottom isn’t even solid. It’s mud. Gooey gummy mud. Just how do you think we are ever going to get ourselves out of here? What a fine kettle of soup we’re in now. Every inch of the beach is covered with those furry critters with sharp teeth and nasty dispositions. The stream is blocked by a snoring sack of blubber. Giant bipeds with bright red coats have appeared from who knows where. And what have you done? Led us into this viscous mess!”
How tempting it is to anthropomorphize when mini-dramas seem to be playing out all around us and when the body language exhibited is so much like our own. Even if we resist one does wonder what possibly could be going on in the mind of these birds, if anything at all. Do they know they are in a sticky situation?
It couldn’t have happened. Today must have been a dream. From sunrise to sunset life exploded around us. We tremble, not from the cold but from excitement. We have to start with tonight because it is so fresh in our minds. Southern right whale! The dining room is deserted as rapidly as the words are uttered. South Georgia provided a dramatic rosy backdrop. Glacial ice flowed pink from jagged mountain peaks. Sinuous curves of blue-gray outlined with crimson danced across the sky and a giant flaming cetacean-like cloud was reflected in the deep dark water and on the glistening back of a whale. Back and forth it went from one side of the ship to the other tracing arching loops across our bow. Its shovel-like jaw scooped huge volumes of krill laden waters into the yawing maw. Long dark plates of baleen draped from the upper jaw hiding the pinkish palate that could only be seen when it approached us head on. From the front the rostrum was rectangular and small, topped with white callosities. Two giant nostrils released a heart-shaped blow. Its body was small for its kind, a youngster perhaps and like all teens unbelievably flexible. The head arched upwards from the body attaining the perfect position to skim through the surface waters while still flexing the flukes and tail stock for forward propulsion. At times it seemed to circle back upon itself like a dog chasing its tail.
And what about the rest of the day? Elsehul Bay was rimmed by steep forbidding cliffs. Only tiny rims of rocky beaches rested in its scalloped edges. But in spite of its foreboding countenance, barely an inch was unclaimed. From on high amidst the tussack grass, gray-headed albatross looked down. Their blue-eyed neighbors of the shag variety preferred the less vegetated edges. Where the grass was gone but still high above the sea, Macaroni penguins had their colony. Their golden crests waved in the breeze and flopped with every bouncing step as they worked their way from the surging surf and up a rocky stairwell. Tiny clusters of gentoos were scattered here and there and nearby king penguins stood sentinel watching over the squirming masses at the water’s edge. If either of the latter two decided to head out to feed, their passage was very much like one trying to cross a battlefield and remain uninvolved. Thousands of fur seals filled every inch of space not occupied by wide-eyed elephant seals. Bulls were in constant motion defending their own against youthful gangs positioned to rape and harass any female left alone. Tiny black pups suckled while slightly older ones dozed in groups waiting for mothers to return from their feeding forays away at sea. Northern and southern giant petrels swooped in to snatch the feeble or dead and squabbled amongst themselves as to who would claim the prize.
Not far away along the northern shore, glaciers dumped into the Bay of Isles. The thinning tongues of Grace and Lucas left a broad and level surface, Salisbury Plain. One expects braided streams to weave across this land but one might never have imagined a river of penguins to flow from the hillsides. Two hundred thousand king penguins murmured and crowed, their voices blending into a symphonic sound. Shaggy “oakum boys,” their long brown downy feathers looking like old fur coats, stood ankle deep in the streams. Their older “cousins” marched about wearing wild wigs or silly skirts where adult plumage had yet to be attained. Moulting adults stood stock still exerting as little energy as possible while their plumage turned from sleek and regal gray to moth-eaten shaggy clumps. Others were in their prime and courting couples allopreened or hopeful males fenced to gain their chosen’s favor. Parades of penguins came and went from the plain to the shore, tiptoeing around dozing fur seals and only just occasionally wallowing through the mud.
“You said this was a short cut. Look at me. I’m up to my navel in water and the bottom isn’t even solid. It’s mud. Gooey gummy mud. Just how do you think we are ever going to get ourselves out of here? What a fine kettle of soup we’re in now. Every inch of the beach is covered with those furry critters with sharp teeth and nasty dispositions. The stream is blocked by a snoring sack of blubber. Giant bipeds with bright red coats have appeared from who knows where. And what have you done? Led us into this viscous mess!”
How tempting it is to anthropomorphize when mini-dramas seem to be playing out all around us and when the body language exhibited is so much like our own. Even if we resist one does wonder what possibly could be going on in the mind of these birds, if anything at all. Do they know they are in a sticky situation?
It couldn’t have happened. Today must have been a dream. From sunrise to sunset life exploded around us. We tremble, not from the cold but from excitement. We have to start with tonight because it is so fresh in our minds. Southern right whale! The dining room is deserted as rapidly as the words are uttered. South Georgia provided a dramatic rosy backdrop. Glacial ice flowed pink from jagged mountain peaks. Sinuous curves of blue-gray outlined with crimson danced across the sky and a giant flaming cetacean-like cloud was reflected in the deep dark water and on the glistening back of a whale. Back and forth it went from one side of the ship to the other tracing arching loops across our bow. Its shovel-like jaw scooped huge volumes of krill laden waters into the yawing maw. Long dark plates of baleen draped from the upper jaw hiding the pinkish palate that could only be seen when it approached us head on. From the front the rostrum was rectangular and small, topped with white callosities. Two giant nostrils released a heart-shaped blow. Its body was small for its kind, a youngster perhaps and like all teens unbelievably flexible. The head arched upwards from the body attaining the perfect position to skim through the surface waters while still flexing the flukes and tail stock for forward propulsion. At times it seemed to circle back upon itself like a dog chasing its tail.
And what about the rest of the day? Elsehul Bay was rimmed by steep forbidding cliffs. Only tiny rims of rocky beaches rested in its scalloped edges. But in spite of its foreboding countenance, barely an inch was unclaimed. From on high amidst the tussack grass, gray-headed albatross looked down. Their blue-eyed neighbors of the shag variety preferred the less vegetated edges. Where the grass was gone but still high above the sea, Macaroni penguins had their colony. Their golden crests waved in the breeze and flopped with every bouncing step as they worked their way from the surging surf and up a rocky stairwell. Tiny clusters of gentoos were scattered here and there and nearby king penguins stood sentinel watching over the squirming masses at the water’s edge. If either of the latter two decided to head out to feed, their passage was very much like one trying to cross a battlefield and remain uninvolved. Thousands of fur seals filled every inch of space not occupied by wide-eyed elephant seals. Bulls were in constant motion defending their own against youthful gangs positioned to rape and harass any female left alone. Tiny black pups suckled while slightly older ones dozed in groups waiting for mothers to return from their feeding forays away at sea. Northern and southern giant petrels swooped in to snatch the feeble or dead and squabbled amongst themselves as to who would claim the prize.
Not far away along the northern shore, glaciers dumped into the Bay of Isles. The thinning tongues of Grace and Lucas left a broad and level surface, Salisbury Plain. One expects braided streams to weave across this land but one might never have imagined a river of penguins to flow from the hillsides. Two hundred thousand king penguins murmured and crowed, their voices blending into a symphonic sound. Shaggy “oakum boys,” their long brown downy feathers looking like old fur coats, stood ankle deep in the streams. Their older “cousins” marched about wearing wild wigs or silly skirts where adult plumage had yet to be attained. Moulting adults stood stock still exerting as little energy as possible while their plumage turned from sleek and regal gray to moth-eaten shaggy clumps. Others were in their prime and courting couples allopreened or hopeful males fenced to gain their chosen’s favor. Parades of penguins came and went from the plain to the shore, tiptoeing around dozing fur seals and only just occasionally wallowing through the mud.
