Antarctica

Surprise - one more treat!

And there I was thinking the cruise wasn’t going to deliver much more, that it might be time to neatly wrap up the blog… but was I wrong — so very, very wrong.

Last night we quietly cleared customs — or rather, the ship’s crew did it all seamlessly for us, yet another reminder of just how well looked after we’ve been on this journey. We enjoyed dinner with our new best friends, sharing stories, laughs and that slightly bittersweet feeling that comes when you know something special is drawing to a close.

Later there was a ship’s farewell, where the Captain shared a few final reflections — including the rather staggering fact that we have travelled 2,800 nautical miles, which is roughly 5,186 kilometres. Yikes. When you hear it put like that, it really brings home just how remote and hard-won Antarctica truly is. It doesn’t give itself up easily — and that somehow makes the experience even more meaningful.

A great night’s sleep was had by all, and then it was up early again — because Antarctica and her neighbours clearly weren’t done with us yet.

Overnight we had relocated to the Garibaldi Fjord, and what a change of scenery. It’s raining, the air feels softer, and we’re suddenly surrounded by tree-lined mountains, snow-capped peaks, countless waterfalls and fields of broken ice calved from the glacier. It feels wild, dramatic and almost theatrical — nature showing off one last time.

Our Zodiac cruise lasts a generous 75 minutes, and we’re now at a very “temperate” 6 degrees Celsius, which feels positively balmy after what we’ve experienced — just one layer needed. Down to the mud room we go (which we truly thought we’d seen for the last time), waterproofs on, life jackets zipped up, and off we head once more.

The ice here is dense, so our Zodiac driver navigates carefully, the propeller occasionally complaining as we nudge past small chunks of ice — including the ominously named “growlers,” which bump gently against the boat as if reminding us who’s really in charge. It’s slow, deliberate and utterly absorbing.

Wildlife appears everywhere you look: Kelp geese, ducks, fur seals, Imperial cormorants, turkey vultures, and then — soaring high above — the magnificent Andean condor, effortlessly riding the air currents. And of course, dominating the fjord, is the Garibaldi Glacier, one of the few glaciers in the world that is actually growing. A rare and hopeful sight in a changing world.

It is, quite simply, a brilliant morning — calm, beautiful, reflective — the perfect final Zodiac cruise to round out an extraordinary journey.

Now it’s time to pack and begin the long journey home. We still have one more night on the ship, though, and it wouldn’t be complete without one last win — thanks to the sheer brilliance of Johnny Boy, we scored 40 out of 40 in the “guess the song and artist” trivia challenge, identified by just a single instrument and a few seconds of music. A fitting end — triumphant, joyful, and full of laughs.

What a way to finish. What a journey.

On our way sailing out of the West Beagle Channel, we passed through a stretch aptly named Iceberg Alley — and what a treat it turned out to be. The weather couldn’t decide what mood it was in, gifting us rain one moment and bursts of sunshine the next, each transformation revealing the landscape in a different light. Waterfalls spilled down the mountainsides, birdlife filled the skies, and around every bend another glacier appeared, each one more dramatic than the last. It felt like nature’s final encore, a reminder that this wild, remote corner of the world still had plenty to show us.

Now it’s time to pack and begin the long journey home. We still have one more night on the ship, though, and it wouldn’t be complete without one last win — thanks to the sheer brilliance of Johnny Boy, we scored 40 out of 40 in the “guess the song and artist” trivia challenge, identified by just a single instrument and a few seconds of music. A fitting end — triumphant, joyful, and full of laughs.

What a way to finish. What a journey.

A Sensible Retreat – Drake Decisions and Weather Wisdom

Ding dong — the unmistakable announcement from the Bridge, the kind that instantly sharpens your attention.

Due to a severe storm building in the Drake Passage, we were advised that the decision had been made to leave a day early. The forecast promised a particularly rough crossing, and the Captain, once again demonstrating calm authority and sound judgement, chose caution over bravado.

This is very much part of the Antarctic bargain. When you sign up for a journey to the end of the world, you are also signing up for uncertainty. You can come all this way and be unlucky — swells too big for kayaking, winds too strong for Zodiac landings, weather that dictates rather than negotiates. This reality is spelled out clearly right from the beginning and reinforced throughout the expedition’s communications. Nature always has the final say down here.

So, in our case, we started a day late and we are finishing a day early.

Sitting now in the sheltered harbour back in Chile, right at the start of the Beagle Channel, I’ve had a look at the live conditions in the Drake Passage — and it confirms just how good the decision was. They are currently experiencing 35-knot winds, waves reaching 4.5 metres, and a 3-metre swell running underneath. Not something you want to be tackling unless absolutely necessary. Once again, hats off to the Captain and Crew for reading the conditions and acting decisively.

The crossing itself was a little rough in parts — not helped, if I’m honest, by the fact that I may have indulged in one cocktail too many the night before. That aside, she was largely Drake the Lake. A relief, to say the least. We’ve now crossed the Drake three times on this voyage, which is unusual in itself, and while she was certainly “energetic” on occasions, she was manageable. More importantly, it was very clear that every possible step was taken to make the journey as comfortable as conditions allowed — something this crew does exceptionally well.

Despite missing a day in South Georgia due to weather and the delayed start earlier in the trip, there has been plenty of flexibility built into the schedule. Excursions were doubled up, days were fuller and busier than originally planned, and in truth, had the weather been blue skies and calm seas throughout, we may not have packed quite so much into each day. It was intense at times, but never disappointing.

Most importantly, it hasn’t dampened anyone’s spirits. We saw what we came to see — and then some. The only things missing from our Antarctic wish list were Orcas and Macaroni penguins. And given that we were lucky enough to see Orcas in Canada previously, I feel very comfortable saying that the Antarctic bucket list has been well and truly ticked.

From here, the plan is to pick up a Pilot to guide us safely back to Puerto Williams, where we’ll stay overnight on the ship. After that, we’ll enjoy a tour of the Chilean Fjords, including a visit to the spectacular Garibaldi Fjord — a fittingly scenic way to wind down from the extremes of Antarctica.

Then it’s back to Puerto Williams, a flight to Santiago, two more days there to gently re-enter civilisation, and finally… home.

We have absolutely loved travelling with Silversea. From the moment we stepped on board, the care, professionalism and genuine warmth of the crew has been exceptional. We’ve met some truly wonderful people along the way — fellow travellers who have shared this once-in-a-lifetime experience with us — and they are not the kind of connections you simply wave goodbye to. We will most certainly make the effort to see many of them again, wherever in the world that may be.

And then there is the food — quite simply unbelievable. Expedition cruising does not mean compromise, and Silversea proves that at every meal. The quality, variety and presentation have been extraordinary. The brunch buffet the other day was a perfect example — and the photos only show about half of it. Fresh seafood, pastries, hot dishes, fruit, desserts… it was indulgent in the very best way and a constant reminder of just how well looked after we have been, even at the ends of the Earth.

As we reflect on this journey, we’re acutely aware of how fortunate we are. Fewer than 0.01% of the world’s population will ever visit the White Continent, and to be among them is a privilege we will carry with us forever. Antarctica has humbled us, thrilled us, challenged us and filled us with awe — and we leave with hearts full, memories etched deep, and an immense sense of gratitude.

An extraordinary journey, shaped by ice, weather, wildlife and human kindness — exactly as Antarctica, and this voyage, intended.

Day 4 - Last Day in Antarctica

Last night felt like Antarctica’s way of giving us a final, unforgettable send-off.

As we departed for our next destination, the sea transformed into something utterly unexpected — not the heaving, slate-grey Southern Ocean we had come to respect, but a surface as smooth as a lake. Calm, glassy, almost reverent. And above it all, the light never faded. In this part of the world darkness simply doesn’t bother to turn up, so whale watching becomes a 24-hour privilege rather than a daytime activity.

And what a night it was.

From the decks, from the lounge windows, from anywhere you happened to be standing, whales appeared — everywhere. Blow after blow broke the stillness, tall white plumes hanging briefly in the cold air before dissolving. Then the dark backs, the slow rolling motion, the unmistakable grace of creatures entirely at home in this vast, icy world.

We saw humpback whales in extraordinary numbers — easily twenty, perhaps closer to thirty — some travelling solo, others in loose groups. Their movements were unhurried, confident, almost lazy, as though they knew there was no need to rush anywhere at all. Occasionally a fluke would rise cleanly out of the water before slipping back beneath the surface, a moment so perfect it felt choreographed.

Mixed among them were fin whales — sleeker, longer, more understated, but no less impressive. They cut through the water with purpose, their sheer size becoming apparent only when you realised just how much ocean they displaced without effort. Seeing humpbacks and fin whales together like this, in such calm conditions, felt incredibly rare — one of those moments you know cannot be planned, only gifted.

The ship glided silently through it all, engines subdued, everyone speaking in hushed voices as if afraid to break the spell. People drifted from side to side of the deck, pointing quietly, sharing binoculars, smiling at strangers like old friends. There was no rush inside — no dinners pulling people away, no announcements urging us on. Just whales, light, and water.

It felt like Antarctica was saying goodbye in its own language — not with drama or storms, but with abundance. A reminder of just how alive these waters are, how privileged we have been to witness them, and how small we are within it all.

Neumayer Channel – Early Morning Magic

This morning it was an early start, up at 6am, as we sailed through the Neumayer Channel — and what a way to begin the day. It was like a Zodiac cruise, but with the ship itself gliding silently between land so close you almost felt you could reach out and touch it.

Towering cliffs of snow rose straight from the sea, immense and imposing, their scale almost impossible to comprehend. It was snowing heavily — not driving or harsh, but big, chunky yet delicate flakes that settled softly on our clothes and lashes, refusing to melt straight away. One of those moments where everything feels hushed, as if Antarctica herself is asking you to speak quietly.

It was bitterly cold, the kind that creeps in slowly and reminds you exactly where you are in the world, but none of us cared. The majesty of the Antarctic Peninsula was on full display — dramatic, raw and utterly beautiful. A landscape that feels ancient, untouched, and humbling in a way few places ever manage.

Standing there, watching the snow fall against sheer white cliffs, I felt incredibly small — and incredibly lucky.

Demoy Point

Today’s landing took us to Demoy Point, a small, windswept outpost with a quiet but significant history. This is the site of a disused British Antarctic Territory base, still maintained and, on rare occasions like this, opened to visitors with special permission. It once served as a vital stopping point when aircraft couldn’t fly directly into Antarctica, a reminder of how complex and precarious logistics are in this part of the world.

Stepping ashore, the first thing that struck me was just how basic everything is. The hut itself is functional rather than comfortable, built purely for survival rather than ease. It’s humbling to walk through knowing how we live onboard the ship — plush duvets, central heating, hot showers, and beautifully prepared meals — and then to see the stark simplicity of life here. It makes you feel quietly grateful, and perhaps a little indulgent.

We were allowed to walk a loop around the island, which revealed a Gentoo penguin colony, busy and purposeful as always. Among them was a single Chinstrap penguin, standing out like a lone guest at the wrong party — and I was quietly pleased to recognise it immediately. I’m getting rather good at identifying my penguins now.

Today was bitterly cold, the kind of cold that seeps through layers and makes you question your clothing choices. It was the first day I genuinely felt underdressed, despite all the gear. Snow fell steadily, and while the landscape was undeniably beautiful, there was also a sense of familiarity creeping in — that feeling of groundhog day, where white snow, rock, and penguins blur into a repeating rhythm.

The hut was interesting, thought-provoking even, but the walk itself felt a little same same. Still, Demoy Point earns its place in the story — not for spectacle, but for what it represents: endurance, ingenuity, and a stark contrast to the comfort from which we now explore this extraordinary part of the world.

Pelter Channel – Our Final Antarctic Adventure

Lunch today was Flavours of India—always a favourite and a welcome warm-up—before we layered up once again for what would turn out to be our final Zodiac adventure in Antarctica. With weather systems on the move and another Drake crossing looming, there was a sense that every moment now needed to be savoured.

We set off for a Zodiac cruise through the Pelter Channel, accompanied by one of our exceptionally knowledgeable guides. The depth of expertise among the expedition team never ceased to amaze me—every question answered, every detail layered with context, history, and science.

Our first stop was a Chilean research station, primarily focused on meteorology. As seems to be the rule rather than the exception down here, it was shared with a resident penguin colony—Gentoos, of course, who appear to have secured prime Antarctic real estate everywhere we go. This was also our first encounter with what are affectionately known as the “Antarctic chickens”—the Snowy Sheathbill. These curious birds are the only land birds native to Antarctica and notably the only Antarctic bird without webbed feet, happily strutting about like they own the place.

On day one, we photographed penguins relentlessly—left, right, and centre. Now, like a third child in a family, they really have to do something spectacular to earn a photo. Standards have risen dramatically.

The conditions today were raw. Bitter cold, heavy swell, and a landscape stripped back to a stark monochrome palette—black granite peaks coated in glossy white snow, dark steel-grey water chopped up by wind and swell, and big flakes of snow drifting in and out. I had layers everywhere. For the first time on this trip, I have almost worn everything I packed, which is unheard of for me.

The swell made Zodiac operations challenging, with multiple crew members assisting each embarkation and disembarkation. Once underway, the ride itself was hairy—not for the faint-hearted. I had to remind John how to properly use his life jacket… just in case. My arms are going to feel it tomorrow from gripping on so tightly.

We rounded a headland and entered another bay, greeted by the dramatic outline of the Seven Sisters—seven peaks of black granite rising steeply from the sea, today mostly shrouded in cloud. Snow fell on and off, big soft flakes that somehow made everything feel quieter and more intense at the same time.

More penguin colonies appeared along the shoreline, and here the chicks were noticeably larger, now too big to tuck neatly under mum or dad’s belly. Watching them being fed—captured beautifully on video—was one of those moments where you just stop and stare. The rhythm of life here continues regardless of the cold, the wind, or our presence.

Throughout the cruise, we learned more about breeding cycles, sea ice, snow accumulation, and the delicate balance of this environment. The sheer knowledge of the guides is staggering—they bring this frozen world to life in a way that makes you appreciate just how privileged we are to witness it.

Returning to the ship required one final leap of faith—timing the swell just right. I slightly misjudged it but somehow landed cleanly on both feet. Crisis averted.

And just like that, our Antarctic adventures came to an end.

Now, we turn north once more, running from yet another weather system and preparing for a two-day crossing of the Drake Passage. Whether those extra “owed” days turn into a smooth ride or a rough farewell remains to be seen—but whatever lies ahead, Antarctica has already given us more than we ever dared to imagine.

Polar Plunge - 1st Jan 2026

I did it.

Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun… but who the hell jumps into Antarctic waters?
(And yes, I now know it’s technically not an ocean — we learned that in a heated Trivia battle.)

I have to admit, when you sign the medical waiver it is truly something else. It absolves Silversea of all liability — from you, your spouse, your siblings, your great uncle, and your second cousin twice removed. Honestly, that document is written specifically to put you off.

John was excluded immediately. You have to be a confident, experienced swimmer and, having only learned to swim as an adult, he was very much off the hook. Which meant it was up to me to fly the Thompson flag.

When Dad passed away, we found a book on the SAS. He was a founding member of the Rhodesian SAS division — a hero in every sense of the word. He appears in the book, and we also found a message he had written on a Malayan dollar:
“Leap before you look.”
He was in the parachute regiment. That message has stayed with me.

So this plunge was for Dad — pushing myself well and truly out of my comfort zone. Who dares wins.

And it was also for another very special friend, bravely battling an illness no one deserves. CC, this one was for you ❤️.

So… what was it like?

To be perfectly honest, I was shit scared.

People were coming out of the mud room after doing it, saying how horrible it was. We were standing around in bathers and bathrobes, supposedly “acclimatising”, but let me tell you — my butt cheeks were clenched tighter than I thought humanly possible.

I was about 20th in the queue when they suddenly called for any singles.
#$%*!
That was me.

Straight to the front I went, paired with my Polar Plunge buddy, Lorry. We were fitted with belts and before I really had time to overthink it — boom, that was it.

You can see the rest in the video.

It was over before you knew it — and it was soooo good. I was absolutely buzzing. You don’t actually think about the cold; my only concern was getting up the ladder fast enough so Lorry didn’t have to wait. There’s a brief brain freeze, then suddenly the blood rushes everywhere and you feel unbelievably hot.

And that was that.

I did it.
I made it.

And may 2026 continue in exactly that vein.

Day 3 - New Years Day

First Stop Cierva Cove

OMG this morning was completely out of this world. Feeling very dusty after a late one by our standards — we rang in the New Year dancing, singing and perhaps indulging in a few too many cocktails — but this is Antarctica and early mornings are non-negotiable.

We woke to gently falling snow and an exceptionally calm day at Cierva Cove, where we headed out on a Zodiac cruise through the icebergs. Apparently, we had just missed a large berg breaking up, leaving the sea scattered with crushed ice. It was unimaginably beautiful — the sort of scene that looks fake even when you are standing right in the middle of it.

As we had breakfast, whales were frolicking nearby, penguins porpoised around the ship, and some even took advantage of the ship’s thrusters when it hovered in place, creating a natural penguin jacuzzi. Honestly, only in Antarctica.

Once out on the water, we were treated to a wonderful surprise — an ice bar floating on the sea, complete with champagne or hot chocolate. Snow falling, icebergs surrounding us, drink in hand… it was one of those moments you know you will never forget.

The Zodiac cruise itself was sublime. With hardly any wind, it felt almost warm despite the snow. We spotted a whale literally sleeping — completely motionless, floating on the surface, so still it almost looked unreal. Then more penguins — Chinstraps first, then Gentoos — popping up everywhere. I can’t believe I’m even saying this, but you do start to feel spoiled. Oh look, another penguin porpoising… and another.

Then came the real showstopper: the most active pod of whales we have seen so far — three, we think. Whales come to Antarctica to feed, not play, so seeing them breach like this was incredibly rare. Wow, wow, wow. Words genuinely fail.

After that, we cruised past an Argentine base with a Gentoo penguin colony, watching them dive into the water and leap out again — all captured on video for you to see.

And then, sadly, it was time to return to the ship. But honestly — what a way to start 2026. Spectacular doesn’t even come close.

Mikkelson Harbor

This afternoon, after lunch and a quick siesta for John (it was a big night), we were back in the Zodiacs for a short ride into Mikkelsen Harbor. Once again, we were surrounded by towering granite rocks draped in snow, the white so smooth and glossy it looked like perfectly beaten icing on a cake.

The harbour itself was calm, and after a brief Zodiac ride we landed on a small island that houses an emergency shelter. We’re not allowed inside, but it’s reassuring to know it’s there if ever needed in this remote part of the world. The island is also home to a Gentoo penguin colony and their chicks—and oh my goodness, the smell. With the ice melted, the penguin poo was next level. Truly eye-watering. John’s Tiger Balm got a serious workout, and quite often I could hear him retching behind me. I deliberately did not turn around… self-preservation.

It really drove home just how lucky we’ve been on all our other landings. Yes, there’s always a smell, but this was about ten times stronger than anything we’d experienced so far.

Some penguins were perched on rocky nests, patiently awaiting the hatching of their eggs. They usually lay two, though generally only one chick survives. There’s a short video of one very attentive parent with two healthy-looking chicks—heart-melting stuff.

This was also once an old whaling port, and remnants of that era remain: whale bones scattered about and a water boat that was used to collect snow, which would then melt and be stored for fresh water. Ingenious really, especially when there’s no Bunnings around the corner for a water tank.

Back on the ship, we now await the call for the Polar Plunge. Will I do it? Jury’s still out. One thing is certain—John is well and truly off the hook.

Day 2 – Antarctic Continental Landing and Zodiac Cruise

Today was the day we finally set foot on Antarctica itself. There isn’t a great deal of wildlife at this particular landing site, but that’s the trade-off for accessing the continent. Much of Antarctica is made up of sheer rock faces, towering glaciers and ice cliffs, which makes landings almost impossible in many places. This is one of the few locations where it can be done safely.

Before we landed, we headed out on a 45-minute Zodiac cruise through a maze of icebergs. These were not just icebergs, but the kind that stop you in your tracks. Their bases glowed an impossibly deep blue – ice so old and so compressed that it contains less than five percent air. Because of this density, red and green light can’t penetrate it, leaving only that intense, luminous blue. Photos simply cannot do it justice.

It was snowing steadily, and it was bitterly cold. The kind of cold that creeps in slowly and then suddenly you realise your hands are blocks of ice. As you look through the photos and videos, please spare a thought for my fingers.

We were incredibly lucky to spot a Leopard Seal, which is always something special. As apex predators, they are not commonly seen. This one was stretched out on a floating piece of ice, completely relaxed, gently rocking with the swell, as if being lulled to sleep. Powerful, beautiful, and utterly indifferent to our presence.

From there we cruised past what the guides affectionately referred to as a Chinstrap Penguin “shower room.” This is where the penguins come down from the rookery roughly once a week to bathe and feed. They gorge themselves before swapping roles with their partner – one heads back up to the nest while the other goes off to fish and clean up. Watching them launch themselves into the water and then later haul their way back up the ice was both comical and impressive.

And then came the moment.

It was finally time to step onto the 7th continent.

For both John and me, Antarctica completes the set – our last continent. Something I never truly imagined I would be able to say. We walked ashore onto a rocky landing, because Antarctica doesn’t offer sandy beaches or gentle welcomes. Everything here is raw and real.

Before anyone is allowed to walk, a mountain and crevasse specialist carefully checks the area for snow overhangs and hidden crevices. Safe routes are plotted, and danger zones are clearly marked with crossed flags. It is meticulous, calm, and incredibly well organised – reassuring in such an unforgiving environment.

Walking on the snow is harder than it looks. It’s soft, deep, and constantly shifting underfoot. Every step requires effort, especially with bulky boots and layers, but nothing could dampen the moment. I was completely unfazed. I was standing on Antarctica.

Along the way we encountered Gentoo Penguins, waddling purposefully through the snow, and then, as if the day hadn’t already given us enough, we saw a Weddell Seal stretched out and giving itself the most enthusiastic belly scratch imaginable. Completely at ease. Completely content. Completely unforgettable.

Cold, snowing, windswept, and utterly extraordinary.
Just amazing.

Day 2 - Palaver Point

Chinstraps Everywhere

This morning we awoke to the words we have been waiting over a year to hear:
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have arrived in Antarctica.”
Well… not strictly the Antarctic continent itself, but an island within the Antarctic Peninsula — and honestly, it felt just as momentous.

This trip has been frozen in time for over a year, every other holiday put on ice (pardon the pun) as we saved and planned for this once-in-a-lifetime adventure. To finally be here, snow falling softly, icebergs drifting past like silent sculptures, and whales surfacing calmly nearby — it is both surreal and deeply emotional. Antarctica is delivering in spades.

Today’s landing was at Palaver Point, home to a bustling Chinstrap Penguin rookery. It was a rocky, snowy landing followed by a steady uphill climb — slippery underfoot, snowy, and let’s be honest… a bit pongy. Thankfully, John was on standby with the Tiger Balm.

My boots, chosen deliberately oversized for warmth, made walking in deep snow a bit comical — one giant step for the boot, then a smaller shuffle to get my foot to the end of it before the next stride. But honestly, I could have been hopping on one leg and I wouldn’t have cared. We were surrounded by Chinstrap Penguins, absolutely everywhere.

They huddle together on impossibly steep rocky slopes, then launch themselves into the icy ocean with complete confidence. Many had tiny chicks tucked carefully between their feet, kept warm against the bitter cold — if you look closely in one of the videos, you can see a chick peeking out from under its mum. Overhead, large seabirds circled patiently, ever watchful for a moment of opportunity.

There is a story in every direction you look:
a penguin trooping determinedly through deep snow, clearly unimpressed by the cold feet situation;
another carefully plotting its descent down a steep slope to rejoin its mates;
one scaling a near-vertical incline with stubborn persistence.

It is wild, raw, chaotic and breathtakingly beautiful — utterly out of this world. Even knowing we are technically on an island rather than the Antarctic continent itself does nothing to diminish the magic. This is Antarctica in spirit, sound and soul — and we are standing right in the middle of it.

Day 1 - Elephant Island

So, if you remember — as it was only three days ago — we had to leave South Georgia early to avoid a nasty weather system. In hindsight it was an excellent decision by the Captain and crew: we’ve since learned that South Georgia is currently being drenched with rain and snow. Mid-summer in the sub-Antarctic can be wonderfully unpredictable.

Once clear of South Georgia, we were shifted onto Plan K. The reason? Two other cruise ships were stuck in the South Shetland Islands, locked in an ice pack and only able to creep along at around 1 knot per hour in a zig-zag line. They’d been in that position for over 24 hours — in mid-summer on the Antarctic Peninsula no less. A stark reminder that even modern expedition ships are still completely at the mercy of ice and weather.

So our Captain elected to take the long way around. Back into the Drake (aka “Drake the Shake”) we went, throttling up to full speed, skirting the far side of the South Shetland Islands, looping around King George Island, and then entering the Antarctic Peninsula Inside Passage from the opposite direction. A longer route, but a smart one.

Our first stop on this leg was Elephant Island — a place steeped in legend and endurance.

Elephant Island & Shackleton’s Incredible Story

Elephant Island sits off the tip of the Antarctic Peninsula, infamous for its sheer cliffs, pounding seas and complete isolation. In April 1916, it became the unlikely refuge for 22 men from Sir Ernest Shackleton’s Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition after their ship Endurance was crushed by pack ice in the Weddell Sea. With no ship and nowhere else to go, Shackleton ordered the lifeboats launched.

After a harrowing 16-day journey in the small open boat James Caird, Shackleton and five companions sailed roughly 1,300 kilometres (800 miles) to South Georgia to seek help — one of the greatest small-boat voyages in maritime history. Meanwhile, the remaining men survived for 135 days on Elephant Island, sheltering under upturned lifeboats, while Shackleton battled impossible seas, ice and weather to return and rescue every single one of them. An extraordinary story of leadership and human resilience.

Our First Chinstrap Penguins

Elephant Island also delivered another first for us — our very first sighting of Chinstrap Penguins. They huddle together on the steep, rocky slopes of the island in dense clusters, looking almost painted onto the cliffs. Then, with complete confidence, they launch themselves into the ocean, porpoising through the frigid water with ease. Seeing them both clinging to the rocks and effortlessly swimming below was a thrill — tough, hardy little penguins perfectly adapted to this harsh environment.

Plans Changed (Again)

We were meant to take a Zodiac cruise around Elephant Island, something not often done. Being a day ahead of schedule made it possible — but when we arrived, the ocean was described by our Expedition Leader as very energetic. Later that day he showed us video footage of the marina being flooded by a 1.5-metre swell, and it quickly became clear that attempting Zodiac operations might have resulted in an unscheduled Polar Plunge.

So, we admired Elephant Island from the safety of the ship — humbled by its history, awed by its wildlife, and grateful once again for the calm, experienced judgement of our Captain and crew.

Sea Days – Learning, Laughter and Unexpected Fascination

Sea days have a reputation for being a bit of a filler — something to be endured between destinations. I could not have been more wrong. Life at sea has settled into a wonderful rhythm, and these days have become some of the most unexpectedly engaging of the entire voyage.

Trivia has become a serious affair. We play trivia… and we win trivia. Morris, who was absolutely delighted to be part of our winning team, was initially a little shy, but as we’ve got to know him, the layers have peeled back. Turns out he’s a bit of a quiet assassin — heading onto The Chaser in January, has been on MasterMind, nearly made it onto Hard Quiz, and even had a crack at Sale of the Century. A sly devil indeed. Had I known that earlier, I might not have argued so confidently that Nanook was not the Inuit word for polar bear. Lesson learned.

We’ve shared wonderful dinners and lively conversations, including an evening with Ryan, the orthonogist from South Africa — incredibly knowledgeable, thoughtful, and passionate about his field. We’ve struck up friendships with Bobby and Andy from North Carolina, continued building our bond with Bruce and Linda from Brisbane, and Gary and Jane from Colorado Springs. Poor Morris’s wife, sadly, has been unwell since Christmas Day — a reminder that even on the most extraordinary journeys, reality still travels with you.

One of the highlights was a tour of the Bridge. The ship is exceptionally modern and technically advanced — no anchor at all. Instead, it can hold itself in position within a one-degree margin using dynamic positioning. We learned about navigation, plotting courses through ice, the role of lookouts, and the complexities of managing waste — from garbage to black and grey water — all handled with remarkable care. It was genuinely fascinating.

John asked a question about navigation, and the First Officer paused before asking, “Are you a pilot?”  “No,” John replied, pointing at me, “she is.”  From that moment on, the Officer kept glancing in my direction, joking that he had to be careful what he said — as if I was there to fact-check him. Highly amusing.

The lectures on board are exceptional, and there always seems to be something on — live or recorded — no matter your mood. We’ve learned about icebergs, penguins, ocean sounds, knots, winds, geology, and survival stories that leave you both horrified and awestruck. One talk focused on Sir Douglas Mawson and his extraordinary survival during the Australasian Antarctic Expedition.

What struck me most was learning that Mawson suffered from hypervitaminosis A, a form of vitamin A poisoning, caused by eating husky liver — something explorers didn’t know was toxic at the time. The effects were horrific: his skin peeled away, including from the soles of his feet, to the point where he reportedly had to tape the skin back on just to keep walking. To hear that story while sailing these same waters, warm, fed, and cocooned in comfort, was sobering. It made you acutely aware of how fine the line is between adventure and survival.

Another standout lecture explained how Humpback whales are the pop stars of the ocean. Each year, all the humpbacks in a region sing the same song — like a catchy Kylie Minogue hit that starts in Australia and gradually spreads across the oceans to Mexico, Alaska, Asia and Africa. We also learned about how increasing shipping traffic is affecting marine life that relies on sound to communicate, and what the shipping industry is doing to reduce its impact. Equal parts scary and encouraging.

Then there was the ozone layer talk — astonishing stuff. One CFC molecule can destroy 100,000 ozone molecules before it finally degrades. It’s the kind of fact that makes your ears prick up and your brain go, well… that’s incredible. Suddenly you’re deeply invested in atmospheric chemistry without ever having planned to be.

And all of this learning is balanced beautifully with indulgence. There are massages, facials, manicures and pedicures on offer. Long lunches with daily themes. Elegant dinners with friends. Quiet moments looking out over an endless, shifting ocean. I genuinely thought sea days would be dull — instead, they’ve been rich, social, educational and deeply enjoyable.

This ship has mastered the art of making time at sea not just something to pass through, but something to savour.