Antarctica, Day 2: Walking On The Volcano

The Pursuit Square Cafe, Six Aft

On our second day at sea and still in Drake’s Passage, the rough night and seasickness meant Omaha could not be roused for love or breakfast. I got up in my usual early fashion and went up to the cafe at Six Aft to have water, coffee, and a good book until she awoke. I listened to a lot of people walk up to the help desk, visible in the center, and ask for help with the “Seabourn Life Onboard” app.

She was still sleeping when the announcement came over the speakers that the Biosecurity Briefing was due to begin. I headed down to the presentation center on Deck 4.

The International Association of Arctic Tour Operators is a public-private partnership that works with the Antarctic Treaty Organization to allow tourism in a very limited number of locations in Antarctica, in exchange for which the Antarctic Treaty Organization collects permit fees to preserve and protect Antarctica.

It might seem “unfair” to talk about limits like that, but I like to remember that people will play hundreds of hours of first-person or third-person video games like Cyberpunk 2077, Horizon Zero Dawn, or Borderlands, and those all take place in settings that are, at most, forty virtual kilometers on a side. I mean, I spent about 120 hours in HZD, and another 120 in Cyberpunk 2077, and by the time this trip is through I’ll have only spent about six hours total walking across Antarctica.

Avian Flu is what they’re really worried about. People can be carriers, and several flocks of penguins died before scientists figured out what was going on. We presented all of our cold-weather gear for a comprehensive examination and vacuuming, to remove any alien seeds or spores we may have been carrying into Antarctica. The staff took it all very seriously. Omaha, having no luggage other than what Seabourn brought her, had nothing to present.

After that, I went back to the cafe. Despite feeling “normal,” I still wasn’t entirely there. I must have looked… vulnerable when I was sitting the cafe, which doubles as the ship’s passenger support center where there’s always a line there of people getting help with getting their internet working. A couple approached me and sat down. There was some small chit-chat, and the woman said, “You look tired. Did you not sleep well last night?”

I made some comment about how my wife had spent hours in sickbay last night, and we were watching her closely because Dramamine and its relatives can reduce the effectiveness of anti-epileptic medications. They offered to pray for me, and I agreed, although I did tell her I was Jewish. “Oh, that’s okay, I have many, many Messianic Jews as friends, and they understand what it means to embrace Jesus.” I manfully resisted eyerolling.

They are truly American Gentry. They have three houses. The wording was “homes,” but if you have more than one home, I feel it’s unlikely you actually have “a home.” Not impossible, but unlikely. They own a trucking business somewhere in Oklahoma, plus several of the warehouses that those trucks serve. The wife is “committed to Jesus and the saving of America,” and I know exactly what that means.

I managed to extricate myself and went back to find Omaha. She was awake but not entirely there, and had ordered some very simple food for room service. There was an early excursion presentation, which amounted to “We’ve reached Deception Island, which is our first destination. The weather is picking up, so there won’t be any kayak or submersible trips, but we are going to let you onto land to look around.”

Off to Deception Bay

Deception Island is a long-abandoned ruin that was a 19th century whaling stop, then an early 20th century exploration center, then a WW2 redoubt for the British seeking to prevent Germans from disrupting supply ships going around the southern tips of Africa and South America, then the launch site for flyover surveys of Antarctica in the 1950s, and finally as a research station until 1970. (As far as anyone knows, the Germans never did attempt to disrupt trade through the Passage.) Clouds hung low over the sky, and the site we stood in had a curious bowl-shaped basalt formation walling it in. “That’s because you’re standing in a volcano,” said a guide.

“We are?” said one of the other guests, surprised by his lack of reading the landing material. “Is it active?”

“Go by the shore. I know, we told you not to kneel or sit or touch the ground, but go by the shore where the tide will wash it away, and stick your fingers into the sand.”

I was the only person to take her up on the offer. I knelt down just at the shoreline where the water was washing up on the beach of black sand. The first centimeter into the sand was as cold as above, but four centimeters down the sand became as warm as blood. It looked up, knowing the expression on my face. “That’s an active volcano,” she said.

The warm, black volcanic sand of Deception Bay

I was a bit stunned. “This bay has the distinction of being the greatest series of failures in volcanic prediction in history. In there were three teams here in 1967, four in 1969, and four in 1970, all here to test their theories of predicting volcanic eruptions, and in all three cases they had to be evacuated during an eruption because none of their instruments succeeded in predicting or even detecting it. We’re better at it now; ground swell and the chemical composition of pre-eruption gasses are terrific indicators, but instruments back then weren’t sensitive enough.

“Don’t worry, though. If there’s an eruption, it’s just a two-kilometer hike to that peninsula over there–” She pointed southward to a spit of land that formed the bay– “… to the evacuation point. And as you can see, the hanger here and the buildings, while ruins, have been here since 1957 and nothing the volcano’s done has touched them yet.”

I took pictures of the wrecked buildings, fuel tanks, and the hanger from which the first from-the-air surveys of the Antarctic interior had been launched, plus what would become a common accumulation of seals, penguins, terns, and skewa, the last of which we were told was the most predatory bird on the Antarctic shore.

After a short Zodiac ride back to the ship, we were greeting with what has to be the most delightful ritual (can’t really call it a tradition, I don’t think) so far: hot chocolate whiskey and cream cocktails. Absolutely heaven. I will have to make an effort to not get used to this.

Civilization: hot cocoa and liquor!

We ate at The Restaurant (that’s all it’s called) that night, an incredible steak dinner with three glasses of wine, and then we went up to the quieter lounge to listen to music and relax.

To give you an idea of the insane luxury of this cruise, let’s just say this: the wine is complimentary. The cocktails are complimentary. All covered by your ticket fee. You’re only charged if you want something exceptional: a cocktail made with 31-year-old Whisky will set you back $200, and one made with Louis XIII Cognac goes from $800. (I looked it up. Louis XIII Cognac is aged a minimum of 40 years, and it goes for $24,000 per 750ml liter bottle). But the ship’s standard collection of cocktails, like a negroni, they just mix and hand to you without asking for your name or room number or credit card.

I had one cocktail, but then we went off to bed.