Elf Sternberg

Today, I swam in the Antarctic Sea.

We officially reached Fournier Bay, which means we had crossed the Antarctic Circle line sometime in the morning, so it was time for the (apparently) “traditional” Polar Plunge, where brave and foolish souls jump into the water just to say they have done that. I had to be one of them.

A large raft is affixed to the side of the boat, and passengers use the same routine as with the Zodiacs to get onto the raft, which has a set of steps for getting into and out of the water. A safety belt is put around your waist to make sure someone can pull you out if it turns out you don’t have the strength to pull yourself out. We’ve been assured that in all the time IAATO has been permitting this sort of shenanigans no one on any cruise has ever had a medical crisis doing this sort of thing. The bartender was ready with his hot chocolate and liquor, and the DJ was pumping out EDM into the excursion bay.

Omaha and I lined up in our bathrobes and waited with other people from our excursion group. We listened to the delighted whoops and screams of the victims who went before us. As we put aside our robes and exposed our almost naked flesh to the subzero air (centigrade), the song that had been playing played out and a new one started up.

It was perfect. When Omaha and I jumped, the music playing was the scifi convention staple “Rasputin.” Omaha shouted, “For science!” as she dove in. I shouted, “Ivan, you idiot!” as I climbed out.

So, I’ll let you in on a secret: when I jumped into water that was actually below 0℃ (because it’s some of the most salty water in the world), your brain cannot believe you just did that and absolutely refuses to process any signals about your actual condition until it starts to get confirmation that, no really, you just did something really stupid.

And despite being salty, the water is super clear. I could read the numbers on the ship’s side from three meters away. It didn’t hurt my eyes at all. I have no idea why. All this analysis is not to say that I dawdled, oh no. I was up and out after less than a minute in the water.

But less than sixty seconds in freezing water just isn’t enough to penetrate my decrepit, ancient hide. I climbed the stairs with Omaha immediately behind me. The air, the breeze, was what made me feel cold. I grabbed a towel and my bathrobe, belted the robe on, and quickly grabbed a hot chocolate laden with Irish whisky.

That afternoon, there were a few more Zodiac tours, which I did, but they were otherwise unremarkable. The best part of the afternoon was the lecture on humpback whale feeding activities. There are documented cases of new, emergent feeding patterns that no one had ever seen before. One of them is “bubble feeding,” in which a team of five or six whales will decimate an entire school of fish. Two whales will start to encircle a school of fish in a huge net of their bubbles from the whales’ massive lungs while the others use their loud voices to scare the fish into staying within the bubble net, and once the fish are sufficiently concentrated the whales will dive into the school of fish, rising quickly, their mouths open, sieving as many of them down their gullets as they possibly can.

Another activity is when a whale will just stay vertical with their mouths in the air, holding as still as possible, until a bird decides the whale is a nice place to land, at which point the whale will use its tongue and jaws and… no more bird.

Both of these are new behaviors, at least as far as we’re concerned, but the biologist said they might have been behaviors common to humpbacks before the whaling industry killed so many, it’s just that now that the population has made a comeback these alternative feeding methods are viable for the whales again.

We spent dinner with another couple, a fellow who made his fortune the same way I did, coming up in the 90s and doing something spectacularly singular that earned him the stock options necessary to secure his future, more or less. We spent the evening doing that butt-sniffing sort of sounding each other out, establishing bonafides, and nerding hard, much to our spouses’ eye-rolling.

It was a lovely day altogether, and I have a certificate saying that I’m really the sort of idiot who’s willing to jump into 0℃ water just to say that I jumped into 0℃ water. In Antarctic seas.

What surprised me, although perhaps it shouldn’t have, is how quickly this level of luxury became routine, and just how aware I was that all this luxury had a human price, because I know damn well the staff and crew of a cruise ship aren’t well-treated and put up with a lot of crap, sometimes literally, and especially often from the people who feel entitled to a little bit more “service” than custom would allow. Up around 6:30, I’d make my way to the cafe and find that the morning barista, a pleasant young fellow from the Czech Republic, pulling my coffee and setting out the water. I’d read and write for about an hour, then go get Omaha and we’d head to breakfast.

It was Friday, but on board that doesn’t mean anything. It’s easy to forget there are days of the week. It’s easy to forget there’s a world outside the ship.


Today’s trip was to Palaver Point, which involved a hike up the side of a tall hill take in a colony of Chinstrap Penguins and the view across the Palmer Sea. Omaha decided that she wasn’t up for a kilometer long walk with a 100 meter rise, so I went alone, crossing the switchbacks to reach the top.

At the top was Professor Marcel Lichtenstein, who I’d already met. He gave us a brief lecture on moraines, the dirt and rocks that glaciers pick up as they move down the terrain and calve off into the ocean. Marcel is a character, a big man with a powerful voice and a lot of charisma. “You know, I’m a biologist, not a geologist. The first time I was in Antarctica and I heard someone say ‘Look at the moraine,’ I was looking around for the beautiful woman because in Italian ‘moraina’ means ‘brunette,’ and I figured that’s what they were looking at.”

When we got back, lunch was “Australian,” which I’m not sure meant much to me, but Omaha appreciated the meat pies.

That afternoon was a Zodiac excursion; we sat in boats and were driven around to listen to more explanations of icebergs and the history of Antarctica. All of the guides have extensive stories about the Shackleton, Scott, and Amundsen. One of our guides, Sebastian, who was also the submarine pilot, had taken leave from the United Kingdom’s Royal Navy to be on an expedition to recreate Shackleton’s amazing voyage from his doomed Antarctic expedition back to civilization on nothing more than a large lifeboat. In fact, you can see Sebastian in this video at the 2:40 mark. He told an after-dinner, over-drinks, truly harrowing tale about the voyage he and his mates undertook, including how, when they finally reached the island of St. George, they were almost washed up on some rocks and killed. This being a documentary, they had a monitor boat, but the captain of that boat declined to rescue them until they were actually in distress… and somehow they made it to shore without being killed. It was hair-raising stuff.


The afternoon excursions usually ended around 5pm. The ship had so many experts there were lecture series to fill the time before dinner; history, geology, the biology of the birds that flew, the penguins (yes, birds, but a separate topic), the seals, just about anything and everything you could think of as being a part of the Antarctic experience. One thing that I did not find while in Antarctica: Pokemon. There are no Pokemon in Antarctica.

Evenings aren’t quite so busy. Usually, I just read. I ripped through a number of books during this vacation, all light reading and just generally fun. I also tended to go to bed fairly early. This isn’t a cruise with nightlife; there were only two places to “hang out” after dinner and both of them were sedate. This isn’t the sort of cruise where there are so many bars and nightclubs you can pick one from whatever spectrum of nightlife you can possibly imagine.

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.”


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.


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.


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.

Between winning a trip to Antarctica and actually being in Antarctica is the grueling story of flying to Ushuaia, Argentina, where the Pursuit was currently making port. Ushuaia, “the city at the bottom of the world, is 12,427 kilometers from my home city of Seattle. London is only 7,700 kilometers away. Tokyo is 7,600 kilometers away. Equivalent flights would be to places like Melbourne, Australia, or Johannesburg, South Africa. It’s literally on the other side of the planet.

Our flight began early Saturday morning boarding a plane to Mexico City. I was genuinely surprised at how lax customs has become. Oh, the TSA is still a pain in the arse with your belt buckle but overall the amount of security theater was much less than I’d experienced before COVID. The flight itself on an Aeromexico 787 was a little short of five hours, wasn’t too traumatic, and the food was tasty and hot in a way US flights almost never have anymore. I masked until plane was in the air, at which point it exceeds the 5CH changeover for fresh air and risks are considered minimal, especially since I had gotten my COVID booster just a month earlier.

The “Your flight safety presentation today was brought to you by Volvo” notice was a bit disconcerting.

My travel laptop is a Surface Pro 6. I had cleaned it out before leaving and hadn’t put any movies onto it, so I was down to a very short list of films that didn’t really interest me. I spent most of the trip reading, as I had my e-reader with me and about 400 books on it are still listed as “unread.” I made quite a dent in my tsundoku list.


From the air, Mexico City looks like any city embedded in an agricultural region: core, sprawl, and then lots of parceled and enclosed farmland spreading out for kilometers in every direction.

It’s been a long time since I had last flown international. Long enough that Mastercard now takes care of the exchange rate automatically and traveller’s checks are something only people my age remember. The exotic cuisine of Mexico on display at the airport consisted of a Carl’s Junior, a Krispy Kreme, a Starbucks and a 7-11. I mentioned this to someone who was also traveling on the flight and he said, “Yeah, it wasn’t like this before NAFTA. NAFTA really gave the ‘international franchises’” – his voice heavy with sarcasm – “free rein, and this is the result.”

I wouldn’t have thought it was NAFTA.

Our flight from Mexico City to Buenos Aires was much longer, almost ten hours, but it was overnight and we’d sprung for the seats that reclined fully into beds, so we slept most of that. Omaha’s CPAP worked even with the plane’s power outlets, which helped her sleep as well as one can under those circumstances. The food was, for flight food, spectacular, especially the morning omelet. Only the coffee was boring.

In Buenos Aires, the Seabourn people more or less took over our lives. It turned out that the contributor of the prize package had been the president of Seabourn itself and that he had made it very clear that Omaha and I were very VIP. While there was a knot of five Seabourn people there to take in all the arrivals, there were four specific names on a separate list that received special handling, and we were one of those names. “You’re special,” we were told. “The director said something about a charity.”

Which was good to know, because that’s when disaster struck. AeroMexico had lost Omaha’s luggage.

She had a single change of clothes in her carry-on, a few toiletries, and not enough medication to make it through the whole trip. The Seabourn people assured us that they would do everything they can to find that bag, and in the meantime they would also help us find alternatives.

I don’t do well under these circumstances. Things are out of my control and I have no idea what’s going to happen next, and that’s when I start to break down. I went with Omaha to the hotel Seabourn had booked for us, the Alvear Palace. There were a lot of other people going on the cruise, but I hadn’t yet figured out how to talk to them and, under the circumstances, didn’t really want to.


The Alvear Palace hotel is a stunning place of marble, sandstone, oak, and brass. The Seabourn people whisked Omaha away to discuss the luggage and medication issue, and afterward we were free to wander the city. We found a local pizza place named El Continental, walked around the Recoleta Cemetery where Eve Peron (among many others) is buried, and visited a pop-up artisan market in Carcono Park. Artisan markets are the exactly the same the world over, with tsotchkes and such for sale that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Pike Place Market or the Seattle University District Street Fair.

I didn’t sleep well that night. I’m not even sure I slept at all. Fitbit says I got maybe seven hours of sleep, I was so anxious about the luggage and the medication. Omaha took charge and, frankly, I felt a little bullied about being hauled along by her whirlwind as she demanded I get onto the bus to the airport and the plane down to Ushuaia.

The ride to the airport included a bit of travelogue about Buenos Aries, including a massive, beautiful but broken mobile of a robotic flower, and a statue of Christopher Columbus gazing eastward while his victims slump and writhe at the base of his plinth. I like to think he’s gazing eastward toward the source of his power and approval, the kings of Spain.


I was miserable on the flight, even if the airplane did have a cute fox on the tail. I almost didn’t get onto the plane, instead thinking hard that I could just head over to the International section and book a flight home. But I just couldn’t do that, and so I ended up in Ushuaia. It’s a nice, fairly large town that does exactly two things: be the hub for the Antarctic tourist business, and support the Argentine Navy’s southernmost base of operations.

The Seabourn people let us onto the Pursuit, and told us three things: they hadn’t found the bag, they were trying to find a supply of Omaha’s medication, there was a seamstress on board who could provide her with some clothes, and when this happens the ship provides overnight laundry service.

With barely an hour until the gangplank was pulled and we would have to abandon the trip entirely, someone found us and said, “We found your medication.” A pharmacy at the north end of city had it, and it would be on board before we pulled out.

I was still wrung out. I’d gotten less than nine hours of sleep in the past 60. I don’t remember what I had for dinner, or what else happened that day. I went to bed and passed out.