My own resolve never to return had evaporated largely due to the assurance of every creature comfort. I would be sailing, in 2022, on the inaugural
voyage South of Seabourn’s first dedicated expedition ship, Venture: a luxury 172-metre vessel equipped with advanced stabilisers and capable of carrying a maximum of 230 passengers, which was as close to a floating hotel as an expedition ship could possibly be. Besides, the intervening years had seen useful developments in the field of science — not only more effective sea-sickness tablets (which I consumed, prophylactically, like sweeties), but ice radar, which permits navigation in poor visibility. Other gadgets included state-of-the-art screens and consoles depicting our course, conditions, and obstacles along the way — helpful aids, if so much less romantic and portable than the vast charts unfolded on the bridge of the Explorer; charts marked with the warning of “uncharted dangers” and littered with crosses depicting the demise of ships, from Cape Horn to the Antarctic peninsula. (Years later, in 2007, sold on and under the command of a Captain unfamiliar with polar waters, the Explorer would herself fall victim to an iceberg and descend to a watery grave, thereby adding another more dubious, ‘first’ to her catalogue of maritime achievements: the first cruise ship to sink in Antarctic waters).

High-Seas Adventure
By Teresa Levonian Cole. Images by Daniel Fox
1 Year Ago
“The events of the last two days are lost in a blur of vertigo and nausea, best forgotten” I scribbled in my journal, on 28th January 1995. “But I do remember swearing that, not for all the tea in China, would I ever be persuaded to undertake this journey again.”
I was referring to the crossing of the Drake Passage, that notorious 500-mile stretch of water in which the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans join in unholy matrimony, with the icy waters of the Southern Ocean bearing witness, to create a vortex of misery. For anyone departing from South America bound for the Antarctic, it is an unavoidable rite of passage. And here I was, 27 years later, facing the prospect of the Drake, once again.
The circumstances, however, could not have been more different. Back in 1995, only research ships, carrying a handful of tourists, braved the Antarctic. Among them was the Captain Klebnikov — a lumbering Russian vessel — and the much-loved “little red ship,” the Explorer — commissioned in 1969 by Lars-Eric Lindblad, pioneer of Antarctic tourism — in which I sailed under the intrepid command of Captain Uli Demel. I was one of just 60 passengers, a colourful lot that included a Mexican bull-fighter, a pioneer of instamatic cameras, Sir Edmund Hillary’s niece, a bejewelled American maker of slot machines, and a scientific team composed of every conceivable type of Polar-ologist. Oh yes, and Sir Ranulph Fiennes as guest lecturer. Along with Dr. Mike Stroud, he had become — at some cost to his extremities — the first man to cross the Antarctic, on foot and unsupported, in 1993. (“Would you go back?” I had asked him. “Definitely not!” he had replied. And was back again the following year, in a bid to walk to the South Pole).

As it happened, we were lucky. The dreaded Drake, on this occasion, was a lake, with winds of only 30 knots. And I rather enjoyed days at sea. Apart from various safety briefings, addresses on the ‘dos and don’ts’ of the Antarctic, and nature watches on deck (89 species of bird were spotted, though the albatrosses stole the show), there were numerous lectures on everything from the geology and plate tectonics of the region, to cetaceans, political history, and exposés on the love life of penguins — the latter hilariously delivered by Brent Houston who, it turned out, was on his 125th mission to the Antarctic, and had been with me on the Explorer, as a young scientist, in 1995. For relaxation, you could retreat to the Spa, with its seaview sauna, or join a Champagne-fuelled team for a jolly Trivia Quiz. Then there was the inevitable evening entertainment — popular with guests but (with the exception of a mystifying magician) a tad saccharine for my taste. I preferred to hole up in my Suite with a bottle of Grey Goose, a large dollop of caviar (available on request), and a book: the ship’s extensive library, curated by none other than Heywood Hill, being stocked with many months’-worth of delights.
An inordinate amount of time was spent eating — in the formal Restaurant, the informal Colonnade which spilled onto a deck variously sun-soaked or snow-cloaked, or the sushi bar. Alliances formed among passengers. Over poached lobster one evening, I chatted with the ship’s photographer, a dead ringer for Richard Gere, who was convinced that the future of mankind lay on Mars; one lunchtime, I was joined by a former psychiatric nurse for the criminally insane, who ended up dodging rattlesnakes in a desert and surviving on what she shot, before enjoying a night in the clink, for poaching. “I miss my crazies,” she lamented over her porcini ravioli. Boring, it was not.
Having weathered the Furious Fifties, I woke one morning to a bank of fog. The Screaming Sixties were eerily silent as we entered Antarctic waters, where Half Moon Island, in the South Shetlands, was scheduled to be our first stop. It was a cold, grey, miserable day — a salutary reminder, amid the comforts on board, that we were in the most inhospitable place on earth, where dangers still abound. We had been briefed on what to expect. Like a cross between the Michelin man and a Belisha beacon, clad in two layers of thermal underwear, thermal trousers, waterproof over-trousers, heavy duty boots, every manner of accessory, and fetching bright orange expedition jacket that had been thoughtfully provided, I stepped onto the first of the Zodiac crafts to land on shore.
A fur seal, slumped over a rock, looked up and yawned. I stepped onto stones , then snow, stained red and green from the digestive processes of the resident colony of chinstrap penguins. Unfazed by our effulgent presence, they waddled up and down the hill to the shore, wings out like tightrope walkers, tripping and falling flat, to toboggan downhill on their watertight feathers. So huggable yet — Brett assured me — they could mount a spirited defence with beak and claw, and their paddle wings could deliver a well-aimed slap if molested. Besides, there were rules — you had to stay five metres away from all wildlife — unless they chose to approach. They would descend grubby-fronted, and emerge from their dip in Dazwhite shirts, carrying pebbles, hopping and jumping over obstacles, back to the summit, where clusters of fellow chinstraps stretched their necks, “sky-pointing” and shrieking for their mate to return and release them from shared egg-incubation duties. “Chinstraps make their nests at this time of year,” explained Brett. “But there is an unseasonal amount of snow covering the pebbles that they need to keep the eggs dry, which makes it very difficult for them.”

Climate change has particularly affected the Adélie penguin population, whose numbers on the West coast of the peninsula have dwindled as, unable to build stable, dry nests, see their eggs drown in the melting snows. The melting of ice floes along a 200-mile stretch of the West coast, on which the Adélies rely for rest when fishing in winter, has also precipitated their move to the less fragile East coast. All of which raises the issue of the ethics of Antarctic tourism.
According to the International Association of Antarctic Tour Operators (IAATO), an organisation dedicated to promoting sustainable tourism to Antarctica, the 2018-2019 season saw 55,489 visitors to Antarctica — up from just 6,500, 30 years ago. 98% of tourists remain on the fringes of the Peninsula, along a quarter of its 800-mile length, and IAATO authorises landings at some 54 sites, each with stringent rules and specifications, according to the sensitivity of the site. “There can be no more than 100 people at any given site at one time,” explains Robin West, Vice President
of Seabourn’s expeditions, “and ships carrying more than 500 passengers can land no one at all.” As a result, every year, cruise ships scramble to book their chosen route and landing sites with IAATO — resulting in a complex choreography of ships that ensured we saw no other passenger vessel (of which there are 23, at the time of writing) in these waters. Similar strictures — regarding fuel type and waste management, for example — apply to the ships themselves, while guests are briefed on “Bio-Security,” with outer clothing checked for the tiniest seeds or spores, and boots scrubbed and disinfected after each landing. Regulations were certainly stiffer than in 1995, and an environmental officer on board Venture ensured there were no accidental infractions.
Through a stygian gloom, we sailed towards Neptune’s Bellows — the treacherous entrance into the flooded caldera of Deception Island, a cinder cone volcano which last erupted in 1970, and whose warmer waters and ashen shore exude a mysterious veil of steam. As we approached, the sun appeared from nowhere, bouncing off the snowy slopes, and suddenly, all was colour. The exposed basalt walls of the caldera glistened with red and black scoria and yellow sea mud, with patches of green and amber lichens. Then you saw the ruins. Until 1931, this was a Norwegian whaling station (heavily taxed by its British landlords), and rusting remains of the period lie scattered — the large fuel tanks, tanks for boiling blubber, whale skeletons, and ghostly abandoned buildings — guarded by two malodorous elephant seals.

A much-anticipated highlight of this journey was a dive in a submarine, of which the ship carried a pair, capable of descent to 300 metres. With two large glass bubbles either side of the central pilot, each sub could sit six passengers, in black leather racing seats that swivelled to allow optimal viewing. All very James Bond. Taking advantage of this fine weather, a dive was scheduled at Deception Island and I watched the sky gradually disappear as water foamed over the glass hatch, and we descended, slowly into the caldera…
Search lights scoured the sea floor, only 95 metres deep here. It was littered with tiny brittle stars, anemones, Antarctic sea urchins, and glass sponges, which take hundreds of years to grow. There was excitement when someone spotted a squid. Not madly impressive — but the thrill lay in the idea itself, the utter novelty of such an adventure — first attempted by Jacques Cousteau in 1972, and probably not since. And, of course, the bragging rights the experience conferred.
Barely a day went by without ice and weather conditions forcing amendments to our route (negotiated, again, through IAATO). Three scheduled landings on the Continent itself had to be abandoned, as the ice was impenetrable — though our heroic expedition team, under Luciano Bernacchi, made superhuman efforts on our behalf. After heavy snowfall one night, the team left at dawn to scout D’Hainault Island, and dug a long winding path uphill through snow 3 feet deep, to enable our visit. It was worth it, to see the colony of Gentoo penguins, canoodling with their beaks, and waddling off in pairs to mate — an affair of seconds. With their orange beaks and distinctive white temples, these handsome creatures are the most laid-back and adaptable of the Antarctic species, and are thriving, despite the odds.
One day, a freezing katabatic wind appeared from nowhere, scuppering kayaking plans, and cutting short a dramatic Zodiac trip through pack ice. It was bleak, threatening, and very beautiful. Our ship was barely visible behind massive icebergs of pale turquoise. Here, Adélie penguins were in their element, marching along ice floes in military formation. What these creatures lack in physical attributes — no straps, splashes of colour, or the flamboyant plumage of Macaroni penguins — they make up for in their feisty temperament and sardonic eye.
For sheer drama, the East coast has it. Having rounded the tip of the peninsula in 50 knot (93 kph) winds, we continued Southwards, past the massive tabular icebergs of the Antarctic Sound, and entered the aptly named Erebus and Terror Gulf — a glassy world of massive glaciers riven by jagged crevasses and old ice emitting an otherworldly blue light. Cirques, arêtes, sparkling, virgin snow — we sailed through a glaciology textbook. Flocks of black cormorants darkened the sky, and elegant snow petrels planed past. Sharply-etched reflections in mirror-flat waters distorted perception. White, pinnacle icebergs emerged from sapphire waters and, highlighted against sheer cliffs, resembled Cycladic churches in the distance. It was hallucinatory. To say nothing of sunrise and sunset, at latitudes where the sun never properly rises or sets. Scenes that could have come from the brush of Munch or Holman Hunt, turbulent skies streaked with yellows, pinks and violets, and waters of deep crimson, like molten lava.
I woke early one morning, in the Weddell Sea, to find our ship surrounded by pack ice. The bulbous bow of Venture, a Polar Class 6 ship, can scythe
through brittle new ice, up to 1.5 metres thick. At one point, she could go no further. The ice radar showed coverage 10/10 up ahead. It was in the
Weddell, I remembered, that Shackleton’s Endurance was trapped and crushed by the ice (she was discovered in fact, in a state of near-perfect preservation, earlier last year). I looked over my balcony. The ice crackled and popped in the sunshine, like an Alka-Seltzer dropped into water. Then I saw our expedition crew, walking gingerly on the surface, testing the strength of the ice and placing little red flags where they risked an unintended dip.

It was deemed safe, and we disembarked to join a few penguins on the frozen sea, while our navigator kept a nervous eye on the conditions. At this magical spot, the ship’s naming ceremony took place, with all 203 passengers designated honorary godparents, and an ice-moulded Champagne bottle was smashed across the bow. Back on board (lest a grain of caviar or a drop of Champagne maculate the pristine environment), celebrations took place. The Captain reversed out of our icy predicament, and we sailed on through an unearthly landscape. Spotting a pair of stray Emperor penguins, leopard and crab-eater seals was simply the icing on the cake.
On our last day in the Antarctic, we had a very special escort back through the Gerlache Strait. Three humpback whales appeared alongside our ship,
effortlessly keeping pace. No acrobatics here — just their graceful dip and rise, exhaling steam through their blowhole: a haunting sound I could hear
long after they disappeared from sight.
No amount of revisiting can dull the sense of awe this land inspires. “Travelling” wrote the great 14th century explorer, Ibn Battuta, “leaves you
speechless, then turns you into a storyteller.” He could have been speaking of the Antarctic.

To experience an adventure aboard one of these ultra-luxury expedition ships, please visit seabourn.com