We set off for Antarctica aboard the MS Expedition, not quite sure what the Southern Ocean would throw at us—and wound up with the kind of luck you tell stories about for years.
Embarkation & Orientation
We embarked the MS Expedition at 4pm on February 17th. The ship is owned and operated by G Adventures, and our captain—a Torontonian with 25 years in these waters—also leads the fleet. Nicola and I had separate cabins: she shared a triple, I had a double. The ship carries a maximum of 134 passengers.
We cast off at 6pm, gliding through the Beagle Channel toward the notorious Drake Passage. During orientation in the Discovery Lounge, the expedition team emphasized one word: flexibility. Weather, ice, and wildlife would dictate our days; no fixed itinerary, just daily briefings. We met specialists in birds, marine mammals, geology, and history, plus the kayak, camping, and zodiac crews. We didn’t sign up for kayaking or camping.
The ship’s doctor offered seasickness patches. I’ve never been seasick, but I grabbed one—better safe than sorry.
Drake “Lake” & First Ice
Day two felt like a gift from Neptune: Drake Lake, not Drake Shake. Word spread that this was among the smoothest crossings our captain had seen. We spotted our first icebergs and whales around midday and crossed the Antarctic Convergence during the night, well ahead of schedule. Lectures on sea mammals, birds, and ice built the excitement (the Antarctic Treaty talk… less so).
Surprise! First Landings & Penguin Etiquette
Because the crossing was so swift, the team announced a surprise—our first landings that very afternoon. Before anyone could step ashore, we went through a mandatory bio-check: vacuuming and inspecting outerwear to prevent introducing foreign seeds or pollen ashore (IAATO rules).
Landings are capped at 100 people ashore at once, so we split between two nearby islands and swapped mid-visit. The first site was alive with gentoo and chinstrap colonies sharing the same area. It was late in the breeding season: big, fluffy chicks begged parents returning from the sea; adults were mid-moult, scraggly and land-bound until their new waterproof feathers grew in.
Guidelines say we must keep 5 metres from wildlife—but penguins aren’t bound by that rule. I sat still and two curious chicks waddled right up, pecked my pants, and even clambered over my legs. A moment I’ll never forget.
We also met two dozy elephant seals sliding into the water and a handful of feisty fur seals. One adolescent male kept rushing me; the advice is to stand your ground and “bark” back (clapping works too). He backed off every time, clearly more bluff than bite.
Marine Mammal Bonanza: Orcas, Humpbacks & Minkes
Day three started with a shout over the PA: orcas off the bow! A pod of roughly 15 type A killer whales rolled and showed flukes as we threaded a maze of ice. After breakfast, our group did a zodiac safari while the other half landed at Neko Bay, then we swapped.
On glassy water stippled with sea ice, we tracked humpbacks by blows and tail flukes, drifted past Weddell and crabeater seals on bergy bits, and watched gentoos porpoising like tiny torpedoes—pure joy to see them launch in and out of the water in loose synchrony.
Ashore at Neko, gentoo colonies spread across a stable plateau (calving across the bay can send big waves to the beach). Most chicks were mobile now; a few late nests and even a lone egg likely wouldn’t make it this late in the season. Skuas and petrels circled, always on the lookout for vulnerable chicks.
We climbed to a viewpoint; the glacier thundered and small avalanches tore down a distant slope—no calving for us, but the panorama of mirrored water, ice walls, and peaks was breathtaking.
Paradise Bay Up Close
In Paradise Bay we first visited an Argentine research base and its surrounding gentoo colony—including one beige-and-white albino chick among the fuzzball toddlers. A flagged trail led up a slippery slope to a view, and the ride down was on our bums—nature’s toboggan run.
Back on the zodiacs, a humpback lingered near the ship, raising its fluke over and over. Later, we found a leopard seal lounging on an ice pan—huge head, powerful predator, utterly at ease while we watched from a safe distance.
Postcards from Port Lockroy & Ice Cathedral of Pleneau
Day four dawned at Port Lockroy (Base A), a restored WWII-era British station turned museum, post office, and tiny shop run by the UK Antarctic Heritage Trust. Two ships visit per day; four staff spend four months there each season. We mailed postcards, picked up a few souvenirs, and even logged a geocache (spoiler: ask at the counter!).
Across at Jougla Point we viewed a scatter of whale bones—remnants of the whaling era—jumbled by a past calving wave. Then the Expedition nosed through the narrow Lemaire Channel, hot chocolate with Kahlúa in hand, and anchored in Pleneau Bay, the famed “iceberg graveyard.”
Booth Island offered Charcot history, more gentoos, and a quick summit view; the zodiac cruise afterward was all ice artistry: flat raft-like slabs from ice shelves, towering weather-sculpted spires, flipped bergs showing dimpled undersides, and stranded giants wearing high-tide rings that proved they were grounded. Nature’s gallery in blue and white.
Adélies & a Ukrainian Toast
Day six carried us to the Yalour Islands. Our zodiac cruise delivered seals and big swell around the ice; then a leopard seal swam right beneath our boat and surfaced by Nicola—close enough to make eye contact. Ashore, we finally met Adélie penguins: black heads with bright white eye rings, belly-sledding uphill and sliding down like kids on a snow day.
In the afternoon we visited Vernadsky Station, a Ukrainian base (formerly British) where the ozone hole was first documented. A dozen men winter there; communication wasn’t perfect, but we learned they continue ozone monitoring. There’s a cozy bar serving homemade vodka: $3 for a shot—or free for a donated bra. I paid the $3 and mailed a postcard from their tiny post office.
Deception Island & the Polar Plunge
Sunday, February 23rd: we slipped through Neptune’s Bellows into the flooded caldera of Deception Island, last erupted in 1968. At Telefon Bay we hiked the rim for sweeping caldera views and zipped into a side crater by zodiac. The sulphur-influenced water means limited wildlife; millions of krill sometimes wash up, “cooked” near warmer shorelines.
In the afternoon at Whalers’ Bay we hit the jackpot: 800–1000 fur seals crowded a beach—a rare southern gathering. Juvenile males jousted for “beach master” status while others swam over to inspect our zodiacs. The shore still holds relics of whaling tanks, ovens, and an old hangar; Neptune’s Window frames sea and sky beyond.
And then: the polar plunge. Zero-degree water. I sprinted in, dove, popped up, face-planted back under, and scrambled out with stinging hands and feet but a surprisingly warm core. Sauna. Shower. Pride. Disbelief. Laughter.
The Drake, Round Two
Homeward bound, the forecast promised a livelier Drake. By evening the ship was rolling; by morning, trays slid, people clutched railings, and a few souls succumbed to seasickness (and, for some, self-inflicted “celebrations”). Even the ship’s musician took a tumble and needed 28 stitches. Lectures, films, and thousands of photos helped pass the time until we reached the calmer lee of Cape Horn and re-entered the Beagle Channel.
Disembarkation & Gratitude
We docked at Ushuaia the following morning and disembarked with full memory cards and fuller hearts. We were told how exceptionally lucky we’d been: all planned landings achieved (only ~10% manage that), extra landings added, abundant wildlife, and a smooth Drake on the way down. Hard to imagine asking for more.
Reflection
I came aboard hoping to see penguins and ice; I left humbled by a living, breathing wilderness—the thunder of glaciers, the silky arc of a porpoising gentoo, the quiet breath of a humpback beside our zodiac, and the ridiculous bravery it takes to sprint into Antarctic water. Antarctica is less a place you visit and more a feeling that stays with you: fragile, vast, and impossibly alive. Unforgettable.