Birmingham to Cape Town by air; not an amazingly difficult proposition in the Twenty-First Century? We have a boat to catch in Cape Town, which we can't afford to miss. The next one doesn't sail for six months and with this in mind we have allowed a good twenty-four hour safety cushion into our travel itinerary.
By 18.00 hrs Martin Kennewell and I are enjoying a cold Amstel, with Dutch birding friend Volkert van der Willigen, in a pleasant little bar adjoining Schipol Airport. A couple of hours fly past, the long-haul departure time approaches and we arrive at the check-in desk.
"Sorry Sir, your flight has been cancelled. You have a room for the night in the Amsterdam Hilton". Very frustrating, but no need to panic. We still have plenty of time on our side, though a late arrival will cut short our planned day of birding around Cape Town. This hardship is mitigated somewhat by the grand surroundings in the Hilton; there's a man playing a grand piano as we walk into the lobby!
A couple of laps of the fresh olive and Gouda counter and we're off for a slightly uneasy sleep; our Cape Town safety margin has now been reduced to just twelve hours.
Thursday 31st October
Up at 05.30 for our early flight. "There is a fault with the air conditioning unit of your aircraft and we anticipate that boarding will be delayed until 09.00"
Stay calm. We still have plenty of time. At this point we find that we are not the only nervous English birders on the flight. Jon Hornbuckle susses our birding intentions by our attendant tripods and lenses, discovering that he is booked onto the same boat. We seek solace in numbers, in our heightening state of anxiety.
A sigh of relief greets our 09.45 take off. A daylight flight over Africa provides breathtaking views over the vast expanses of sand, dunes, jagged hills and wadis that form the never-ending Sahara Desert. We don't have too long to enjoy ourselves, however, as the intercom breaks the dire news.
"Our late departure means that we have missed our connecting flight and you will be provided with overnight accommodation in Johannesburg". This is starting to get serious! Pleas to the cabin crew regarding our plight and potentially disastrous boat missing scenario seem to fall on deaf ears and we have a very pensive journey down to Jo'berg. If we can't get an earlier flight than the one offered by KLM we will miss the boat.
At Jo'berg we anchor ourselves to the KLM flight information counter and say a few prayers. There are limited seats on the early South African Airlines flight and when the operator announces that we are all confirmed on board we are ready to give him a kiss!
Friday 1st November
Our early flight provides the first daylight views of the South African landscape. From thirty thousand feet all appears flat and very barren, with the dry farmland being occasionally broken by a dark volcanic rocky outcrop. We descend over Cape Town and huge houses, which dot the affluent green suburbs in the low hills to the east of the city, can clearly be seen. The wing dips and the vast dark anvil of Table Mountain slides into view, as a backdrop to the sprawling commercial heart of the city. It is a truly inspiring sight, making Cape Town probably the most instantly recognisable city in the World.
At ground level the social and economic situation is made immediately apparent, in the course of our short taxi ride to the port. Just west of the airport the squalid-looking Langa shantytown occupies a vast area. The tiny houses are little more than piles of timber and corrugated iron, strung together by a web-like tangle of power cables.
This may not be a totally unfamiliar scene within the African continent, but it is put into an extraordinary context by the outlook a mere kilometre-or-so further down the road. Stretching away from the road is a pristine, lushly irrigated and beautifully manicured golf course. Smartly clad white golfers play a round in an idyllic sunny setting, whilst within the range of a good drive with a three wood are hundreds of their black countrymen struggling to find their next meal. Such are the everyday encounters in this madly imbalanced country.
Within a few minutes we are at the waterfront and port complex, sheltered within Table Bay. Quay 500 is our destination and the excitement mounts as we strain for our first view of the S.A. Agulhas, our home for the next seventeen days.
Way back in November 2001 we had heard about the S.A. Agulhas expedition to the Prince Edward Islands and Antarctic Packice. The trip represented an once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to visit a part of the globe that was normally considered out of bounds purely on the strength of the exorbitant costs that were levied on expeditions to such regions.
The trip had been organised by the Cape Town based tour company Birding Africa. The S.A. Agulhas is operated by the South African Government to supply its Antarctic research stations and the Sub-Antarctic islands. This work is done during the Austral Summer and the boat was therefore chartered to make the pelagic birding trip during November, immediately before the official circuit of supply and support missions begin. Carried out on a none-profit-making basis, all proceeds from the trip are to be donated to research into the potentially catastrophic problems currently facing the World's seabirds.
The S.A. Agulhas is a formidable vessel, designed specifically for use in some of the stormiest and most unpredictable oceans in the World. Built in 1977, she is 112 metres in length and clocks in with a gross weight of 6123 tonnes. Although not strictly an icebreaker, she is Class 1 ice-strengthened which means that she can cut through ice up to two metres deep if required.
Moored to the quayside she makes a very impressive sight and looks eminently seaworthy. At the stern of her bright red-painted hull is a large helideck, fore of which the white superstructure raises steeply to a height of seven stories. The area between bridge and bows is taken up by a series of spacious green-decked holds, above which the boom of a huge crane is secured. This piece of equipment is vital for the unloading of supplies at the unsophisticated staging posts on the Antarctic Ice Shelf and Sub-Antarctic islands. Mid-way up her superstructure is secured two sturdy-looking lifeboats; quite a relief with the entire potential iceberg encounters to come! A profusion of serious looking radio antennae and a huge blue penguin-logoed funnel, hopefully an omen for the next few weeks, top her.
Greatly relieved to have finally reached our destination before she sails, we make our way up the boarding gantry. We are shown to our cabins and are pleasantly surprised by the amount of room in our four-berth accommodation. This is obviously a working ship, not a luxury cruiser, but nevertheless all is quite comfortable. The reasons for the grab-rails in the shower cubicle will become apparent as we travel further south!
Having missed out on our planned days birding we are desperate to get a few ticks under the belt and set out on a quick tour of the harbour. Always fascinating places, we make our way between trawlers, cargo ships and yachts to find endemic Cape and Hartlaub's Gulls, Crowned and Cape Cormorants. Highlight, however, is a huge bull South African Fur Seal that proceeds to leave the water by means of a series of steps to deposit him in parking slot on the jetty car park. Here he rolls, scratches and sunbathes oblivious to passing vehicles and pedestrians.
Anona and Graham Finch, old friends and fellow Leicestershire birders, herald the arrival of other Antarctic bound travellers. They look equally pleased to have found the ship as their taxi whizzes past. Others drop in as the morning progresses and we realise that we really are amongst some esteemed birding company. There are no less that six '7000 listers' on board: Jon Hornbuckle, Neil Bostock, Frank Lambert, Hugh Buck, Peter Kaestner and Phil Rostron. Between them they must surely have seen the vast majority of the bird species on the planet, yet if all goes well over the coming days each should be looking forward to a considerable 'tick injection'. Such is the lure of a trip into these largely inaccessible and ornitholgically uncharted tracts of the Southern Ocean.
The 'guides' for the trip are an equally impressive assemblage of birding experience and expertise. Ian Sinclair, without doubt the World's leading authority on African birds, author of numerous books and above all an extremely entertaining Northern Irish ex-pat, heads the list. Peter Ryan works as a seabird biologist. He is understandably a great authority on the natural history of the region and as we are to find out during many a long, cold evening a very accomplished lecturer on many an interesting topic. Rod Cassidy, professional bird guide, 'beer monster' and evening entertainer, Claire Spottiswood (author of the recently published 'Essential Birding in Western South Africa'), Barrie Rose and Barry Watkins complete the line-up.
In all there are 90 passengers and 35 crew aboard when we slip our moorings at 15.30 hours. Between us we have probably consumed every anti-seasickness remedy known to man. It's a bright sunny afternoon and there is a real air of excitement and anticipation about the assembled crowd on the helideck. This really is a ground breaking expedition; no one has ever made an ornithological trip to our destination in the Southern Ocean at this time of year ever before.
We are still within the confines of the harbour walls when the first excitement ripples across the helideck. Small groups of African Penguins swim past the ship and a pod of Dusky Dolphins jump close to the quayside. The immense dark outline of Table Mountain is left in our wake and we turn south, past the Twelve Apostles, a series of dramatic craggy peaks, which lead us down the Cape Peninsular.
It takes some hours to pass the spectacular rocky landscape of The Peninsular and we take time to savour the sight; this will be the last land we will see for many a long day! The most adventurous nautical experience I've had before this one is the Fishgaurd to Rosslare ferry crossing, in the Irish Sea, and I can't help but wonder how effective my seasickness tablets will be in the Southern Ocean.
As soon as we're out of the harbour the seabirds start to appear, in the form of Cape Gannets, SwiftTerns and Sabine's Gulls. The former is strictly a bird of inshore waters; the latter is attracted to Cape Town's large offshore sewage outfalls.
As we leave behind the land, so we leave behind the sunshine. The weather takes on an overcast, grey and misty guise and the shorts are relegated to the rucksack for the rest of the voyage. Soon it's time for our first trip to the galley and we are slightly alarmed to find that seats are wired to the floor and a two-inch plate-catching lip surrounds each table. So we really could be in for some rough weather, then?
The evening's entertainment consists of a brief bit of socialising and a couple of beers (at 25 pence a can!), then an early retirement to the top bunk.
Saturday 2nd November
The day begins with the first shower in a gently rocking boat. Quite tricky for the nautical novice and I am sure that things are going to get much worse. Being in an 'economy class' cabin with no windows one never knows what to expect of the weather, so it's a relief to be greeted at the helideck by a sunny and cloudless day. It's actually relatively calm and there is now no land to be seen. We are 38 miles south of Cape Agulhas, the most southerly headland on the African continent. It is also very exciting to find that the water is alive with birds. Pintado Petrels follow the wake, often hanging in the breeze at almost touching distance. These are wonderful little seabirds, with exquisitely chequered black-and-white upperparts.
Giant Petrels dwarf the Pintados as they vie for position in the wake. These albatross-sized birds are described in one field guide as 'pugnacious, ungainly and uncouth scavengers'. This description may be appropriate around the Southern Ocean seabird and mammal colonies, but when gliding ably above the waves they are equally as accomplished flyers as any of the other open-water specialists pursuing the ship. Separating Northern from Southern Giant Petrels requires close views in good light. It is done merely on the colour of the bill tip, as variable brown plumage is consistent in both species. The bill tip of Northern Giant Petrel is reddish-brown, whereas that of Southern Giant Petrel is pale green. The geographical hint in the names of the pair seems to be a no relevance whatsoever, as they often nest virtually side-by-side on the same islands!
We are soon experts at splitting White-chinned Petrels (which rarely seem to display white chins) from the similarly dark brown Sooty Shearwaters, and it's reassuring to see some North Atlantic familiarity in the shape of Great Shearwaters. Incredibly, the Great Shearwaters that are seen off the southwestern coasts of the U.K. could easily be these very birds, having completed their amazing circular tour of the Atlantic. After breeding on Tristan da Cunha and Gough, they set off northwest and along the American coast before turning east to cross the Atlantic. After spending the early autumn in the Northeast Atlantic they head south again to breed in the Austral Summer.
Petrels and shearwaters are fantastic birds in their own right, but without doubt the epitome of the Southern Ocean is the albatross. We are still some distance from the Southern Ocean and are in fact within the warm waters of the Agulhas Current, running through the shallows of the Agulhas Bank. The Agulhas Current runs in a southwesterly direction along the southern African coast, warming the entire region much as our own Gulf Stream. A number of species of albatross frequent this oceanic region, however, often drawn to trawlers and the chance of a free meal.
The first albatrosses we encounter are mollymawks. This is the ancient name used to describe the group of smaller albatrosses, all distinguished by virtue of their dark mantle (continuous with dark upperwings), and affectionately abbreviated to 'mollies'. Mollymawk, sometimes also spelt mollymok, is a bastardisation of the Dutch word malmawk that translates as 'mad duck'. Clearly the ancient mariners were somewhat bemused by the sight of these masters of the stormy southern oceans.
Indian Yellow-nosed Albatrosses have long, slender wings and display a black border, of uniform width, to their white underwing. Shy Albatross, the other molly regularly seen in this region, is rather more bulky than the Yellow-nosed and noticeably paler above. It also exhibits a diagnostic dark 'thumb print' on the leading edge of the underwing, close to the body. Although 'small' by the standards of great albatrosses, the Shy Albatross still possesses a wingspan of impressive eight-and-a-half feet.
It's great to see Little Shearwaters at close range. Their flight is fluttering and distinctive, but unlike North Atlantic birds they lack a distinctive white face. These are birds of the race elegans, with dark feathering extending down below the eye, and are a potential future split.
As we leave the continental shelf and head into deeper water so the cetacean activity increases. A pair of Humpback Whales blow and raise flukes off the starboard beam; one has to learn the nautical terminology rapidly or risk missing things! Soon afterwards a pod of Risso's Dolphins surface to port. This species is one of the easiest dolphins to identify at sea, with its light grey colouration and strangely rounded forehead.
The ship's alarm lets out a sudden, shrill blast and we are ordered to fetch our life jackets, don warm clothing and report to the numbered lifeboat muster stations on the helideck. The officers call a register and when all are accounted for we are ordered to make our way to the lifeboats. They are located mid-way up the ship's superstructure, one on either side. It's a fair climb up steep ladders and the hot, claustrophobic nature of the enclosed fibreglass boats comes as quite a shock. Sixty-two passengers and crew are crammed into each boat, shoulder-to-shoulder. We are extremely grateful that this is only an exercise and find it hard to imagine what it must be like to take to these craft in a real emergency. Let's just hope that they spot all those icebergs in plenty of time.
Mid afternoon a trawler is spotted on the radar screen. This is some cause for excitement as trawlers in the Cape fishing grounds are renowned for attracting huge flocks of seabirds, in search of discarded fish scraps. We make our way towards its location and soon after it appears on the horizon large groups of seabirds materialise. Most are concentrated in small rafts on the sea at points where the trawler nets have been pulled on previous occasions. They have fed and are now digesting their last meal.
Shouts of 'storm petrel' cause a sprint and dozens of eyes struggle to pick out a small bird low amongst the waves. Finally a Black-bellied Storm-Petrel gives itself up and we savour this excellent bird, larger than a European Storm Petrel and displaying a black stripe along the length of its white belly.
Our first Great-winged Petrel is picked out amongst a huge raft of Great Shearwaters, appearing superficially similar to a dark-billed version of a White-chinned Petrel. A small number of grey-headed Atlantic Yellow-nosed Albatrosses are picked out of the large numbers of Indian Yellow-noses before a dark-looking bird amongst a group of Shy Albatrosses causes an emergency U-turn of the ship. As we pass the group again it is picked out and identified as a young Salvin's Albatross, a rare visitor to these waters.
Birds are not the only form of entertainment. Flying fish regularly break the surface and soar for many yards of stiff, outstretched pectoral fins. On our trip this species is restricted to the warm water of the Agulhas Current, as is the bizarre Sunfish, which floats just below the waters surface like a finned dustbin lid!
Following the trawler frenzy the rest of the day is strangely quiet, bird-wise. After dinner the first of many Soft-plumaged Petrels passes the ship, before the weather closes in with a heavy swell developing below a grey and drizzling sky. We retire indoors for an identification lecture in the helihanger. The swell is increasing noticeably and mid-way through the talk half the audience is toppled from their chairs as the ship pitches to a new high. Beer flies in all directions, but no severe injuries are incurred on this occasion.
We are soon in our cosy little bunks but as the night progresses it is apparent that the storm is growing in intensity. In the darkness regular crashes echo around the cabin and we mentally check the whereabouts of our stowed breakables. Sleep seems next to impossible as we constantly adjust position to brace ourselves against the pitching ship. And if you don't hold on you just roll from side-to-side within your timber box!
Sunday 3rd November
When the never-ending night is finally over we vacate our bunks to find a cabin floor strewn with belongings in jumble-sale fashion. Showering has changed from a clever balancing act to a serious injury hazard!
Something that struck me during the course of our voyage was the fact that the sea could change as markedly as the land in terms of colour, shape and character. No two days produced the same outlook, with differing light conditions and wind intensity constantly changing the maritime panorama from the ship.
This-morning's ocean is a grey, foreboding one. A deep, rolling swell stirs the steely blue water below a cold grey sky. We are already four hundred miles from Cape Town, but still seven hundred and sixty miles from the Prince Edward Islands. We have now crossed the Agulhas Current and are steaming through the large area of mixed water between the Agulhas and Return Agulhas Current, which forms the northern border of the Subtropical Front south of Africa. The gannets are long gone and we assume that we must be in a 'real' ocean now. Pteradroma petrels are much in evidence and appear perfectly suited to this environment. Soft-plumaged and Great-winged Petrels hurtle past the ship, then turn into the wind to soar high above the waves in a display of complete mastery of these savage conditions. A Grey Petrel, a true deep ocean species, passes by demonstrating its shearwater-like flight characteristics and grey upperparts to full advantage.
'The wind sails the open sea steered by the albatross'. These are the words of Chilean poet Pablo Neruda and anyone who has watched a great albatross effortlessly quarter the storm-churned Southern Ocean cannot fail to be moved by their poignancy. The great albatrosses differ from the mollymawks in their pale mantles and, most impressively in their gigantic wingspan; a Wandering Albatross can possess a wingspan approaching twelve feet. Our first Wanderer of the trip glides into view before breakfast, drawn towards the boat after it is spotted on the horizon many miles away. Great albatrosses are habitual ship followers. Their current habit is no doubt learnt from the lure of a possible free meal after a bout of trawler shadowing, but ancient mariners noted this trait centuries ago and one can only surmise that an element of curiosity also enters into the equation. With their often individually distinguishable plumage characteristics we soon find that the same bird will follow us for days on end; I find it amazing to wake up and see the same bird shadowing the boat, which was there the previous evening.
The sight of a Wandering Albatross gliding serenely through a storm-raged Southern Ocean has to be one of the most evocative images in the natural world. Tragically it is also one of the most seriously threatened as Wanderers, along with most of the other albatross species, plus dozens of other seabirds are now being driven towards extinction. The culprits are longline fishing boats, whose baited hooks drown three hundred thousand seabirds every year.
Longline fishing boats unwind a line up to one hundred and thirty kilometres in length, carrying thousands of baited hooks. More than one billion hooks are used each year by the world's longline fleets, which sail from dozens of nations. Albatrosses and other seabirds scavenging behind these boats try to grab the bait from the hooks as they sink and many birds are hooked, dragged underwater, and drown.
Legal loopholes allow a huge fleet of illegal pirate fishing boats to avoid international fisheries regulations and operate with total disregard for the number of seabirds they kill. Because of their very slow reproductive rates (Wandering Albatross, for example, can take up to twenty years to mature and then only produce one offspring every other year) albatrosses are particularly at risk.
There are a number of simple measures, which trawlers can adopt and significantly reduce the number of seabirds being killed. Bird-scaring streamers, setting lines at night and weighting the line so that it sinks quickly have all met with success. Further research is ongoing and efforts are being made to police fishing quotas and practices. We can all help in a small way by ensuring that the fish that we eat is from a certified 'seabird-friendly' source. When dining out ensure that tuna or Patagonian Toothfish (also sold as Chilean Sea Bass, Antarctic Black Hake or Mero) is caught using 'seabird friendly' methods.
Despite some inroads being made the problem of seabird mortality, or 'bycatch', remains are huge one. Some albatross species are in genuine danger of extinction as a direct result of Man's greed. This is a totally unacceptable scenario and we must all do everything possible to save these magnificent creatures.
Meanwhile, back on the Agulhas, and we are all tucking into our breakfast porridge when a cry of Antarctic Prion causes a stampede to the door. The prion obliges and we are soon all gathered around the stern admiring this tiny grey, black and white seabird flitting over the wake. Prions resemble a cross between a storm petrel and a pteradroma, and some species are notoriously difficult to separate in the field. Our expert guides run the crucial features past us, however, and we are all happy to add this bird to the list as Antarctic Prion.
The prion excitement has scarcely abated when the next good bird causes a mass sprint across the helideck, this time for a stunning Sooty Albatross, gliding on characteristic long narrow wings and wedge-shaped tail. These are birds of the coldest waters and a sure sign that we are rapidly slipping into the lower latitudes.
As the day progresses so the wind increases and waves heighten. The open helideck is vacated in favour of the adjoining hanger and a huddle of red-nosed faces peer out from below the raised shutters and over a stormy sea. By late afternoon the temperatures are dropping noticeably as we move into colder water. There is a corresponding increase in the numbers of prions and albatrosses and one of the last birds we see before dark is our first stunning White-headed Petrel. In true pteradroma style it soars high above the waves between swoops down to water level in a magnificent display of dynamic soaring.
Before we set sail seasickness had been an oft-discussed topic. Numerous different medications had been enlisted on advice from countless sources. The thought of being at sea for a full seventeen days with no respite from potential nausea had been a daunting and very scary prospect indeed. One of the biggest surprises of the trip is, therefore, the fact that virtually no one aboard the ship is visibly suffering, despite the ferocious weather. It's amazing how rapidly you can acquire your 'sea legs' and it would seem that once they're attached they could take all that the oceans can throw at them. Having said this, we did later learn that one of the crew, a newcomer to the ship, spent three days on an intravenous drip. Apparently he was so ill that he came close to being cast ashore on Marion Island, to wait six months for the next ship!
After dinner we retire to the bar and are treated to a laptop computer demonstration of prion identification. A couple of our party have state-of-the-art digital cameras and stunning full frame images of the day's birds can be displayed in seconds. I suppose this is the way forward but I'll be damned if I'll leave my thirty-five millimetre transparencies just yet!
'Plan B' tackles bedtime on the severely pitching ship. The mattress is removed from the bunk and placed on the floor, perpendicular to the pitching action. It's an overwhelming success and I'm snoring in no time.
Monday 4th November
We awake in the 'Roaring Forties' with a serious storm roaring. Up on deck the outlook is dramatic. Visibility is down to around five hundred metres in the wind-whipped spray. As a consequence significantly fewer birds are visible, as they can't see the ship from such great distances and home in to follow the wake. The waves are now so large that the ship literally climbs up one side of the wave and falls down the other; quite a feat for a hundred metre long craft! The speed is right down to six knots and we are informed that we have to keep the speed low so as to avoid the propellers leaving the water as we pass the peak of the waves. If the propellers emerge into fresh air they increase their revolutions so rapidly that they can shatter; not an ideal proposition in a hurricane force storm in the Southern Ocean!
The lower external decks are awash with seawater as waves break high on the Agulhas's hull. The whole ship is pitching and yawing to huge angles and she seems to be creaking and groaning under the pressure of the relentlessly pounding waves. Add to this the constant banging of loose cargo and doors, plus a mass of rattling chains and it makes for quite an atmospheric cacophony. Remarkably none of the passengers is visibly seasick, though the violently rocking ship is a real hazard and one casualty results from a nasty fall down a steep set of iron stairs.
The storm increases in intensity through the day and after lunch we take the opportunity to climb the seven storeys to the bridge. This is the operational nerve-centre of the ship and we are pleasantly surprised (after the undeniably shabby lower decks) to find it spotlessly clean and bristling with high-tech, computer driven communication and navigational aids.
The view across the raging sea is awesome. Force ten winds, blowing at fifty-five to sixty knots, send huge waves crashing over the bows. Despite the height of our vantage point water inundates the windows and temporarily blinds the view. The wind whips white wisps of spray from the crests of huge rolling waves, while patches of turquoise, which are stirred up by massive breakers, periodically lighten the cold blue-grey sea.
Pterodromas hurtle past dozens of feet above the crests, while White-chinned Petrels hug the peaks and troughs. The day's new seabird comes in the shape of a giant adult Southern Royal Albatross, which takes to following the ship in the company of a couple of Wanderers.
During the course of the day, and particularly in the bar after dinner, another big lesson in pelagic travel comes to the fore in many a conversation. We are all now aware that a ship's progress is totally in the lap of the weather and that estimated times of arrival can be drastically revised dependant upon conditions. Thus, with the extremely strong headwinds that have been blowing for the best part of twenty-four hours, we are now half a day behind schedule for arrival at Prince Edward and Marion. Unless the storm abates soon we are going to be seriously short of time in the latter stages of the trip. The other big story is Dick Newell's very close shave on the poopdeck (at the stern of the ship, below the helideck), when a huge wave knocked him off his feet and washed away his digital SLR camera and telephoto lens. And so ended the evening displays of laptop digital photography.
Now that we've found our 'sea legs' any prohibitions about having a skin-full of beer are lost and tales of the life and times of Ian Sinclair entertain us into the early hours. The big Irishman is a storyteller and entertainer second to none. He really is one of the personalities in the birding world and our nights of Castle Beer and Irish anecdotes are an inextricable element of the enjoyment of this unique trip.
Tuesday 5th November
A different day, a different sea. This morning the ocean is much flatter and a steely grey, with starkly contrasting white breakers. Great albatrosses are constantly in view and prions skim the water's surface all around. We are now in the range of the subtly different Salvin's Prion and birds of this species are in constant view, darting over the sea almost touching the surface, hugging troughs and peaks, occasionally soaring at eye level. The new cold-water mollymawk is the Grey-headed Albatross. These are fantastic birds, with adults showing a dark grey hood and a black bill with bright yellow lines along outer edges of both mandibles.
A Northern Royal Albatross completes our set of great albatrosses. Well, it completes the separable ones; a couple of examples of 'Tristan Albatross' are observed at either end of the trip, but this putative 'species' is all but impossible to separate away from breeding grounds and their credentials are left to individual consciences!
The weather is now in constantly changing mode. Sunshine is rapidly followed by snow, but extra thermals are deployed and the constant stream of good birds keeps minds off the cold. Blue Petrel is the next new species, resembling a large, well-marked prion. Our first Light-mantled Sooty Albatross highlights the afternoon watch, exhibiting a similar slender profile to its Sooty cousin.
Cetaceans have been thin on the ground but the days viewing provides two Humpback Whales which fluke and blow close to the ship, though a female Orca makes just one, tantalisingly brief, breach of the surface.
The post dinner spotlighting session on the helideck produces nothing whatsoever as the moon is too bright to lure any seabirds to the light, though we do enjoy fine views of the Southern Cross. The day ends with a huge birthday cake for Sue Johns and the inevitable Castle Beers.
Wednesday 6th November
A cold blue-grey sea greets us, and also a huge selection of seabirds. Literally hundreds of individuals are constantly in view, concentrated in the ship's wake. Now Blue Petrels are almost matching prions in number and we marvel at the double figures of Wanderers following the ship. A Fairy Prion is a new addition to the list, being relatively easy to distinguish with pale head and broad black tail band.
The light is good, the wind has lessened and we seem to be making good progress again. Light-mantled Sooty Albatrosses regularly glide past the stern, almost within touching distance, and pockets full of Fuji film are exposed. Stunningly beautiful and supremely majestic these birds, with powder-grey mantles and contrasting sooty grey heads, must be one of the ultimate pelagic species. At this range the white eyelids and delicate light blue line down the black bill complete the stunning image. With Sooties, Grey-headeds and Black-broweds all attending the boat it's difficult to know where to focus next!
Lunch is served at the regulatory 12.00 hrs and we file down to the galley where we are now becoming expert at holding a sliding plate and glass of water whilst still getting food to the mouth (though the sound of smashing crockery and some Afrikaans expletives is still not an entirely unfamiliar sound). The food is perfectly adequate, though Egon Roney may be able to add a little constructive criticism. Still, we are in the middle of the Southern Ocean so can't be too fussy.
As the afternoon progresses the weather degenerates into a grotty, grey drizzling picture. Birding deteriorates accordingly and it seems like a good time to take a tour of the other vantagepoints of the ship. The 'Monkey Island' is an exposed viewing platform, which sits directly atop of the ship's bridge. Apparently so-called because of it's profusion of communication antennae, wires and cables, if offers a great high-level panoramic view of the ocean. It is the favoured haunt of the ship's staunch cetacean watchers, but is very exposed and a hefty layer of thermals is essential.
Another great viewpoint when the sea is relatively flat is the bow of the ship. Here one can replicate scenes from 'Titanic' or stand diligently and watch for storm petrels. We stick it out for a couple of hours, pursuing the latter pastime, and are eventually rewarded with a great view of a very close Grey-backed Storm-Petrel. This is another species confined to cold southern waters, with a reputation of being particularly tricky to spot from ships, which it is known to avoid. As the name would suggest, this species has a grey back and upperparts, lacking the white rump of most of its congeners.
If one looks at a map of the world a number of obscure specks can be seen dotted about the vast blue expanse of the Southern Ocean, hundreds of miles from either the Antarctic landmass or the southernmost tips of the African or South American continents. Without exception these volcanic outposts of life are both incredibly inhospitable and stunningly beautiful. Another trait, which these Sub-Antarctic islands share, is an incredible wealth of wildlife, albeit influenced by the often-catastrophic activities of Man over many centuries.
Some are very well know some, such as The Falkland Islands, South Georgia and Tristan da Cunha, while others are virtually unheard-of. The Prince Edward Islands undoubtedly fall into the latter category, lying some 1770 kilometres south east of Port Elizabeth, South Africa. The Prince Edward Islands actually consist of just two islands, Prince Edward and Marion; unless you've competed in a round-the-World yacht race you're unlikely to have come across either!
The discovery of the islands makes for a quite an intriguing saga. In March 1663 a Dutch East Indiaman passed them en route for Java and named them Dena (now Marion) and Maerseveen. No landing was made and the discovery seems to have been forgotten. It was over a century later, in January 1772, before the next set of human eyes were cast on the islands and the re-discovery was made in ignorance of the first. This time it was a French frigate, actually on a voyage in search of 'the great southern continent', which came across the isles. Having tried to land on the islands for five days they abandoned the attempt and continued east. In a show of disgust, and disappointment that they had not found Antarctica, they named the islands Ile des Froides: The Frigid Islands.
Almost five years later, in December 1776, Captain James Cook arrived at the islands in the course of his third voyage of discovery. His charts did not show the names bestowed by the French so it was he who named them the Prince Edward Islands, in honour of the fourth son of King George III, the future father of Queen Victoria.
Through the 1800s and early 1900s the animal resources of the islands were exploited mercilessly. First the fur seals were slaughtered until trade in their skins was no longer viable as a single economic activity. By 1810 the sealers had turned to the Elephant Seals, whose blubber could be rendered for retrievable oil. By 1860 this resource, too, had become exhausted and the islands were left in relative peace.
After the Second World War South Africa became increasingly interested in the Prince Edward Islands, in terms of their strategic position for both defence and navigation, as wireless and weather forecasting technology rapidly developed. No claim to sovereignty of the islands had previously been made and therefore, in December 1947 and January 1948, South Africa landed parties on each island in turn and formally completed their annexation. Since that date a scientific station has been permanently manned on Marion, with biological research being undertaken on the Island's animals, plants and ecosystems.
Late in the afternoon the dark shape of Marion Island finally emerges from the grey mist and gloom. It's quite amazing to see some land after days on end amongst the waves and the remoteness of the setting adds to the atmosphere. Cold, steep volcanic rocks climb above huge white breakers as we steam closer, in the face of a rapidly developing gale. The dark rocks give way to rolling dark green slopes that stretch away into the low cloud.
A single, low shingle beach is visible and through the gloom it is just possible to discern a large gathering of King Penguins, fronted by the huge grey shapes of Southern Elephant Seals. We skirt the coastline to the landing site at Transvaal Cove, the location of the research base, where its flare-waving residents greet us. This excitement is quite understandable, as they haven't seen a boat since May! We have one research student aboard, who is due to be dropped off at Marion, but the weather is far too rough to permit a landing and we head south in search of shelter.
As we navigate along the coastline King Penguins swim close to the boat and the endemic Crozet Shag is seen flying past, but the weather is foul and light poor. Large white blobs dotted evenly amongst the cliff-top grass are nesting Wandering Albatrosses and the smaller white blobs walking amongst the rocks are Lesser Sheathbills! The valley-sides of one particular cove are swathed in a mottled grey-and-white mass, which we are told is 10,000 nesting Macaroni Penguins, while the lower and more thinly distributed white dots are Rockhoppers. All very frustrating to say the least!
Eventually the light fades and we take shelter on the leeward side of the island. A glimpse at the guidebook to the Islands contains such quotes as 'rain occurs on 308 days per year', 'gales (winds over 55 kilometres per hour) occur on 107 days per year' and 'calm conditions are rare'. Seems like it would be a little optimistic to hope for a nice sunny day!
Thursday 7th November
The helideck is crowded by 04.00 hours and there is a huge air of anticipation as the sky begins to lighten. The gale that was howling around the ship last night has dropped dramatically in strength, but there is annoyingly persistent drizzle in the air. The sky lightens and birds begin to appear. The endemic Crozet Shags fly low over the boat and it is now apparent that they are very smart birds indeed. Black above and white below, they display a striking patch of yellow skin at the bill-base and a gorgeous royal blue eyering when seen at close range.
King Penguins materialise around the ship in small groups, drawn to us by their inquisitive nature. The water is so clear that they can be seen to 'fly' through the water, driven by stiff, outstretched flippers. When they surface they reveal their stunning black, white and orange markings and utter deep, far-carrying contact calls. It's an amazing experience.
'Orca!' The cry causes panic on the helideck and a mass sprint to the port handrails. Initially the sea looks devoid of life, but then a glance down through clear water reveals the source of the excitement. Within two metres of the ship's hull is the unmistakable black-and-white outline of a Killer Whale. It's an awesome sight, and every detail can be clearly discerned as it drifts away from the boat. Picking up speed it breaches and blows, with huge panda-coloured head held clear of the water. Further out it joins a small pod of two or three more whales and their huge black fins break the surface, sail-like, in the calm waters of the bay.
The Captain skilfully repositions the ship and we concentrate our attention towards the shore and the huge penguin rookeries. Through a telescope the King Penguins, which pack the low shingle beaches, can be studied. They huddle shoulder-to-shoulder with roughly equal numbers of pristine black, white and yellow adults and large, brown, down-covered young.
Huge Southern Elephant Seals lie amongst the boulders in the midst of the King Penguin rookery, with discrete areas of free ground being left around each gigantic grey mass by the astute penguins. On the grassy slopes immediately above the bays are small, loose colonies of Gentoo Penguins, easily distinguished by their white crown-flashes. The Rockhopper Penguins occupy the more inaccessible rocky slopes on the higher ground, which they reach by precariously hopping over jagged rocks and mounds of turf. The Rockhoppers appear rather bedraggled in the rain. Yellow crests are somewhat flattened, but the fact that they do not meet above the eye distinguishes them from the rather more robust Macaronis. The latter species generally nest in separate, sprawling colonies that are located elsewhere on the islands.
Lesser Sheathbills pace deliberately around the King Penguins and odd birds occasionally fly along the clifftops on short, rounded wings. These pure white birds, with contrasting black bare-parts, are restricted in distribution to just five small sub-Antarctic islands between the Cape of Good Hope and Australia and are hence one of the big target species of the trip. Relatively few human eyes have ever before been set on this bizarre scavenger of the island's mammal and seabird colonies.
Kerguelan Terns share a similar range to the Lesser Sheathbills and are amongst the rarest tern species in the world. With dark grey underparts, black cap and white cheeks these smart birds resemble Whiskered Terns and share feeding habits with this species. We watch them hovering and dipping over the macrocystis kelp beds just offshore, in marsh tern type fashion. Apparently they also spend much time feeding over freshwater inland pools and meres.
Some way inland, dotted about Marion's rolling grassy slopes, are nesting Wandering Albatrosses. Well-grown young are now present in the nests and the darker down of these birds is less easy to spot against the dark background. Wanderers only raise one chick every other year, hence their vulnerability to longline fishing mentioned earlier. Another problem faced by birds on Marion is rather more obscure: predation by mice. The House Mouse was probably introduced by shipwrecks and sealers' expeditions in the early 1800s. They rapidly multiplied and soon reached such proportions that they plagued the early research teams. In 1949 a number of cats where introduced, which were believed to have been neutered. Sadly this proved not to be the case and cat numbers soon began to multiply.
By 1975 more than two thousand cats had learnt that it was far easier to feed on burrowing petrels on the Island than to hunt mice at Marion base. Consequently these cats ate just under half a million seabirds in 1975 alone, sparking the implementation of a huge control programme. Introduced diseases, hunting, trapping and poisoning were all employed and by 1991 more than three thousand cats had been killed. No cats have been seen since this date and the programme has been hailed as one of the most successful eradication programmes ever.
This still leaves the House Mouse problem, however. Mice have been blamed for altering the ecosystems and plant communities by eating the Marion Flightless Moth Caterpillars and are now thought to be guilty of attacking albatross chicks during the night. They bite into the stomachs of the helpless birds and are thought to be the cause of recently noted increases in casualties amongst fledgling birds.
Further evidence of Man's adverse influence on the natural environment can be seen in the shape of the huge rusting three-legged iron cauldron, or tripot, on Tripot Beach. A tripot was used to boil down the fat from seal blubber and penguin flesh and the presence of this heirloom of a bygone age is testament to our inhumanity and wanton exploitation of the Planet's resources. Apparently penguins would have once been herded up planks and into the pot to be boiled alive. The sight of this instrument of destruction now sitting amongst the bustling penguin rookery, with birds walking obliviously past, is particularly poignant.
Back on the water, and tiny Common Diving-Petrels scoot over the surface before diving headlong below the waves. Their identification causes much controversy, but most observers are happy that they do exhibit a duskier underwing than the South Georgian Petrels seen yesterday. Furthermore, our resident seabird experts tell us that Common Diving-Petrels feed around the macrocystis kelp beds, whereas South Georgians are birds of the open sea. Anyway, I'm not proud. Tick!
Prince Edward Island is a couple of hours steaming time from Marion; so late in the morning we head off northeast to complete our tour. A few hot chocolates and a flurry of albatrosses later, Prince Edward Island emerges from the dirty grey mist. The scenery is more rugged and dramatic than Marion, with towering black volcanic cliffs rising vertically from the sea, their tops disappearing into the low cloud. Where the grey sea meets the dark rocks, the white plumes of crashing breakers contrast starkly with the black background. It makes for an incredibly atmospheric sight, and the Island appears to be a very dark and foreboding place.
The setting may appear uninviting, but a closer approach reveals that the Island and its surrounding waters are teeming with birdlife. As the ship is skilfully manoeuvred close in to RSA Point we are treated to our first decent views of a Macaroni Penguin colony. A steady stream of birds clamber up the steep rocky hillside to an area of flat, bare rock where a few hundred birds have set up their rookery. The Macaronis can be distinguished from the superficially similar Rockhoppers by their more luxuriant yellow plumes that meet above the bill, their deeper, redder bill and diagnostic fleshy pink gape.
More Southern Elephant Seals are dotted about the low rocky beaches whilst the higher grassy hillsides, above the beaches, are inhabited by the occasional Sub-Antarctic Fur Seal. These animals are much smaller and darker than the Elephants and show a pale yellowish face and chest.
We continue to follow the coastline and pass the famous Albatross Valley, which sports the highest densities of breeding Wandering Albatrosses in the world. The Wanderers are concentrated on the flat valley base, while high on the valley sides are vast numbers of mollymawks; Grey-headed and Indian Yellow-nosed Albatrosses. Hundreds of storm-petrels feed above the turbulent waters, close inshore, and we are treated to brilliant views of Black-bellied and Grey-backed Storm-Petrels which patter their feet across the water's surface close to the ship. A shout of 'terns!' sets heads spinning and we are just in time to watch three Antarctic Terns pass the boat and disappear out, over the misty sea.
Our route takes us past huge black rock stacks, which rise from the sea, like the wind-chiselled spires of a dark Gothic cathedral, their summits shrouded in thick grey mist. Huge breakers whip their bases with white foam and it makes a stunning backdrop to the soaring albatrosses and giant petrels that abound in the shadow of the Island.
After a brief attempt at 'chumming', when our buckets full of stinking sharks liver attracts only hordes of aggressive giant petrels, we set a course back to Marion Island. The crossing between the islands is spectacularly rough, with the Agulhas pitching to ridiculously steep angles and passengers gripping grimly to any suitable handholds around the helideck. Chairs and an occasional birder roll across the helihanger but we eventually reach the relative shelter of Marion with all passengers still accounted for!
Following the shoreline in a southwesterly direction we are able to study the Island's fascinating geography in somewhat clearer weather conditions than during our early morning visit. Marion's eastern coastline is a harsh volcanic landscape of steep black lava cliffs and dark green hillsides strewn with huge rounded boulders. Occasional red-tinted cinder cones give some symmetry to the outlook and tumbling white waterfalls, dropping to the cold sea below, periodically slice the cold greens and blacks.
Rounding a headland the amazing sight of the Kildelkey penguin rookery comes in to view. The name 'Kildelkey' comes from the last company to attempt to harvest the penguins and seals on a commercial basis that thankfully ceased, unsuccessful, in the 1930s. The vast colony is centred on the minimal shelter afforded by a shallow valley and contains the mind-boggling numbers of one hundred and fifty thousand pairs of King Penguins and three hundred thousand pairs of Macaronis.
The Kings occupy the lower slopes with a sharp demarcation to the 'Mackies', whose throngs stretch way up the valley-sides and over the higher ground. Many of the King Penguins again have well-grown brown, downy young, standing as tall as the parent birds. It is also apparent that the King's social organisation requires less space between individual birds than the Mackies. The Kings huddle almost shoulder-to-shoulder, creating a vivid block of colour on the grey landscape while the more loosely spaced Mackies leave a visible 'pecking zone' between birds. The yellows and oranges of the King's plumage create of warm glow over their enclave while the Mackies display colder black and white tones. This gives a stunning visual effect when the colony is viewed from a distance; the dividing line between the two species can be traced with the naked eye as it winds along the valley base.
As the light fades Marion Island disappears from view. This will be our last sight of land until we return to the South African Cape. We are now heading south, towards the ice, and into uncharted territory. No one has made a pelagic birding trip into this part of the ocean at this time of year ever before. There is an air of anticipation about the boat and thoughts turn to icebergs and penguins.
Friday 8th November
After just one night's steaming south from the islands there is a dramatic decrease in the number of birds visible at sea. Early morning on the helideck reveals that the attendant wake-following White-chinned Petrels and albatrosses have all but disappeared. Blue Petrels have been replaced by prions, including a number of Fairies, and White-headed Petrel is now the common pteradroma.
The weather is bright with a low swell and brisk, cold wind. Occasionally the sky blackens as squalls appear ahead. As these weird, linear storms approach the sea becomes turbulent and we experience huge waves and sheets of rain. This only lasts for a matter of minutes, however, then squalls pass and can be seen disappearing into the distance before the sun breaks through again.
Southern Fulmars increase in number around the wake of the ship. They really are exquisite birds, with delicate pink bills and distinctive white wing flashes. A well-insulated afternoon bout of birding from the Monkey Island, at times in horizontal snow showers, finally produces some fine views of Kerguelen Petrels. This species had proven most elusive further north but, as with many other species, once we reach the appropriate sector of ocean they are relatively numerous. 'Kergies' have a particularly impressive and characteristic flight, swooping up in an arc to perform a long level glide high above the waves.
15.12 hours is a big note for the diary, being the precise time that the first iceberg is spotted. I have to admit that my idea of an iceberg had always been a lump of pointy white ice poking up out of the sea. Therefore it comes as quite a surprise when a vast chunk of the Antarctic ice shelf appears on the horizon. Far from being a piece of ice in the sea, this thing looks like the bloody Isle of Wight! Flat-topped and with huge vertical cliffs of ice rising on its flanks, it is visible from nearly twenty miles distance. Absolutely amazing, and hopefully a taste of things to come. The only disappointment is that my entry in the 'when will we see the first iceberg?' sweepstake is just fifteen minutes premature and I miss out on the winnings.
It's been another great day and no-one suspects that progress has been too badly affected by the headwind. With this in mind it comes as a shock when Peter Ryan tells us, in the evening log call, that we are a full day behind schedule, which will mean a whole day less at the pack ice. We retire to bed in a rather disillusioned state.
Saturday 9th November
Time for another layer of thermal underwear, I think. Overnight snow has left a two-inch layer covering the ship's deck. It is now seriously cold and any bare skin is chilled to the point of pain in a matter of minutes. We all rapidly become experts in camera focusing with the aid of thick, padded mittens.
The strong wind produces a huge swell and it is obvious that our progress south is being hindered further. Numbers of birds are generally low and species diversity minimal. It would be sacrilegious to describe the passage of time as tedious, in this once-in-a-lifetime environment, but there is a real air of despondency on board the ship. Every one knows that each hour lost to the storm is an hour less in the packice. We try to put it to the back of our minds but the real fact is that if the wind doesn't abate soon we may not even reach the ice before we have to head north for The Cape.
After the briefest of daily log-calls we decide that the answer lies in drowning our sorrows in Castle Beer. A raucous evening in the bar culminates in a drunken game of 'crush the can'. This involves balancing on your empty beer can, then crushing it with a deft thrust of the fingers. Not particularly easy when sober and on solid ground. When pissed and on a rolling boat nigh on impossible! MK refuses to be defeated and comes away with a self-inflicted 'drinking injury' resulting in serious loss of blood.
Sunday 10th November
We venture outside to find light winds, relatively calm seas and gently falling snow. The snow means that visibility is low and few birds are to be seen. Kerguelan Petrels are still in evidence, however, and drift close past the ship allowing the subtleties of their grey and sliver plumage to be enjoyed in the flat light.
The panoramic view from the Monkey Island, with a virtually calm sea and steadily falling snowflakes, makes for a particularly evocative scene. There is a real feeling that we are steaming towards the very end of the World.
Late in the morning the sky clears and the sun beams through to a flat ocean. We are now making up for lost time, travelling south at over twelve Knots, and optimism again prevails on board. Kergies are all around the boat and adopt a totally different flight style to suit the prevailing calm conditions. In contrast to their familiar 'goalpost shaped' soaring flightpath they dart around on rapid wingbeats, in a manner likened to a Pipistrelle Bat! A few Slender-billed Prions begin to appear with their Antarctic cousins. Although superficially similar they can easily be picked out once you get your eye in, with their paler heads and more delicate build.
There is growing anticipation now amongst the passengers as we are now well within the zone of the Southern Ocean where some of the real prize birds are likely to appear. Lunch is confined to a minimal period inside within the canteen. No one wants to be munching his or her fishcakes when a real biggey flies past!
The temperature is really starting to drop markedly as large icebergs continue to materialise on the horizon. These huge white shapes tower high above the cold blue sea, floating islands with shadows picking out the detail on their icy cliff faces. It is also apparent that the numbers of birds are decreasing as we move further south, until just Blue Petrels and Southern Fulmars follow the ship.
Cetacean watching from a moving boat is a tricky proposition. Field guides illustrate huge mammals with distinctive shapes and markings while an average encounter consists of a 'blow' of spray and, if one is lucky, a brief glimpse of a fin between rolling waves. We are therefore delighted when a pair of Fin Whales makes a number of relatively close blows before showing their distinctively dark backs and tiny, rear-mounted fin.
It's mid-afternoon when the first of the big packice bird specialities makes an appearance. 'Antarctic Petrel off the stern!' In the most obliging fashion this superb bird spends the next half-hour cruising around the ship. Not dissimilar to an ice-loving Pintado, Antarctic Petrels are dark chocolate brown above, with contrasting white flight feathers and tail, each with a black spot at the tip. They inhabit the packice and iceberg zones, rarely venturing further north, and breed in the most inhospitable locations on the freezing cold Antarctic mainland. In the ship's wake, at the same time, is the only white morph Southern Giant Petrel of the trip. This rare colour form is most regularly encountered at the southern limits of the species' range and appears reminiscent of a Glaucous Gull at distance, though displays a number of distinct dark blotches on its breast.
The speciality birds are coming thick-and-fast now and it's only a few minutes later that the first Chinstrap Penguins appear off the port bow. It is a truly wonderful sight to see penguins porpoising in the open ocean, repeatedly jumping clear of the water then disappearing below the waves as they propel themselves at great speed through the icy-cold sea. Chinstraps really must be the smartest penguins going, with their white faces and neat black 'straps' running down below the bill. Again, this species is totally restricted to the coldest icepack waters.
Everyone has donned their thickest thermals; breath comes as a frosty mist on the ice-cold air and every nose sports a dewdrop. There is now a constant relay running shuttles to the kitchen and cold hands grip thawing cuppas.
The final new bird of the day is the true epitome of the cold icy wastes of the southernmost latitudes and it is quite fitting that it keeps us waiting until the last. When a Snow Petrel does materialise it is greeted by a suitable array of expletives and awe-struck gasps from the assembled gallery. This perfectly proportioned pure-white seabird, with delicate black bill and tiny black eye, must surely be one of the most amazing creatures on Earth. It looks totally at one with this incredibly hostile environment and gives a dove-like impression as it flaps and glides gracefully around the ship, the now-grey sky emphasising its vivid white plumage.
We are still marvelling at our Snow Petrel when we realise that we are about to make a real close quarter visit to one of the huge icebergs which until now have been shapes on the horizon. It's difficult to know where to look next as Chinstrap Penguins continue to pass by, but the rapidly approaching ice-island soon draws the telescopes and long lenses.