Antarctica

A trip to Antarctica is an epic undertaking, a true once-in-a-lifetime experience. (That said, I’d go back in a heartbeat.) The advanced preparation and the long journey to get there are all part of the adventure.

Getting started
The long process of getting me on board began. (There were disclaimer forms to be signed, requests for my clothing sizes for gear, lists of recommended medications for sea sickness, a medical questionnaire and doctor approval form, a Zoom meeting with a doctor, and more.) I couldn’t believe I was really going to do this—and developed an intense fear of getting seasick, of having some sort of medical emergency in such an isolated place. I pictured being airlifted in a military helicopter at a cost of hundreds of thousands of dollars.

The ship seen from a zodiak during an afternoon excursion.

So I loaded up on anti-nausea pills and folk cures, plus the requisite travel insurance, including a hefty evacuation allowance. Fortunately, I didn’t have to get a lot of gear—Viking supplied most of the heavy lift stuff—but I did get waterproof gloves, a neck gaiter, and some thick socks. I tried to procure some Valium (good for seasickness as well as anxiety!) but it was not to be. But by the time of my departure, though, I felt ready—and even very, very excited.

Everyone on deck as we set sail from Ushuaia.

Setting off
After a brief stop in Buenos Aires, we flew to Ushuaia, the southernmost town on the planet and the capital of Tierra del Fuego. Roughly 90% of all ships that sail to Antarctica go through here. It’s a picturesque place, ringed by snow-capped mountains, although the town itself is odd, a mix of locals and very short-term tourists. (Like everywhere these days, there were a remarkable number of coffee shops.) There was also a Hard Rock Cafe, where (I was told) some of the ship staff would hang out and let loose after months at sea. And the requisite gift shops. You could also get Ushuaia and Antarctica “passport stamps” at the post office, but someone cautioned us that these were not allowed in U.S. passports (as well as some others) and that they could cause problems at customs in various countries. (I verified this online, although it seemed rare. Just in case, I stamped mine on paper.)

Leaving the world behind
After a champagne welcome upon boarding the ship, a few registration kinks (“We don’t have you listed” said the first official person I encountered), and several safety demonstrations, we were instructed to bring anything we might wear outside to the bottom deck. There, all of it—hats, neck gaiters, gloves, backpacks, scarves—were vacuumed VERY thoroughly to remove as much soil, pollen, or other organic material and prevent it from being introduced onto Antarctica. (Jackets, waterproof pants, and boots were waiting for us in our rooms.)

The Digs
Before vacuum duty, we checked into our very comfortable rooms. Mine had a king-sized bed, a couch, a desk, and floor-to-ceiling windows, the top of which opened for a sort of indoor/outdoor vibe (and great views of mountains and icebergs without glass between us.) There was also a drying closet with a small heated panel for our outdoor gear. No matter how wet we got (and we did get quite wet sometimes) our stuff would be dry and warm by the next outing.

The sun never really set while we were down there (it was early Summer). Depending on where we were, it might get pretty dark for a couple of hours; in other places, it would remain dusky all night. The rooms had blackout shades but I couldn’t sleep with them down. (I think it’s a claustrophobia issue). So I’d either leave them open a couple of feet or all the way up. Somehow, I managed to sleep my normal, minimal amount despite this. The amazing housekeeper dudes, both from Indonesia, somehow figured out my sleeping pattern (I’m told they get a data printout of room activities—I don’t want to know) and stopped putting the shade down after the first two nights. The crew, somewhat oddly, would call us by our first names but with a title, i.e., I was “Mr. Stephen” to one and all, and I’m sure Viking has a dossier on me containing an FBI level of detail.

The ship itself is swank but not glitzy. No children allowed. No casinos. No grand architectural gestures or tumescent chandeliers. It’s all got a sort of modern, high-end residential (and Scandi) vibe. Vast numbers of comfy couches and leather armchairs, blankets; tons of loaded bookshelves (many on topic), meant that—except perhaps in the mid-afternoon—you could always plunk down for a read or a look-out or a nap and not feel crowded, even though there were roughly 380 people on board.

On the bottom deck, near the front of the ship, there was also a place called The Hide, which wasn’t on any of the maps. I don’t think a lot of people knew it was there, but someone had told me in advance to go. During the day, it was usually empty, with cozy armchairs draped with deerskins looking out windows that got continuously pummeled by waves. At night, members of the crew would tell tales of their adventures at sea. For some reason, only Scotch was served down there, but I would carry my wine down, wrapped jauntily in the mohair blanket from my bed.

The Drake Passage

Shortly after setting sail, we reached the fabled Drake Passage, one of the deepest parts of the ocean and one known for rough waves—plus seasickness. On the way out, we were told we had it relatively easy, with swells “only” 15-20 feet. The ship is large and has stabilizers, so it lacked a Perfect Storm vibe, but it was plenty bouncy. I was delighted to not get the least bit queasy, although I took many precautions: nibbling Dramamine, wearing voodoo wristbands, guzzling ginger ale (I got the bartenders to give me several bottles and stashed them all around my cabin), sipping ginger tea, and gazing at the horizon line. (People I knew who had been on the ship before and many passengers on my sail got plenty ill. A lot of people wore prescription patches behind their ears, but they make you quite drowsy and I wanted to experience as much as possible.) On the way back, it was worse, the ship not only bobbing up and down but rocking back and forth rather dramatically, albeit in slow super motion. I went to breakfast the first morning on our return and there were about five people in the dining room. More info about the Drake Passage can be found here.

En route to a landing on a particularly chilly morning.

Excursions / Toys
The ship had a gigantic hangar filled with zodiacs (inflatable boats that could hold about 10 people plus a driver), 2 “special operations boats” that held a dozen people, many kayaks, and two submarines. Being claustrophobic beyond belief, I went out on all of them except the submarines.

Our ship and its twin have, between them, four yellow submarines—John, Paul, George, and Ringo. (We had John and Ringo on ours.) Each is capable of diving to a depth of about 900 feet, and each has two spherical acrylic spheres in which three passengers can sit during dives for a total of six—plus the captain. For the most part, passengers see sponges, some starfish, and little else—with one exception. On a voyage last year, a very rare jellyfish, Stygiomedusa gigantea, commonly known as the giant phantom jellyfish, was spotted on a dive. (Viking published the first scientific paper by a commercial ship in the area about it.)

Upon arrival in each new place, an advance scouting team would head out and check the weather conditions, observe the penguins (for signs of Avian Flu), and survey the shoreline. They often had to dig a staircase into the snow so we could climb up to a walkable area. Some days only certain craft were allowed out due to choppy waves or high winds. (The kayaks and submarines were the most fussy, then zodiacs, then the special operations boats.)

Getting dressed
Although it wasn’t all that cold (the temperature varied between about 18F and 32F), the wind chill was intense, especially when you were on the water in a kayak or zodiac. So you didn’t want to be nonchalant when it came to preparing to go outside.

We were required to wear provided red jackets, waterproof pants, high boots, and a life preserver any time we left the ship. I wore a jacket liner (provided) and a cashmere sweater (cheap, LL Bean) underneath. On the bottom were Uniqlo Heat Tech extra-warm leggings and then jeans and then the waterproof pants. Warm sock under my boots. Then gloves, a scarf, a neck gaiter, sunglasses, sunscreen, a hat—and I’d put hand warmers in the pockets of my jacket. Throw on a camera and a pair of binoculars and you could barely walk down the hallway from your room to the elevator. (Only my fingertips ever got cold, mostly because I kept taking off my gloves to take pictures.) No ozone over Antarctica so lots of sunscreen every time we went out.

Science
One requirement by the IAATO (The International Association of Antarctica Tour Operators) is that ships that have landings must engage in open-source scientific research, and this was something Viking took very seriously. The ship takes in a lot of water that is filtered so that various substances (mostly microplastics and phytoplankton) can be collected and sent to labs that support Viking’s research, mostly at universities. The science crew, headed by an awesome British woman, went out each day to collect other samples, measure turbidity, and monitor the various cameras deployed to map and collect data about fish in the area. Because the ship continuously visit the same places, they can do repetitive data collection that would be virtually impossible for anyone else to pull off due to the expense of sending ships to the area over and over again. These ships also take samples all along the way from the Great Leaks to Antarctica.

Life onboard
The days passed quickly, mostly because there was a ton to do and—in my case—I had outside work in addition to experiencing every aspect of the ship. (The wifi was surprisingly robust, although it would go out from time to time, sometimes for more than a day depending on where we were parked.)

There was a briefing every morning in the Aula, a large theater-like space on the bow with about 300 seats and a retractable screen. There were movies, scientific presentations on geography, wildlife, the history of Antarctic travel, etc. Eating took up a sizable chunk of time, of course. I would also go to the spa every day for half an hour for a fast shvitz (both sauna and steam), two cold plunges (in a delightful room that was open to the outside), a snow rubdown (there was a small room that made snow!) and a quick jacuzzi. Then I’d take a nap because I’m not an absolute Philistine.

Passengers
Viking’s demographic is largely senior citizens, and a majority of passengers are repeat customers. Many I spoke to do more than one sailing each year and have done so for many years. About 15% of those onboard the Antarctic ship had gotten on in Duluth, Minnesota, two months earlier. They had sailed the Great Lakes, continued down the East Coast of Canada and the US, crossed through the Panama Canal, and continued down the West Coast of South America before the rest of us got on.

One guy, who appeared to be in his 90s and used a walker, apparently lives on Viking ships, going from one to the other continuously. He seemed happy as can be, although he would sometimes be found on decks linked only by staircases and I’m not sure how he got there. He would also do land excursions, being carried in and out of the zodiacs and onto land, where he would stand and look around and then be escorted back.

Staff and crew
Staff members were impressively well-trained and a cheerful bunch to boot. The general staff (housekeepers, waiters, bartenders, a few others) were full-time employees and came from just about everywhere: Indonesia, the Philippines, South Africa, Argentina, and many other places. The guides, scientists, and some other crew members were contract employees, mostly male and mostly white. They were British, Canadian, American, Argentinian, and a couple of others. One odd thing is that their outfits were always synched. If one was in their red Viking polo, they all were. If one was in a suit, they all were. And so on. You literally never saw an outlier. I can picture one of them leaving his or her room in outdoor gear and getting the “business casual” alert and having to run back to change before being seen out of uniform.

Lining up to return to the ship on one of our first landings.

The White Album
One of the things you first notice in Antarctica is that what appears to be a limited palette of whites, grays, and blues develops, over time, into an amazing array of colors. Many days were overcast and often snowy, bathing everything in an eerie gray light with a muting effect. On others, clearer skies would produce a range of variations you’d never believe possible. (Black would eventually be supplied primarily by penguins, who also introduced the welcome bit of orange to the mix with their feet and beaks.)

Gentoo penguins (the type we saw most often) on our first landing.

It was the very beginning of summer when we sailed, and we were one of the first ships out for the season, so everything was still blanketed in many (many) feet of snow. It was often difficult to tell the difference between land piled high with snow and an iceberg, especially when shapes and distances were obfuscated by whipping winds and snowfall. One perfectly clear and sunny day, outlines became sharper, and blues that had been barely noticeable became accentuated, and the whites displayed textures I hadn’t noticed before.

It was, in a word, overwhelming. Almost too much to take in, a set of new information so intense that it was sometimes difficult to process. This didn’t look like the earth; rather, it felt like we had gone through some sort of portal to another dimension—or at least to a different planet. And while estimates vary as to how many people have set foot on Antarctica since it was discovered roughly 200 years ago, the generally accepted range is only around 300,000 to 350,000.

I feel extremely fortunate to have been among them.

Egypt