We get the dinghy ready—it’s almost second nature by now—and row ashore.

Numerous seabirds are soaring through the deep-blue sky: from the large giant petrels to the small, fluttering terns trying to catch tiny krill from the water. Both Arctic and Antarctic terns can be seen. These small, delicate birds breed at opposite ends of the world: Arctic terns in the Arctic, and Antarctic terns here in the south. Between breeding seasons, they fly halfway around the world. It’s hard to imagine. It’s easy to tell them apart: the birds that are currently breeding are easily recognizable by their red beaks—in this case, here in South Georgia, the Antarctic Terns that are breeding here. The Arctic Terns currently seen here have black beaks, since this is not their breeding ground.

Along the long, stretchy beach, one colony of elephant seals follows another, with only a few—perhaps a hundred—meters between them. There must be hundreds or thousands of them.

Most of the females have their young lying right next to them—just a few days old, with black fur, and tiny compared to the adult animals.

They communicate by barking, calling, and bleating.

In the center of the harem, often near the water’s edge, lies the pasha, the largest and most dominant bull. Often, two other, younger bulls lie at the edges, just waiting to push their way into the harem should the opportunity arise—or simply to give it a try. Then these three or four metric tons of sheer mass spring into action with astonishing speed to put the intruder in its place. In the process, the Pascha ruthlessly plows through anything in its path—unfortunately, sometimes even a small calf.

The penguins, which stroll unabashedly among the colossal creatures lying there, are quick enough to scatter at the first sign of an approaching bull and thus escape unharmed.

Often, this threatening gesture—combined with a wide-open mouth, a flared nose, and an angry snort—is enough to put an end to the audacious attempt.

Sometimes, however, their courage is great enough, and a fight breaks out between the two bulls. It’s not exactly a gentle affair: the animals, weighing several metric tons, rear up, hurl themselves and their massive skulls at one another, and try to bite each other. This continues until the weaker one gives in and flees, and the victor, exhausted, sinks down among his harem and rests with a deep snort. The marks left by these often bloody clashes are visible on every one of the cops.

At the eastern end of the bay, the noise level rises noticeably from the chorus of calls emanating from the throats of hundreds of thousands of penguins. And there’s a lot of traffic. They’re moving from all directions and in all directions—within the colony, along the water’s edge, in the water, coming and going, far into the valley or emerging from it. It’s an unintentionally comical sight to see them—whether alone or in groups—walking somewhat awkwardly, staggering, stumbling, slipping, picking themselves up again… and there’s something deeply human about the way they are. Or at least that’s what one thinks one sees from time to time.

Huddled closely together within the colony, resplendent in color, animal after animal, they crane their necks and eye us. Here and there, a lone elephant seal can be seen among them.

Further back, up in the valley, is the part of the colony with the nursery, where the chicks are. Brown, fluffy, and looking so very different from the elegant adult elephants, they cover a vast area.

So much life in such a small space! In such a remote corner of the world. Perhaps this is only possible for this very reason—because humans have virtually no say here, don’t belong here?

And so we, too, retreat back on board.

The evening heralds its arrival with soft pastel hues in the sky and pours its wonderful light over this uniquely beautiful landscape. It’s going to be a clear night. A narrow crescent moon hangs over the silhouette of the mountain range. And at least as many stars as there are penguins here on Salisbury Plain begin to twinkle in the night sky. The stars, the penguins’ calls, and the sounds of the elephant seals accompany us through an otherwise quiet night.

Der Beitrag Salisbury Plain erschien zuerst auf Sailing SOUTH Expeditions.

After a warm bowl of porridge, we weigh anchor shortly after eight. The impressive scenery of South Georgia passes by on our starboard side: alpine peaks, often snow-capped all the way down to sea level, some of them glaciated. Our plan to discover this island as it awakens from its winter slumber is working out perfectly.

After two hours, we drop anchor in Rosita Harbor.

Rosita Harbour

The landscape—the bay—is breathtakingly beautiful. The surrounding mountains form striking patterns of black rock and white snow. We’re enjoying the sunshine after yesterday’s weather and hiking through the dazzlingly white landscape. Scattered mosses and lichens, or tufts of tussock grass, add a touch of color—a pale yellow-green. Hidden among them—often barely visible—are nesting Antarctic giant petrels. They are currently in their mating and nesting season and are very sensitive, so we keep our distance to avoid disturbing them. The fur seals—sometimes hidden away sleeping in the tussock grass, sometimes dozing in the sun at the water’s edge—also prefer their space and make this unmistakably clear if you get too close. They stand up and respond with a hiss. It’s time to retreat. The fur seals are surprisingly quick, and a bite from their sharp, highly infectious teeth would have serious consequences.

A single pair of Gentoo penguins is lazing about in the snow, and on the beach we once again encounter elephant seals, with their broad, contented smiles and numerous young.

We want to make the most of the good weather, so in the early afternoon we weigh anchor to head a few nautical miles further east in search of an anchorage for the night and another landing site.

Der Beitrag Rosita Harbor erschien zuerst auf Sailing SOUTH Expeditions.

On the evening of the previous day, we begin preparing for our first shore leave. Here in South Georgia, that involves quite a bit of effort. To prevent anything that doesn’t belong here—such as seeds, soil, plant parts, or other “civilization debris”—from reaching the island, all items, clothing… must be thoroughly cleaned. And so there’s a flurry of activity on board: backpacks, clothes, and bags are thoroughly searched, emptied, and cleaned. Everything is turned inside out. The soles of all shoes and boots are brushed clean. Every Velcro fastener is meticulously cleared of any lint or fibers.

In addition, boots must be disinfected before and after every time you go ashore.

All of this is done to protect and preserve this sensitive ecosystem from external influences as much as possible.

The First Foot on Land

By mid-morning, the time has come: we haul the dinghy and the outboard motor out of the forepeak, set them up on deck, and lower them into the water. Yesterday’s evening sun, however, was just a brief interlude: it’s cold, gray, and raining, and the wind is blowing down the valley at 30 to 35 knots. All in all, it’s more than unpleasant, but never mind: we want to see where we’ve ended up, so we cross over in three groups in the dinghy and set foot on South Georgia for the first time.

And the local welcoming party is standing and lying in wait: king penguins are standing and walking around, eyeing us curiously. Elephant seals are lying and dozing in several groups on the beach or even further inland on the snow-covered valley floor—completely unfazed by the inclement weather.

A large, massive bull guards his harem of several females and defends them against any rival. He lies there, seemingly asleep—but as soon as an intruder appears, he is wide awake, rears up to his full height, and lets out a deep, angry growl. We prefer to keep a safe distance from this 3-4 metric-ton beast.

For just under two hours, we brave the Antarctic winter weather, explore the bay, and watch its inhabitants go about their business. While we’re waiting for Voy and the dinghy, a leopard seal suddenly surfaces right in front of us—probably hungry, on the hunt for dinner. We’re hungry, too, so we head back to the Selma and warm up with some hot soup.

The wind will remain strong, and it will start snowing in the evening.

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We spent yet another night on watch, passing the hours drifting northward in the darkness, but yesterday morning, when I stuck my head out into the drafty cockpit at half past four—the sails had already been set again at first light—and breathed in the Antarctic-cold air, the island and the first snow-capped peaks emerged from the fog. A little later, the first timid rays of sunlight appeared and illuminated an iceberg.

The wind had shifted to the south, but the island offered little shelter. We were sailing on a half-wind course at 40 knots; gusts of up to 56 knots raced across the water at short intervals, heralded by clouds of spray rushing toward us like a white wall, sweeping across the water and over us.

It was wild, but it looked beautiful. The water was churning—mountainous formations in shades of gray-green and gray-blue—depending on how the light hit them. The surface was intricately patterned, constantly shifting as the wind shaped it. An incredible sight.

Not as many as we expected, but there were still quite a few seabirds curiously accompanying us, including the large albatrosses—those wanderers who aren’t bothered by this wind at all; on the contrary. They skillfully navigate every gust, using every shift in the air for their elegant flight. It’s a feast for the eyes to watch them.

The strong wind is making it difficult for us to anchor. Although the bay is on the north side of the island and actually offers good shelter from several directions, the strong southerly wind swept across the pass and down the valley, intensifying like a jet stream and driving one hurricane-force gust after another straight at us. But eventually, about half a mile from shore, the anchor dropped. After a week at sea.

So we’re not exactly at rest, and the wind is howling fiercely around our ears. But we’re here! In South Georgia. After many years of dreaming about it. After five years of planning. On our second attempt, after we were unable to call at South Georgia in 2024 on our way back from Antarctica. This time, we made it.

We’re anchored; the anchor is holding. All around us stretches the island’s impressive landscape, which is just awakening from its winter slumber: snow-capped alpine peaks, and even the broad valley still deeply covered in snow. Isolated rocks and tussocks of grass peek out from the snow. White, gray, and hints of green and blue are the dominant colors. The beach is dark, almost black. Scattered across the area are elephant seals in several groups—often consisting of a massive bull, easily recognizable even from a distance due to his immense size, and his harem of several significantly smaller females.

Countless king penguins are scattered across the snowy slopes, spread out among several colonies. Slender, vibrantly colored adults and their brown, fluffy chicks. As far as the eye can see. The penguins’ calls and the muffled rumbling of the elephant seals reach us—at least when the wind takes a brief pause before the next howling gust.

The wind is too strong for a shore excursion or a dinghy ride. In the evening, the sun even shines for a moment before disappearing behind the peaks.

We look forward to the next day and make ourselves comfortable in the belly of the Selma. We rest after the crossing, the exhaustion from which we’re only now beginning to feel and which is slowly subsiding. We’ve arrived—even in our minds, even in our thoughts, which still need to process the fact that we’re actually here now.

We cook and eat heartily—the first time all twelve of us have been together since we set out, sitting peacefully at a set table, with plates and all the trimmings, even a sip of Falkland Gin to celebrate the occasion and a small glass of wine.

We’re happy and grateful for the privilege of being here.

Der Beitrag We’ve Arrived—South Georgia erschien zuerst auf Sailing SOUTH Expeditions.

Yesterday we also came across the first icebergs, about 70 miles southwest of Shag Rocks—three rocky outcrops in the middle of the South Atlantic. From now on, we’ll have to keep our eyes peeled: for icebergs, but also for smaller “Bergy Bits” or “Growlers,” which float right at the surface and are therefore very hard to spot in the troughs of the waves.

The wind over the last two days has been blowing between 20 and 40 knots, and we’ve been making good progress.

Last night we reduced speed and let the ship drift in the darkness to avoid colliding with a growler at high speed. Even so, with winds of 30–40 knots and correspondingly rough seas, we were still making between 2 and 4 knots over ground. The ice watch had to keep an eye out for icebergs every ten to fifteen minutes in the dark. It was very uncomfortable and cold in these conditions. To avoid having to constantly readjust our eyes to the darkness, all the lights on the boat are turned off, and the few instruments are set to red and completely dimmed. The white of the breaking wave crests was clearly visible against the blackness of the night; fortunately, there were no icebergs. We drifted about 20 miles south. This morning, as daylight broke around five, we set sail again and headed for South Georgia.

Over the past week, a certain routine has also settled in on board. The watch system is now in place. We’re slowly coming together as a team. Not everyone is fully operational yet, but most have gotten over their initial bout of seasickness. The mood on board is good.

Der Beitrag Icebergs erschien zuerst auf Sailing SOUTH Expeditions.

Yesterday between 10 and 11 a.m., we cast off from Stanley and, after leaving Cape Pembroke astern, set a course for South Georgia.

Unfortunately, we’re running on the engine for now.

The stormy wind of the last few days had completely died down just in time for our departure.

What remained was an unpleasant and choppy sea, which, combined with the long, high swell, caused the Selma to roll heavily and forced most of us into our bunks.

During the first few miles, while we were still close to land, we were accompanied several times by groups of dolphins that dived, leaped, and played in the Selma’s bow wave. Later on, we repeatedly spotted solitary black-browed albatrosses gliding elegantly over the water, small, agile Cape petrels, or large storm petrels.

The day remained gray, and the night was foggy and damp and cold. The rowing watches have been assigned and will be handled for now by those who are able to do so; the onboard routines will have to develop gradually.

Unfortunately, the calm will stay with us a while longer; the wind isn’t expected to pick up until Wednesday evening. The rough seas are slowly subsiding, and we’re motoring at five knots, heading 100 degrees toward South Georgia.

We have 800 nautical miles ahead of us.

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The lead-up took a little longer than expected. The Selma, our ship, was being prepared for the upcoming season at a shipyard in Brazil and was unable to clear customs and set sail until later than planned.

She finally arrived here in Stanley just yesterday after ten days of sailing. The last crew members also arrived, so we’re now a complete team.

And so we had more than enough time to explore the area around Stanley. And, except for the last two days, we were very lucky with the weather.

Sometimes in one group, sometimes in another—in groups or alone—we set out: to see the penguins at Gypsie Cove and Yorke Bay, to the lighthouse at Cape Pembroke, where many fur seals hide in the tussock grass, strolling along the vast beaches, or hiking up the surrounding mountains.

Some set out on an off-road tour to see the king penguins at Volunteers

Karen, Unda, and I spent two days on Saunders Island, an island in the west—completely remote and all to ourselves in a small cabin, surrounded by magnificent natural scenery and, aside from that, only by the island’s numerous actual inhabitants: large breeding colonies of black-browed albatrosses and cormorants, king, gentoo, and Magellanic penguins, as well as numerous geese, ducks, and other seabirds. Seals hunting in the water and groups of Commerson’s and Peale’s dolphins surfing the surf, curiously circling us as we took a quick dip in the very cold water. And at the westernmost tip of the island, about a three-hour walk away, two small groups of elephant seals with newborn calves could be seen at Elephant Point. On our last morning, a southern right whale bid us farewell; it had apparently been having breakfast in the bay right in front of the cabin at the same time we were.

But now we’re all looking forward to leaving the Falklands behind for the time being and soon setting course for our actual destination, South Georgia.

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Time is passing by quickly – in about two weeks we will take our flights to the Falklands …

It’s time to get the equipment and gear sorted … It’s still a bit too much, but that can still be reduced.
Fortunately, we have our 2024 expedition experience and some of the equipment is already on board.

Der Beitrag Time to prepare erschien zuerst auf Sailing SOUTH Expeditions.

Crew meeting last week in Berlin. The first time we met as a – almost – full team in real life (and not just online).
Getting to know, planning the route and the destinations, committing about the expedition’s goals and talking about our personal expectations.

By the way: Karen from Alaska had the longest journey.

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Der Beitrag The team is complete erschien zuerst auf Sailing SOUTH Expeditions.