We’re back in Stanley. We’ve arrived in the Falkland Islands / Islas Malvinas.

Our time in South Georgia is behind us. Four weeks together and 2,280 nautical miles in our wake.

Early in the morning on October 25, we weighed anchor in Right Whale Bay in South Georgia; this morning, after eight days and nine nights, we moored at the pier in Stanley. We were greeted by three resident fur seals, who acknowledged our arrival with nothing more than a brief glance and an indifferent snort.

Crossing

Eight days at sea, most of them gray and rough, the sea rarely calm, sometimes wild. Often very windy, with speeds frequently around and above 30 knots. Winds between 30 and 60 degrees on the bow. From the southwest, west, and northwest. The resulting course took a detour, a wide arc to the northwest. Sailing about half the distance with the bow to starboard, and the second half—after a tack—with the bow to port. It’s exhausting to move around on board, to cook, to sit, to steer, to simply be there… always at a steep angle, going up or down, constantly searching for a firm foothold, being tossed back and forth in the bunk at night, or hanging uncomfortably in the leeward sail. Bruises and bruised ribs are also part of the deal.

The sky was almost always overcast, the nights pitch-black, with no stars and no moon. Sailing in high swells in complete darkness was a challenge—anticipating the course was nearly impossible.

After crossing the convergence zone, the weather became a little milder with each passing day. The frosty nights were a thing of the past. It was wet time and again—though rarely from above; for the helmsman, it was usually a steady shower of spray washing over the bow.

Once again, a few people were hit hard by seasickness at the start of the crossing, but fortunately, after two or three days, most were back on their feet and ready to go.

Despite the sometimes strenuous and challenging sailing, there were also some quiet moments—the kind that arise from being on the move for days on end and following daily, repetitive routines without much else going on. During those moments, opportunities arose for conversation, reading, or playing the guitar.

We had wonderful encounters with wildlife; we were frequently accompanied by seabirds, including even the large wandering albatrosses. And each time, it was a special experience all over again. Every now and then, individual seals or penguins would appear right beside us. And on several occasions, we spotted dolphins that—traveling in groups—accompanied the ship and rode its bow wave. Magical.

Yesterday evening, after days of gray skies, blue skies and sunshine finally appeared in the afternoon, bringing color, light, and warmth. They transformed the sky and the sea into a radiant, glittering spectacle of warm gold as the sun sank into the water in the evening, marking the end of our last day of sailing on the open sea.

The next morning, the spectacle repeated itself as the sun rose once more. In between, a starry night—clear, cold, full of shooting stars—a time for making wishes. A moment to pause, a touch of sentimentality, a hint of farewell hung in the air, even if “only” the South Georgia chapter was coming to an end. We still have three weeks in the Falklands ahead of us. And yet this feeling is taking hold—coupled with gratitude.

And the farewell is—at least to some extent—a reality: Darek will fly home the next morning and, due to time constraints, will no longer be joining us in the coming weeks.

Stanley

Once in Stanley, everyone is happy to have made it, to have arrived, to take a break, to have solid ground under their feet, to be able to stretch their legs … and—after the usual immigration procedures and paperwork—they scatter, either alone or in small groups.

We’re lucky—after a heavy hailstorm to start things off, the sun shines from a blue sky for the rest of the day, putting us in a springtime mood. The daffodils and narcissus currently in bloom here leave no doubt about it.

Walks, shopping trips, sitting in a café, drinking a cappuccino, writing postcards … and a long, hot shower set the tone for the rest of the day, just as much as the usual and necessary tasks on a boat: cleaning, tidying up, airing out, making repairs …

In the evening, we all go out to dinner together, raise a toast to the wonderful weeks we’ve had so far on this trip, share memories and stories, and say goodbye to Darek.

We’ll stay here for a day or two before continuing our journey here in the Falklands.

We’re curious and looking forward to what’s yet to come.

Der Beitrag Stanley erschien zuerst auf Sailing SOUTH Expeditions.

I’m on my first watch from four to eight. Shortly after five, the sun rises astern from the leaden-gray-blue, rolling sea. The sea is rough and beautiful, the wave crests and troughs high, and the swell—coming from a slightly different direction—creates a choppy sea. A pair of Sooty Albatrosses circles the Selma in a synchronized, harmonious flight. The day couldn’t start any better.

Our second night of drifting is behind us. South Georgia is still too close, so there’s still a chance we’ll encounter icebergs and growlers. We passed the last large iceberg and its smaller companions yesterday afternoon.

Actually, it’s a full moon. On a cloudless night with calmer conditions, sailing at full speed would be entirely possible. But the sky was thick with clouds—no moon or stars to shed any light on the darkness. The chance of spotting growlers in time with 4- to 5-meter waves is virtually zero, and racing through the night at 30 to 35 knots is far too risky. And so we adjusted our course once again and let ourselves drift, covering 26 miles northward during the night.

Overnight, we left the waters off South Georgia and crossed the Antarctic Convergence. From now on, it will get warmer. Over the past 24 hours, the water temperature has risen from 2.4 to 4.4 degrees.

At half past five, we continue our journey. We move the fore sail, which had been set on the wrong side, back to the correct side, set the mainsail again, and continue heading northwest under the cutter, mainsail, and mizzen. We still have good wind between 25 and 30 knots and are making good speed between 6 and 9 knots. However, the sea is somewhat choppy with waves of about four and a half meters. Unfortunately, this means that some people are still seasick in their bunks.

Throughout the day, we are constantly accompanied by various seabirds:

Cape Petrels, Giant Petrels, White-chinned Petrels, the smaller prions and shearwaters, and the tiny storm petrels.

And, of course, the large, elegant ocean flyers—the albatrosses. The beautiful Black-browed Albatrosses, Light-mantled Sooties, Sooties, and—more rarely—Grey-headed Albatrosses repeatedly circle the Selma, gliding nimbly at breakneck speed over the crests and through the troughs of the waves; sometimes they hover so close to us in flight that it feels as if we could almost touch them. They accompany us for a while and then disappear again into the vastness of the ocean. It’s fascinating to watch them, and for me, these encounters at sea are always very special, moving moments.

This evening I’m on rowing watch for four hours again. The wind has become more steady by now, settling in at around 22–25 knots, and the Selma glides through the sea almost effortlessly. It’s cold, but I’m enjoying these hours alone at the helm to the fullest. I let my thoughts wander—back to South Georgia, forward toward the Falklands, and into the distance to my loved one. Happiness mingles with longing. Both have a place here and claim their space; both are sometimes boundless—like the vastness of the ocean.

And so I glide into the darkness and the night—the moon remains hidden once again beneath a blanket of clouds—bid farewell once more by a pair of Sooty Albatrosses, close enough to touch, in whose eyes all of this is reflected.

Der Beitrag Drift erschien zuerst auf Sailing SOUTH Expeditions.

They are among the heaviest flying birds in the world, and their average wingspan—over 3 meters—is greater than that of any other species.

And—as with other albatrosses—there is another distinctive feature: they are monogamous, and most birds remain faithful to their partner for life. The wandering albatross is one of the few species that breeds during the southern winter. The breeding cycle lasts two years, and at 278 days, the chick-rearing period is the longest of any bird. The minimum age for the first breeding season is eight to fifteen years. Like many bird and animal species in subpolar and polar regions, it relies on a low reproduction rate and a long lifespan. Wandering albatrosses typically live to be 60 to 70 years old, but can live past 80.

During the breeding season, albatrosses travel enormous distances at sea and return, on average, only once every 20 days to take turns incubating the egg, or every four to five days to feed the chick. To survive such long periods without food, the chicks build up a large fat reserve. When they are eight months old, they can weigh up to 50% more than adult birds and can easily survive for several weeks without food if the parent bringing food is delayed in returning.

During their two-week foraging trip at sea, wandering albatrosses can travel up to 7,500 kilometers. And they are fast fliers: over short distances, they can reach speeds of up to 135 km/h. Birds at sea typically follow zigzag flight paths and constantly adjust their speed, direction, and altitude to make the most of the energy from the prevailing winds. Studies have shown that when traveling at sea with a favorable tailwind or crosswind, they consume only slightly more energy than when they are just sitting around in the colony. They consume the most energy during takeoffs and landings.

The diet of wandering albatrosses is extremely diverse and includes a variety of crustaceans (particularly Antarctic krill), fish, and a wide range of cephalopods.

When foraging, the females in particular tend to venture into more northerly waters, at latitudes between 51° and 56° S. One consequence of this is that in these regions (for example, off the coast of Brazil), they are accidentally caught by longline fishermen while attempting to feed on the bait that has been set. They swallow the bait, are dragged down into the depths by the hooks, and drown. This is collateral damage with enormous consequences.

Despite the efforts of various institutions to ensure well-regulated fishing, the number of wandering albatrosses in South Georgia and worldwide has been declining at an alarming rate for years. In 2020, there were approximately 20,000 wandering albatrosses worldwide. In recent decades, however, the size of many colonies has been cut in half due to numerous threats, primarily those caused by humans. The population is declining by 30% over three generations (approximately 60 years).

Until adequate measures to reduce bycatch become standard practice on all vessels, wherever they fish, the future outlook for the wandering albatross—as well as for many other albatrosses in the world’s oceans—is bleak. It is uncertain whether the populations will ever recover. The wandering albatross is listed as endangered on the Red List.

The chances of spotting a wanderer are already rather slim. Unfortunately, these iconic creatures of the Southern Ocean are in a dire state.

Der Beitrag Wandering Albatross erschien zuerst auf Sailing SOUTH Expeditions.

On the way, we made a stop near Prion Island, across from Salisbury Plain in the Bay of Isles. The island is an important breeding ground for wandering albatrosses. These albatrosses are the largest albatrosses and the largest flying birds in the world, with a wingspan of over 3 meters.

Since the isolated islands remained rat-free even during periods of human presence and despite the rodents introduced by humans, the wandering albatrosses have been able to breed safely here and raise their young. No nesting albatrosses can be found on the main island anymore, even though it is now rat-free again thanks to tremendous efforts.

Of course, we were eager to observe these very special birds, so we dropped anchor near the island’s west coast. Landing on the island is no longer permitted in order to protect the severely dwindling population. Over the past 25 years, the population has declined by about one-third, mainly due to longline fishing.

Wandering albatrosses have a two-year breeding cycle.

At this time of year, the chicks have already been hatched for several months (in March) and are sitting in their nests while their parents are out at sea foraging for food. They return only every 4–5 days to feed their young.

From the deck, we scan the island—covered in tussock grass—with binoculars, trying to spot a nest or one of the birds—but to no avail. Kelp gulls, giant petrels, and light-mantled sooty albatrosses circle above the island or soar on the updrafts from the cliffs. But we can’t spot a wandering albatross.

And so, after an hour, we continue on our way.

The wind is steadily picking up, and we head for Right Whale Bay to spend the night.

It’s the very same bay where we dropped anchor for the first time upon our arrival here two weeks ago. And the conditions are similar as well: it’s gray, bitingly cold, and downbursts of over 40 knots rush down the glaciated valley into the bay every minute, straight at us. Clouds of spray sweep in as we drop anchor. The howling of the wind drowns out the calls of the king penguins and elephant seals echoing from the shore.

And so we’ve come full circle. Our stay in South Georgia began and ends here in this bay.

In the evening, we all sit together in the Selma’s saloon, enjoy a festive meal, and raise a toast to the wonderful, eventful days filled with special moments and fascinating encounters—to our good fortune with the weather, to the fact that everyone is healthy, and to how we’ve grown closer as a team.

This morning we made the Selma seaworthy for the upcoming crossing to the Falklands. At six o’clock we weighed anchor, just as a cruise ship, the Fram, was heading into the bay. A sign that it was time to set sail.

By nine, the engine noise dies down. The mizzen, mainsail, and genoa are set. We’re making 7 knots over ground in 20 to 25 knots of wind, on a course of 330 degrees, while South Georgia slowly disappears in our wake.

Upon our arrival, out on the open sea, I spotted a wandering albatross several times and was able to admire its elegant and effortless-looking gliding flight over the crests and troughs of the waves. Who knows—we didn’t see any on Prion Island, but maybe we’ll spot one again out at sea.

Two days later, while out at sea, we actually spot it—the largest of all albatrosses: a wandering albatross. It accompanies us for a moment before disappearing back into the vastness of the ocean.

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It’s still snowing, though not heavily. Snow clouds partially obscure the landscape. Visibility is limited. The wind whips the snowflakes around my ears and stings my eyes. But it’s beautiful, and I’m having one of the most wonderful four hours of this trip at the helm.

Except for the sounds of the wind and the water, the landscape glides silently by. There is something mystical about the whole scene. Sometimes the mountainous coastline emerges only as a faint silhouette from the fog; other times, the curtain parts, revealing the view. The fresh snow enchants this archaic landscape.

Patterns and textures in black, gray, and white. Sometimes blurred and very delicate, sometimes clear and high-contrast. Graphic. Like fine drawings or old copperplate engravings.

It’s beautiful, and I can’t get enough of it. I hum softly to myself and savor the gift that is the beauty of this morning.

Der Beitrag Snow erschien zuerst auf Sailing SOUTH Expeditions.

Early in the morning, shortly after five, we set out and cast off from Grytviken after two days. Once again, the expected rain fails to materialize; it’s windy, but pleasant.

Humpback whales bid us farewell as we leave King Edward Cove; we pass Hope Point and send a final greeting to Shackleton. We leave Cumberland Bay for the open sea and continue our journey northwest. Destination: Hercules Bay.

We want to see if the macaroni penguins have finally arrived on South Georgia. There are two colonies in Hercules Bay.

They usually return to their breeding grounds here on the island between mid- and late October, after spending the winter at sea.

A few days ago, when we were anchored in Cobblers Cove and hiked to Rookery Bay, where another colony is located, we hadn’t seen them yet.

Along the way, we pass now-familiar bays like Stromness and Leith Harbor on our port side. Time and again, individual whales, seals, or flocks of penguins appear in front of or beside us.

Hercules Bay

Shortly after ten, the anchor drops in Hercules Bay.

The bay was named in the early 1900s by Norwegian whalers after a whaling ship that once sought shelter there during bad weather. One of the earliest descriptions of Hercules Bay comes from Frank Hurley—the photographer of the Endurance Expedition—who apparently spent a pleasant day here in March 1917 after coming from Leith Harbor to photograph penguins.

We, too, are enjoying a pleasant day surrounded by impressive scenery: the small cove opens up like an amphitheater, surrounded by cliffs up to 300 meters high and spectacularly folded rock formations. A rugged coastline, numerous small caves, and swaying kelp in the crystal-clear water line the bay. In the center is a small beach onto which a waterfall cascades picturesquely. The shore is lined with the bustling life of South Georgia: elephant seals bask in the sun on the beach, Gentoo and king penguins are out and about, and fur seals doze on the rocky shoreline. Imperial shags perch on rocks covered in brightly colored moss and lichen. The calls of the light-mantled sooty albatrosses echo from the cliffs, and the murmurs and rumblings of the elephant seals drift across from the shore—amplified many times over by the shape of the bay.

Only the Macaroni penguins—which normally inhabit these rocky, tussock-grass-covered slopes during the breeding season and while raising their chicks, and which should actually already be here at this time—are nowhere to be seen.

Since the beach and shoreline are completely packed with locals, we decide not to go ashore. Instead, we take an extensive Zodiac tour through the bay, passing by all the teeming life, peering into caves and crevices, gazing at the undulating kelp, and scanning the surrounding slopes for the first macaroni penguins. Unfortunately, to no avail.

We had actually planned to set out in the evening. However, since it’s extremely windy outside the bay and there are high waves—both coming straight at us—we’re leaving the anchor down and spending the night here.

As darkness falls, scattered snowflakes begin to dance in the pale moonlight, and a wonderful atmosphere settles over the bay.

Der Beitrag Hercules Bay erschien zuerst auf Sailing SOUTH Expeditions.

I’m sitting on a bench—probably the only one in all of South Georgia—and looking out over the water. King Edward Cove, where Grytviken is located, is part of Cumberland East Bay. Sun and shadow alternate every second; a strong, gusty northwest wind chases the clouds across the sky and sends waves across the steel-blue water’s surface. Dark brown with a reddish sheen, the kelp undulates just below the surface near the shore, while the dense tufts of tussock grass glow a bright white-yellow, almost blinding in the sunlight. It creates a wonderful color contrast against the deep blue of the water and the jagged mountain range rising behind it, parts of which are still covered in snow.

The bank is located at Hope Point, a hill at the mouth of the bay where the former whaling station Grytviken is situated.

Behind me stands a cross (a replica; the original is in the museum in Dundee), erected by his comrades after the death of Ernest Shackleton, who died here on January 5, 1922, aboard the Quest while en route to South Georgia. Diagonally across from it, on the other side of the bay, lies the station’s small cemetery.

This is where “The Boss,” as his men called him, was buried. To his right lies Frank Wild, his faithful companion on three joint expeditions and Shackleton’s “right-hand man.” Shackleton set out from Elephant Island with five other men aboard the James Caird to come here and organize a rescue for his 22 remaining men. It was Frank Wild who, on Elephant Island, managed to give all those left behind hope of rescue and thus keep them alive. Both were remarkable feats, the result of unbridled willpower and deprivation that are actually beyond our comprehension today.

Sitting on this bench here and letting your gaze wander into the distance is something special. Nowhere else in South Georgia are you allowed to just sit down on the ground like this, in order to protect it. And there aren’t any other benches.

I enjoy sitting here. Watching, letting my thoughts wander. Writing these lines—despite my cold fingers. Accompanied by the whistling sounds of the wind and the chorus of calls and barks from the elephant seal colony living right below me.

Shackleton’s Grave

Standing alone at Shackleton’s grave in the small cemetery last night was also a special and emotional moment. Without him—Ernest Shackleton—I, and we, would not be here. He and his story—that of the Endurance Expedition and the spectacular rescue of his entire crew, which began and ended here in South Georgia—are among the main reasons for my long-cherished dream of sailing to Elephant Island and to this very spot. The reason for organizing this trip: to see and experience this place with my own eyes.

I stood there yesterday, deeply moved. I bowed my head in respect to this man, his right-hand man, and all the others aboard the Endurance, honoring their achievements.

I am grateful to have made it here and for the privilege of being able to be here.

I am grateful to those who believed in this idea, who are now here with me on this journey, and who have helped make this project a reality—my team, my crew: Piotr, Voy, Alejo, Unda, Karen, Moira, Claire, Alan, Jan, Brian, Darek. I am grateful to Selma, our sturdy ship, and to the gods of the winds and the sea. Last but not least, and above all, I am grateful to everyone back home who has supported and encouraged me and who is now helping me through my long absence.

Der Beitrag Hope Point erschien zuerst auf Sailing SOUTH Expeditions.

We have had some rich, full days.

Countless sightings, touching moments, and encounters with the fascinating wildlife. Spectacular views, vistas, and hikes through this uniquely beautiful landscape. And time and again, the evidence and relics of a brief era of human presence—one that, from today’s perspective and an ecological standpoint, is largely unflattering—in the form of the remains of old whaling stations in Prince Olav Harbor, Stromness, or Leith.

It’s been a very intense time. There are so many new and extraordinary experiences every day that it’s hard to take them all in.

My “hard drive” is pretty full right now, at least, and my mind needs a little rest and a break to sort through and process it all.

So today, I’m treating myself to a little time off—alone—on a hike in Moltke Harbor, Royal Bay.

Der Beitrag A week on the road erschien zuerst auf Sailing SOUTH Expeditions.

We sail southeast along the coast under our own power, passing the entrance to Cumberland Bay. Beyond it, the high peaks of the Allardyce Range rise to nearly 3,000 meters, snow-capped and largely glaciated.

Four hours later, we drop anchor in Ocean Harbor.

Ocean Harbour

Ocean Harbor is located about halfway between the entrance to Cumberland Bay and St. Andrews Bay. It is one of the best, well-sheltered anchorages for small vessels in South Georgia.

A whaling station operated here from 1909 to 1920, until most of it was relocated to Stromness. A few visible remnants still bear witness to this history, including a shed, the wreck of the “Bayard,” and a handful of graves.

South Georgia’s earliest recorded grave is located here, though its exact location is unknown. Five crosses stand on the southern slope of the bay.

The Bayard, a former three-masted ship with an iron hull, drifted away from its mooring at the coal pier on the north side of the bay during a strong wind in 1911 and ran aground on the opposite shore.

It still lies there today, listing to one side and now overgrown with tussock grass. A colony of imperial shags has made its home inside. Of the Bayard’s original three masts, only two now rise into the blue sky; the middle mast toppled onto the deck a few years ago, worn down by the ravages of time and eaten away by rust.

A large colony of elephant seals has taken up residence on the shore. Individual king penguins roam among the wreckage on the grounds.

We’re also taking advantage of the beautiful weather to go for a stroll—for once, you’re allowed to explore the grounds here without any trouble. A small cabin houses a few quirky items.

Some of us hike up to a small pass at the end of the bay to catch a glimpse of Cumberland East Bay and Mount Paget. Others take it easier. I, too, simply wander along the bay, enjoying the sun, watching cormorants and nesting giant petrels from a distance, and observing the elephant seals and their young up close as they go about their lively activities. Most of the females have already given birth to a calf. Among them, I also spot a newborn calf, its black fur still completely wet, with its mother calling out in a hoarse bark. The giant petrels and skuas rush over and fight over the afterbirth.

We’re spending the night at anchor here in Ocean Harbor, well sheltered from the strong wind.

Wondrously shaped clouds drift across the brilliant blue sky, and at night, a sparkling starry sky spreads out above the Selma’s mast.

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The 5.5 km long Shackleton Walk traverses the barren fellfield country between Fortuna Bay and Stromness Harbour.

From the beach, a steep uphill climb leads to a 300m high pass and an even steeper descent into Shackleton Valley, finishing at the beach in Stromness Harbour near the whaling station. This is the same route taken by Shackleton, Crean and Worsley on the final leg of their remarkable 36 hour crossing of South Georgia.

And – even if we had to postpone the second expedition with the planned crossing – for sure, we wanted to step into their legendary footsteps at least at this last leg.

We had still lots of snow during the last days and are not sure, which conditions and terrain we will be expected. But the weather is fine and we start optimistically. It’s a clear and bittercold morning. On our way from Blue Whale Harbour to Fortuna Bay we are accompanied by a humpback whale. The sea in Fortuna Bay is covered by round patches of fresh sea ice – so called pancake ice.

Ascent from Fortuna Bay

The coastal vegetation at the start consists of a narrow fringe of tussac just above the gravel landing beach in the southeast corner of the bay. We are already awaited by some elephant and fur seals. Further uphill, the tussac merges with Festuca grassland traversed here and there by snow patches and mossy seepage gullies, and finally scree and rock with a scattering of occasional moss patches. We cross several snow fields. Down in the bay, we see Selma leaving towards the open sea, setting course to Stromness.

Two prominent scree ridges separated by a stream extend inland and uphill from the beach in a southeasterly direction towards Crean Lake. This conspicuous landmark lying about midway to the saddle, is in that time of the year still covered by a layer of ice.

The pass

The pass lies at 300m altitude and is the highest point on the walk. Geometric patterns by the annual freeze-thaw cycle, create a barren fellfield habitat which is still partially covered in snow.

During the hike we are rewarded with spectacular bird’s-eye views of the island’s mountains and glaciers as well as with a fascinating mix of colours and forms: dark brown textured scree slopes contrast with the yellow-green coastal tussac below, the blue sea and crisp white snow and ice fields above; the grey, debris-covered König Glacier colours the silt-laden waters of the bay a milky-blue. The hanging glaciers and ice cornices of the Allardyce Range create an alpine décor of exceptional beauty.

Looking east from the pass, the views are dominated by huge zig-zag folds that trace a giant’s scrawl across the face of the coastal cliffs of Busen Point. The whaling station of Stromness at the far end.

Standing there and thinking back on Shackleton and his men standing at the same place 110 years before, was an exceptionally emotional moment. What thoughts they must have had in mind and what they might have felt, reaching this place, having this view, seeing and hearing the whaling station down in the bay, knowing, that they are rescued, that they had made it after two years.

Shackleton Valley – Stromness

Scree, fellfield and rock outcrops extend all the way down from the pass into Shackleton Valley to meet the Festuca grassland. Meltwater streams flow seaward into Stromness Harbour via several gullies and gorges, cascading over rock outcrops as waterfalls. On the final section in Shackleton Valley a colony of gentoo penguins occupies the hillocky area on the south side of the river and welcomes us at the beach area at Stromness.

Leith Harbour

Later that day we walked further west along the coast and over a hilly range to Leith Harbour in the next bay. Another former whaling station. Meanwhile also the Selma has arrived there for picking us up after this perfect hiking day. We stay on anchor in Leith Harbour for the night.

Der Beitrag Shackleton Hike erschien zuerst auf Sailing SOUTH Expeditions.