You Ain't Seen Nothin' Like the Mighty Fin

Antarctica. The first order of business for any intrepid Antarctic explorer should be to get to know ones shipmates. You spend a great deal of time in close quarters with these people, and without gaining intimate knowledge of their diet and lifestyle, it can become incredibly difficult to choose exactly who to eat when the ship runs aground and food supplies start dwindling. Yes, the obese may store a wealth of calorie rich blubber, but think twice before dismissing the septuagenerian crowd. Their sad, wrinkly faces and pockets full of ribbon candy only serve to distract from the fact that they are little more than wobbly sticks of human beef jerky.

My personal menu selection was cut short as our boat came in sight of the South Shetland islands. I am not sure what I had expected, but it wasn't this. The entirety of the landmass was covered, edge to edge, with tremulous peaks. Dark volcanic daggers sheathed in thick crusts of shimmering snow seemed to erupt straight from the sea floor, slicing through the azure sky to bleed wispy clouds from thin air. Blustery winds tore across the deck of the ship where we stood, blindly searching for a weakness in my parka. My brazenly uncovered face burned with an icy sting, bringing tears to the corners of my eyes. It was a jaw-dropping sight.

Between the ship and the shore a narrow jet-spray shot vertically into the air before catching the wind and exploding into a cloudy mist that descended like a miniature rainstorm. It was followed by another, then another. Methinks there be whales here.

The arched back and distinctive dorsal fins of the ingloriously named Fin Whale soon breached the surface. As the captain navigated in for a closer look, the fountains of Bellagio had begun. Blow holes erupted both port and starboard, sending plumes 30 feet in the air. No less than eight to ten whales straddled our vessel, pursuing an unknown agenda. Massive black torsos split the surface one after another in graceful arcs, as if orbiting an unseen planet. With a final reveal of their lone shark-like fin, the whales quickly vanished beneath the waves. Our encore lasts a full 45 minutes, which I presume is the time it took for them to securely attach the tracking beacon to our vessel.

The day drew to a close, as even the best of days must. After a mere two days at sea we had finally reached the Antarctic peninsula, and our real journey had only just begun. Now how's that for a cliche' ending?