it would appear (after all the big talk, slick walk)
that only today do we touch Antarctic proper
no islandic rock no more
it is continental shelf we tour
a glacier so frail
with a rumble and a roar
it sheds a slice
as we scale its shoulder
to perch near its eyes
before we take the tobbogan down
at the top i stayed a while
napped in warm snow
atop continental plinth
lapped in fortune’s gift
just before bedtime, we drive into
killer whales in two pods
from different origins
having met to mate
(two to three dozen in all)
they take a break from copulation
and stay an hour to play
criss-crossing under-bow
belly sometimes up, sometimes down
curious as our squeals are of them
so many their spouts rival wave-caps
seeing a super-pod is patently such a rarity
that even our usually unflappable expedition leader, Lisa,
hops from starboard to port muttering “it’s insane”
other journeyers generally less restrained to start
issue an unending stream of excitations
no matter
this night
this sight
is so awesome
one condones
inevitable americanisms
in the ice canyon
where we berth
whalers, oilers once thrived
drunk at the font of enterprise
harvesting fine cetacean fat
supping from the glacial slabs
till fire or foe sank their bones
to frigid stony graveyard
humans being one of a few
species that outlive their breeding years
another being whales
larry wonders if
this be to permit elders
transmit their wise to young
the tanker rearing
only bow above water
rutting, rotting rusting body
an undergirdle
for our craft
tells a seerer tale
the tern sky-dives for krill
the harpoon for the kill
the skua pries
the limpet dry
greed repeats
nor do we
stop our eyes
from our feast
mid-afternoon, we return north-west
squeezing through narrow Antartic Sound
named not for the Continent
but the first boat that slipped
between the tiny gap
that keeps our footprints
on east weddell secret
a while longer
after taking so many photos
i miss the one just outside my porthole
three penguins on an ice floe
dash madly
fleeing us
crossing bosphorus
jammed into ice
a ship-stick in the popsicle?
we alight on three-feet fast ice
(hitched to shore, thus safe)
around us thousand-year ice-bergs laze
in blue-tinted purity, unsalted
i could stay forever
but they give us 2 hours
and hot chocolate
to leave the Emperor Penguin
Weddell Sea and its seal as well
alone
Spurned by Barrientos, we continue towards more clement crescent
Half-moon island welcomes the zodiacs and their contents, 10 by 10
ice-bergs bluff us into momentarily believing their austere elegance
till suddenly sinking bottom deep in virgin snow
sliding downhill with the penguins (seeking still the up)
we have no choices left to celebrate but
the clumsy accident of the route we were dealt
we approach antartic landfall after breakfast
objective: shetland islands south
specifically, barrientos,
part of the Aitcho Group
thus dubbed by brits in short
for their Admiralty’s
Hydrographic Office
the naked eye now sees
black rock outcrops
rising from blue-grey waters
tipped by white ice
the bow purports to split through metres of spray
the ocean spits right back
out on the Drake Passage
the swells are moderate
the moderates aren’t swell
( the conservatives
and liberals dominate)
the former Norwegian PM
(onboard as keynote speaker)
is serious and stodgy, I’m afraid
she doesn’t take my comments
on communists and culling well
still the starboard port-hole
the right-left view, so to speak
in my little cabin sanctuary
is more than grand enough
to compensate
transitioning from Incan spirituality to urban sprawl
the awakening is rude
riding in from the airport
this could be bangkok or jakarta
it’s not, of course
so at the end of the day
close to my run-out date
for bus tour quotients
there is quiet regoletto cemetary
in which eva finally lies
and, i believe, martha’s family too
bringing respite and some return
faintly, to peaceful calm
on the eve of likely turbulence
of the drake crossing
At Piazza San Blas, there's still time to watch the vendors' set-up routine
(before later-rising tourists ascend from Cusco via the via)
woven woolens, leather packs, Santiago's pipes
and all manner of trinkets
a young Andean maiden endearingly brings her pet alpaca to market day
or so I think
only later to discover she is part of the photo mafia posing for pennies
it's disappointing
most incongruous yet is uncle selling granite chacanas
who breaks into whistle
i expect The Mission Morricone
pan-fluted
but hear, instead, Gloria
circa Brannigan, not Rutter
antipodal 2011 