A Lonely Splendor

The author’s steel ketch Terra Nova moored at the derelict whaling station of Prince Olav Harbour on South Georgia. In the foreground a gentoo penguin enjoys the far southern island’s brief summer.

Illustrious Cape Horn vanished in our wake as we set course for Le Maire Strait, the passage between the southeastern tip of Tierra del Fuego and Staten Island. There were three of us onboard. Our young friend Evert, with whom we had many adventures in the Arctic, joined Terra Nova in the Argentine port of Ushuaia.

In the week that followed, we explored East Falkland by road. The Seaman's Mission had a little car for us to use, and once again, we  experienced the friendliness of island  people, something we had
often done before in remote places. We also learned that Stanley Harbour is the windiest place in the Falklands. Easterly and westerly winds funnel through the harbor, and because there is no
safe place for a yacht under all weather conditions, we moved to different locations at least four times that week.

Image Credit: Willem Stein Terra Nova moored in Ocean Harbour near the wreck of the barque Bayard, which grounded in 1911.

The Falkland Island group is a magnificent cruising area where one can easily potter about for half a year, but we were determined to spend the rest of the summer in South Georgia, and on the last day of the year, we left Port Stanley. The arrival of the New Year was a modest celebration; ahead of us lay one of the most challenging passages we would ever make. We were going to sail from the Roaring Forties deep into the Screaming Fifties, where storm-force winds sweep the seas up to mountainous heights &mdash seas that run around the globe, not disturbed by any mass of land. We had done all we could think of to prepare Terra Nova for the task, but was it enough? And maybe more important: Could we cope with what might be thrown our way?

Antarctic Convergence

About halfway, we passed the Antarctic Convergence. At this line, that capriciously circles Antarctica, the cold north-flowing Antarctic surface water sinks under the warmer sub-Antarctic water. Here the water temperature dropped below 43? F. Around the convergence zone, the sea is rich in krill, the small crustaceans that are the main food for the largest animal of our planet: the baleen whale. However, not only whales came in view, also lots of giant petrels and albatross, both black-browed and wandering. These birds circled Terra Nova in their effortless flights.

Starting at the western tip of South Georgia and pointing in a westerly direction is a relatively shallow bank where the ocean rises from a depth of 2,000 fathoms to a little more than 100. This bank is an iceberg cemetery. Many huge bergs, sometimes 50 miles long, that came from Antarctica are stuck here for months until they disintegrate into smaller bergs and continue their journey toward the warmer waters in the North. About 150 miles from South Georgia, this shoal pierces the surface, forming Shag Rocks. By plotting our waypoint north of these rocks, we hoped to avoid most of the big, tabular icebergs. On Jan. 4, about 180 miles from Shag Rocks, we spotted our first ice, a 130-foot-high leviathan at which the swell broke in a white, foamy spray. In the lee of the bergs, one often finds strings of growlers and bergy bits, the smaller parts that are more dangerous to small vessels than the big bergs. From this moment on, we slowed down during the dark hours. Often we were hove-to or, when the wind was not too strong, just idling under storm jib alone.

Lowest
pressure

Ever
since
we
had
left
Port
Stanley,
the
barometer
had
dropped
slowly;
from
1,017
millibars,
it
had
gone
down
to
988.
Because
it
fell
slowly
and
steadily,
it
had
not
caused
us
too
much
concern.
At
the
approach
of
a
low-pressure
system,
the wind veered to the southeast and started to increase. Beating into the wind with an air temperature of 37° F became rather unpleasant for the watchkeeper. While I was taking the sails down for our nightly slowdown, I realized we were suddenly amidst a lot of bergy bits. It was hard to stay free from these chunks of ice, and we collided a few times. This was a frightening experience, especially for the crew below.

A thing that scared me more, however, was that the barometer plunged to 948 mb! Never during our voyaging lives had we seen a barometer reading this low! As we got closer to our destination, the pressure started to rise again, and to our relief, the wind never went above gale-force strength. Just where we should have made landfall, the horizon faded in a haze that turned into a fogbank as we approached. Small icebergs lit up brightly from under the fogbank, and suddenly the low clouds lifted. Like in a well-directed film, we were allowed a short view of the Willis Islands at the westernmost tip of South Georgia before the fog packed everything in again. The Willis Islands are named after Midshipman Thomas Willis, who was the first to sight these outlying islands on Jan. 14, 1775, onboard Capt. James Cook's ship.

The entrance to Elsehul Bay is 1,500 feet wide, and the approach had to be done by radar. Not until we got into the mouth of the bay could we see the shores. Before that moment, however, we added another navigation aid to our list: the smell of the innumerable birds and seals that inhabit Elsehul Bay. Besides the smell, there was the constant noise of the animals that sounded like a welcoming choir to our ears. "On the eastern shore there must be a macaroni penguin rookery," said Corri, full of energy. It's amazing how the stress of a difficult landfall disappears when one comes close to a secure anchorage.

"Better watch out for the kelp that marks Fairway Patch and Middle Ground, two covered rocks we have to keep clear of," was my answer. Kelp patches are mostly a sign that the bottom is shallow. Once we got into the Inner Bay, we tucked in behind The Knob, a high rocky outcrop, and dropped the anchor in 16 feet of water. Sitting in the cockpit to absorb our surroundings, we did not feel the cold. The horseshoe-shaped beach was literally covered with fur seals. Each big bull had his territory where only his harem and his innumerable offspring were allowed. Close to a small stream, groups of king penguins were tolerated, and some elephant seals were wallowing in their shallow mud berths. On the rocks above the beach stood many gray-headed albatross; around us in the water, the young giant petrels were making their first efforts to take off from the water. Most of these attempts ended in a big splash, which made it hard to imagine that soon these huge birds would be able to fly effortlessly.

Not long after the chimney was put back into place, our diesel stove was heating up the cabin. Next morning, the sun was out when we woke to a ticking sound on the windows. Looking up, we were eye-to-eye with a couple of sheathbills. These inquisitive white birds, with their characteristic unfledged faces and black eyes, are no seabirds. That means they don't have webbed feet and look more like large pigeons. Our great enthusiasm about these funny birds cooled quickly after we got on deck: the sails that we had not covered the day before were covered now, but with the excrement of the sheathbills. Because we had not officially checked into South Georgia, we were not yet allowed to go ashore. Landing in Elsehul Bay, however, could be very difficult and dangerous. All the possible landing spots are occupied and heavily defended by fur seals. A bite by their sharp fangs can cause a nasty infection. Besides all this, we were not in a hurry to go ashore; we kept an easy day, got everything shipshape and let the sights of this magical place settle into our minds.

We decided to move on. Under the lee of the island and in the strong westerly wind, we made good progress. Now we could admire South Georgia in all its glory: the high snow-capped peaks, the enormous ice fields that cover most of the island and emerge in huge glaciers, coming down to sea level. All along the way, we met fur-seal mothers and penguins, returning from sea to feed their pups and chicks. Sailing under our yankee jib only, we had no problem covering the 65 miles to Grytviken in the daylight hours.

Whaling station of Grytviken

At the entrance of Cumberland Bay, we distinguished Jason Island and its ruined lighthouse, remains of the whaling era, when many places on South Georgia were bustling with life and death. Coming around the corner, there was Cumberland East Bay with the Nordenskjld Glacier at its bottom. Behind this enormous ice river, pointing high into the violet evening sky, rose Mount Paget, at 9,600 feet the highest peak in South Georgia. The wind came bustling down the glacier and out of the bay. To make headway into the strong wind and steep seas, we had to hoist the reefed mainsail and the staysail and lower the jib. Later we learned that this would be our standard sail plan for the duration of our stay in South Georgia. It was a struggle for the last few miles, then in King Edward Cove, the wind died completely, and in serene tranquillity, we moored at the concrete quay of the BAS (British Antarctic Survey) station. Pat Lurcock, the marine officer, came onboard to clear us in and inform us about the rules of conduct that apply to visitors of this sub-Antarctic island. The harsh environment for animal and plant is in delicate balance and can easily be disturbed by careless visitors.

Across the bay is the abandoned whaling station of Grytviken. Almost under the steep snowcapped mountain peaks, it looked like a perfectly sheltered place. How misleading this can be, we soon found out. The next morning we moved to Grytviken and when we approached, there was somebody waving and directing us to one of the derelict wooden jetties. The sturdy figure with a blond beard was soon recognized as Tim Carr. Tim and his wife, Pauline, sailed to South Georgia in Curlew, their engineless Falmouth Quay Punt. Now they are the curators of the small museum, and Curlew is moored alongside the old whaling boat Petrel. "Come to the museum and have a coffee with us," Tim said while helping us moor Terra Nova.

As we stepped into the museum's back door, we noticed two pair of skis standing outside the door. "Yes, two weeks ago we were still skiing, a bit higher up in the valleys," Tim said. Under steaming mugs and freshly baked cake, the Carrs told us about life on South Georgia. It was not surprising that, even though we never met, there was the feeling that we had known them for a long time. Their book Antarctic Oasis, Under the Spell of South Georgia had been a farewell gift from a friend when we left Holland four years ago and was a big inspiration for our visit to South Georgia.

Williwaws in Ocean Harbour

We took our leave of Grytviken and sailed on to Ocean Harbour, 11 miles to the east. The entrance to this wide bay is straightforward, and as we came closer, we saw a three-masted barque aground on the eastern shore. It is the remains of Bayard, built in Liverpool in 1864, wrecked here in 1911 and still in relatively good condition. From the lower masts parts of the rigging were dangling down, and the rudder still hung from the stern.

Most of the bay is covered with kelp, which makes secure anchoring a problem. We found a kelpless spot where we dropped our anchor, and after slowly letting the Bruce dig in, the engine went into full reverse to make sure we could survive the strong williwaws, or katabatic winds, that can come roaring down from the ice fields in the interior of the island. During the night an eerie squeaking sound kept us awake until we discovered its source: Bayard's rudder swung lazily on the long swell that was running into the bay.

Just like in Elsehul Bay, there were thousands of fur seals on the beach, but at some places they were not as densely packed, and with the information gleaned from the Carrs, we headed for the shore. The anchor watch ferried the shore party across, and armed with our ski poles and rattling tins, we managed to keep the pups and smaller females away. This did not always work with the bulls and bigger cows, and sometimes we had to run! At the beach, the low tide revealed an old cast-iron try-pot. The enormous elephant seals that lingered nearby were unaware that so many of their forbears had ended in this pot.

One day Evert and I climbed over a mountain ridge to have a look at Cumberland East Bay. Just as we had a view of a misty Nordenskj�ld Glacier, there was an alarming message from Corri on the hand-held VHF: "You better come back, it has started to blow here, and if it gets worse I might not be able to pick you up by dinghy." We noticed the strong wind, especially when the content of a small glacier lake was blown high into the air in whirling waterspouts. On our way back, we were literally blown off our feet several times. From high up we could see clearly how the williwaws made their way across Ocean Harbour; a track of foamy, boiling water was mostly following the same path. From our viewpoint we could decide on the best place to get picked up. Corri waited for a short spell to make the ride to the shore, and we could see her lying down, far forward in the dinghy to keep the light boat from being somersaulted by the furious winds.

With the three of us onboard and going downwind, the return was easy. Lying alongside Terra Nova with Corri still aboard, the dinghy started to get airborne, and Evert gripped Corri by her life vest and hoisted her to safety. With the inflatable tied to our deck, we thought we could take some breath. Looking around, I saw the hulk of Bayard slowly approaching! We were dragging!

To get the anchor up was a big struggle. Under power, we moved forward to relieve the stress from the chain and to keep Terra Nova's bow into the wind. After a while, our powerful electric windlass was no longer able to hoist the chain that had an enormous amount of kelp wrapped around it. I hauled it up manually, inch by inch, until the first of the kelp came to the surface and we could hack it off with our machete that, tied to a pole, is always at hand for this kind of trouble. The dragging was caused by the kelp that had collected around the chain during the numerous turning about our anchor. After two hours we were re-anchored but in deeper waters where the kelp patches were farther apart. Although the worst of the bad weather seemed to be over, we kept an anchorwatch during the night.

Courting albatross

One of the islands that gave the Bay of Isles its name is Albatross Island, the breeding place of more than 100 pair of wandering albatross. We wanted very much to land there and see the huge birds in their nests, so we set course for the big bay in the western part of South Georgia. A rare easterly gave us a good sail, but made it difficult to find a safe anchorage in the Bay of Isles. Therefore, we decided to stop close by in Blue Whale Harbour. For a change, this sheltered bay had no signs of an earlier habitation by sealers or whalers. While waiting for the wind to change to a more usual westerly quadrant, we hiked across the peninsula to Antarctic Bay. By now, we were well experienced in avoiding the hundreds of fur seals that occupied the beach and the low valley. From the spine of the peninsula, there was a nice view over the bay where Terra Nova was anchored. To the other side we looked toward the glacier that calved into the head of Antarctic Bay. Descending toward this bay, we came into a narrow gorge and suddenly found ourselves amidst a huge king penguin colony. The king penguin can be almost 3 feet tall and is easily recognized by the orange-colored patches at the neck and throat. Because of the long breeding span of 14 to 16 months, there is no fixed time of year when the eggs hatch. Therefore, there were chicks in all stages and many adults standing on the dirty snow with an egg on their feet, warmed by a fold of skin. The birds did not seem to be disturbed at all by our presence, and when Corri sat down, an inquisitive individual came to peck at her mittens.

It was a calm, sunny day when we motored the 15 miles to Albatross Island. We had to keep a good track of where we were going because of reefs and off-lying rocks. Over our heads, we admired the coordinated flight of the sooty albatross. This is the most elegant of the albatross, with dark heads, white rings around the eyes and narrow wings. During their courtship, they display a beautiful parallel flight that can go on for hours. Albatross Island was one of the highlights of our journey. To see the huge wandering albatross close up, sitting on their nests made us feel privileged. The wandering albatross is the biggest of the albatross family, and it can achieve a wingspan of more than 12 feet. We sat on the tussock and watched as four birds joined on a grassy spot. We saw a graceful display as these adolescent birds danced with spread wings and raised heads as part of a lengthy courtship procedure. It was something we will never forget. Even more than the bad weather, the lack of secure anchorages and the threat of the ice, this picture will be in our memories when we remember South Georgia.

Fixing the water supply

Another old whaling station, a bit smaller than Grytviken, is Husvik. Here we moored Terra Nova along the north side of the long jetty. "Moored alongside" is not completely accurate &mdash with our bow anchor at 11 o'clock from our port bow and a 300-foot-long line at 8 o'clock from our port stern to a strong point ashore; we held Terra Nova at a safe distance from the wooden and steel construction that once was a jetty. Although the bay at Husvik is open to the east, a long reef and big kelp fields make it an almost swell-free harbor. At the head of the bay is a plain area about a mile wide before the steep mountains start, so we hoped we were safe from the williwaws. At the shore side of the jetty, I heard the sound of running water: the water-supply system was still working, although the pipe was broken. Rubber hose and a few jubilee clips fixed that problem, and soon we had fresh water.

It was a couple hours' walk to Gulbrandsen Lake, a mysterious place at the foot of the Neumayer Glacier. Sometimes this deep lake drains, probably via a cave under the glacier, within a few days, leaving a sculpture garden of icebergs stranded at the black bottom. When we got to the lake, the clouds had packed everything in, but we could see that there was plenty of water and only a few small chunks of ice floating in the swirling mist. On our way back, the view of the bay and the ocean beyond was magnificent: Huge tabular icebergs drifted slowly along. We were lucky to witness a rare event when a big berg that had been stranded at the mouth of the bay suddenly turned over. From our viewpoint, far away, it looked like it exploded, leaving an area of brash ice after the air had cleared from the ice particles that had been blown into the sky.

Elephant seal houses

A few miles north of Husvik, at the end of the middle branch of Stromness Bay, is the old whaling station Stromness. Evert and I took off on a daylong hike, first to the saddle in the mountain ridge behind Husvik. From there, we had a magnificent view over the Koenig Glacier and Fortuna Bay. The glacier is no longer calving directly into the bay, but between the snout and the bay is a mile-long flat area dotted with lakes and intersected with meandering streams that shone like silver ribbons in the striking sunlight. From the head of Fortuna Bay, we struggled up the scree toward Stromness. This must have been the final part of the route that Shackleton and his companions took on their way to habitation after they had landed in King Haakon Bay. Coming over the top and at the eastern, shadowy side of the mountains, we found big snowfields that made the descent a lot easier. Now we could see the distinctive mountain of folded rocks at the other side of the bay, the mountain that Shackleton recognized and led them to Stromness.

At the station of Stromness, we wandered through the old buildings. The power plant had, next to a couple of big diesel generators, two steam engines that looked to be in good condition. It would not surprise me if some enthusiastic engineers could get them going again. There were still plenty of spares to be found. In the early 1960s, at the end of the whaling era, the Stromness station was also used as a repair shipyard, and the enormous rolling machines, used to shape the hull plates and all other types of heavy machinery, were still there in the big shipbuilding hall. It looked like the people had just left and would return any moment. Some of the buildings were occupied by elephant seals. Their roaring, gargling and farting reverberated under the corrugated iron roofs. From the doorways, a terrible stink came drifting our way. The hike back to Husvik took us two hours, and while following a recognizable track, we tried to imagine the whalers going across to the other station, maybe to watch a movie or just to have a chat with their friends.

Leaving on a Friday

Our next passage would be across the South Atlantic to Cape Town. In order to prepare for the crossing, we returned to Grytviken. Shortly after leaving Stromness Bay in a strong westerly, we sailed into a dense fogbank. With a speed of 7 knots, we roared through a small, gray world. In the entrance of Cumberland Bay the fog lifted, and South Georgia showed herself in all her splendor. There were lenticular clouds hanging over the mountains. These clouds that look like flying saucers are caused when strong winds are deflected over high mountain ranges. Arriving at Grytviken, "our" dock was now occupied by Curlew, so we tied up alongside the old whaleboat Petrel, the safest place in the harbor. The Carrs were preparing Curlew for its trip back to England. This time it would be aboard a big ship, the British research vessel James Clark Ross. The Carrs had decided to donate their boat to the new National Maritime Museum in Falmouth, England. When RV Ross arrived a few days later, Curlew was hoisted aboard and stowed securely in the hold. Although it had been their own choice, it was an emotional time for the Carrs, parting from the boat that had been their home for so many years.

Terra Nova's water tanks were filled; the extra diesel fuel that we brought in cans was put into the main tank; and the dinghy was deflated and stowed belowdecks. The chimney of our diesel stove was dismantled and everything sealed off watertight, the seabunks installed, just some of the many things we do to prepare the boat for a long journey. While we did all these practical chores, we prepared ourselves mentally for the long trip. Pat, the marine officer at the BAS station gave us the latest weather maps: A frontal system was situated halfway between The Horn and South Georgia and could be in this region in about two days. We didn't have the illusion that we could stay out of the depressions during the long trip to Africa, but it would be nice to find our sea legs and maybe get out of the ice before the first storm would hit us. I decided to postpone our departure for one day. "But then we will be leaving on Friday," Corri said. "We never leave for a crossing on a Friday." She was right; an old nautical superstition says that leaving on a Friday is asking for trouble. We believe in it, especially since the one time we did leave on a Friday, the journey was very unpleasant. So, we left South Georgia on Saturday, after an exciting and fulfilling visit.

Dutch voyagers Willem and Corri Stein on Terra Nova sailed on to Cape Town after departing South Georgia.

For more information on South Georgia, go to www.OceanNavigator.com and click on the Web Extras button.