Falling for the Bottom of the World

King penguins and sleeping elephant seals share the tundra on South Georgia Island. Photo by Jill Bowman

Two months ago, we were staggering happily around a small ship, tossed by huge rollers in the storied Drake Passage. It was summer in Antarctica. And, thanks to seasickness patches, it was thrilling! The sea rose up to strike our cabin’s balcony, from which we usually saw flights of Antarctic petrels, terns and shags racing among whitecaps. This day, only the awesome albatrosses negotiated the wind, so far from land.

Our dreams of Antarctica began in 1996, when my husband Bob Ivey was asked by a travel company to drop everything, fly to Alaska, and cruise the Bering Sea to take photos for its brochures. Whales breached, glaciers calved, walruses hauled out and polar bears wowed us, during that week. Our hearts were pierced by unexpected beauty, and we fell in love with ice.

Hooked on Arctic lands, we began planning a visit to the other end of the earth. We read about Antarctica and the race, a century ago, for the South Pole—our last frontier until the race for space. Its exploration—especially Shackleton’s, Scott’s and Amundsen’s excruciating journeys—gripped us. The wildness, adventure, penguins(!) called. But the stuff of life intervened. And then illness shook my trusted invincibility. We’d forgotten the wise advice, applicable to most life goals: “If not now, when?” We went!

Visiting these southern lands was our dream come true. In the Falklands’ brilliant green acres of tussock grass, we strolled among baby seals, and our first charm-laden penguins: Rockhoppers, Gentoos and Magellanics, with chicks. We were awed by the giant peaks, fjords, glaciers and wildlife of South Georgia Island, and saddened by the whaling stations that once processed hundreds of thousands. There, we communed with handsome King penguins on the very path heroic Shackleton stumbled down, in his last steps to safety after sailing 800 harrowing miles in a tiny lifeboat. We lifted a wee dram of Irish at his gravesite to honor this man who never lost a life under his command. Days later, after pushing through a storm, we neared the Antarctic Peninsula.

Earth’s fourth-largest continent, Antarctica is the most pristine, highest, driest, coldest and windiest. Its atmosphere is so thin it can sear you. No one has ever lived there permanently. Its mountains, believed to be a continuation of the Andes, rival the Alps.  But not until we set foot there did we fully understand Antarctica’s power.

When you tell someone you are packing for Antarctica, you get mixed responses. Friends who love the wild are thrilled: “March of the Penguins!” “Frozen Planet!” Others, perplexed: “Isn’t it cold up there, with polar bears?” (Um…it’s down, bear-free… But my favorite, from a 20-something salesman with a slim world-view, was “Why? Do you have family there?”

Thanks to our modern ship, we were able to learn about land and beast, and visit both, all while well fed and warm. The rhythms of our cruise included informative, sometimes hilarious, lectures; watching films about the area’s history, geology or exploration; gourmet food; staring out at passing wonders; or spotting wildlife from the deck with new friends. Warm in modern fleece and anoraks, we rode in Zodiacs among fanciful icebergs, landed and hiked amid sparring elephant seals as big as trucks, baying fur seal pups, and honking penguin chicks.

Back on board, in muddy boots, hair flattened by ugly hats, noses sunburned, we entered the warm lounge, where tea, hot chocolate, spirits, Champagne and snacks awaited our motley crew. (Where do they get that fresh mint for mojitos?) Yet, could we have spent one day with Scott or Amundsen, freezing and eating pemmican? No, we are modern “explorers.” No frostbite, no deprivation, no bucking schooners. One Zodiac day, as we lumbered, dripping, into the lounge, we were greeted by the musical stylings of a piano singer performing “The Way You Look Tonight.” Ah, those chic, voluminous waterproof pants.

This Eden is a fragile place, where calved icebergs the size of Delaware have called attention to the globe’s climate change. I worry about wildernesses, where our flames burn brightest. Antarctica, and the islands around it, create a wildfire of pure joy. May it dazzle for eons.

Bliss is a curious penguin, gazing into your eyes. After our precious time there, among beautiful beasts, blue-glowing icebergs, friendly naturalists, gleaming glaciers, snow-capped peaks and hundreds of feeding whales, I realized that the young salesman was not so wrong. Yes, I do have family there!

Jill Bowman and husband Bob Ivey moved to the Palisades in 1978. Bowman, who has spent most of her career overseeing primetime series, entered CBS Network as on-air promotion writer/producer. She then moved to programming development, developing and overseeing movies, miniseries and events. She is also the chair for the board of Renaissance Arts Academy, a Charter School for the arts, and is active in environmental, wildlife and arts organizations. Her husband, a business/construction lawyer, is now a mediator.