Elephant Seals

After a few days at sea I was glad of the opportunity to go ashore at Signy. During the summer this base is occupied by a small contingent of BAS personnel including a biologist, field assistant (mountaineer), technician, base commander and assorted visiting scientists including glaciologists, microbiologists and climatologists. During the winter it is unoccupied, so at the end of each research season it is closed down and prepared for winter. This includes empting and shutting down frozen food stores, switching off the reverse-osmosis plant that supplies fresh water, winterising generators and communications equipment and even draining the sewage system to prevent damage during the long winter. Fortunately Matt, the base commander, has overseen this process every season for almost 10 years, and has refined it to a slick and efficient operation that can be done over the course of a couple of days with the help of a few of the ships company.

One of the final steps is closing the base is the installation of heavy metal shutters over the windows to prevent storm damage. In order to do this the resident contingent of elephant seals must be herded away from the base. It turns out that this is no easy task.

Until our arrival at Signy my experience of elephant seals had been limited to the occasional encounter on the beaches around Bird Island. Here, amongst the squabbling fur seals, ellies can be found slumbering peacefully, piled together in slug-like heaps of two or three. These are often juvenile males or young females who come ashore to rest or to moult. Their gentle, sedentary nature is very different from the more aggressive furries and I was able to spend many happy times posing for photographs with them, often venturing close enough to stroke their velvety flippers. The elephant seals tolerate drather than enjoyed this attention; watching us with huge unblinking eyes and sighing patiently as we interrupted their quiet meditation on the beach.

Jon displaying some expert seal-wrangling skills

The Signy elephant seals are mainly full-grown males who like to lie in massive heaps pied up against the walls of the base away from the sea-ice and sheltered from the prevailing wind. I was not at all prepared for the enormous size of these beasts, each of which can weigh 3000kg and raise himself up to over six feet high when on dry land. As I rounded the corner of the generator shed I was met by a steaming mountain of seal blubber that periodically re-arranged itself with much bickering, biting and general posturing as each of these potential beach-masters vied for their preferred position. There was an overpowering smell of farmyard mixed with rotten fish and the ground underfoot was slick with with seal scat.

Huge and cumbersome, these animals lack the skeletal articulation that would enable them to sprint across dry land as fur seals can. However, they soon showed themselves able to lunge with surprising swiftness and accuracy when approached too closely. They also displayed a remarkable reluctance to move. In fact, this reluctance would be more accurately interpreted as absolute refusal. A crack team of seal wranglers was soon assembled and we approached the seal-mountain armed with specialised seal-moving equipment. To the untrained observer this may have looked like a bunch of lunatics shouting and clapping while waving flags and bamboo canes. We, however, prided ourselves in our expertise and experience and knew that we represented the world’s elite in terms of seal wrangling. The seals, however, seemed sadly uninformed of this fact and were clearly unimpressed by our efforts. We persisted with shouting and clapping and eventually progressed to poking, prodding and occasionally slapping in order to gain the ellies’ attention. Slowly, grudgingly they began to move. We continued our exertions, working ourselves into a frenzy of yelling, waving and prodding. This was met with distain by the seals, who rolled their huge, liquid eyes in our direction and, insultingly, went back to sleep. Undeterred we redoubled our efforts, by now sweating and steaming in the freezing air. Finally we managed to rouse them from their slumber and persuade them, one by one, to move away from their cosy resting spot. As they lumbered past they shot looks of resentment in our direction, clearly unimpressed by the disruption to their daily routine. Once again I was reminded that the human residents of Antarctica are uninvited guests in a land that rightly belongs only to those who are perfectly adapted to life in this harsh and beautiful environment.

I braced myself against the railings as the deck of the ship rose and fell beneath my feet. Binoculars held firmly in place, I gazed intently at the horizon as the last rays of sun stretched towards me over the rolling swell.  All day we had been making our way through open water, pack ice behind us now. Throughout the morning these Antarctic waters shone cobalt-blue beneath clear skies broken only by the occasional elliptical cloud that hung over the horizon, hinting at the presence of a hidden landfall. Later these clouds seemed to coalesce as we steamed into waters now as grey as beaten pewter.

The sliver of sky above the horizon narrowed and finally succumbed as the sun melted into the water and spread towards us in a burning pool. I pressed the binoculars tight against my forehead so as not to miss a single moment of its passing. The colours deepened as the golden glow became orange and then red, and finally, as I held my breath ‘There!’ a burning emerald on the horizon, a celestial green, more vivid than any earthly hue. For a moment it danced and shone brighter as though fighting to re-ignite. No gentle passage into twilight, but a raging, burning struggle for the skies. As it sank lower it flamed and fought in one final, defiant flare. No longer green, but blue. Ice burned on the horizon and was gone. The sea before us lay grey and scorched. Here and there it reflected the glow of smouldering clouds, which one by one surrendered to the evening that settled softly upon us as though comforting the sea. 

As we waited for the Shackleton to return from South Georgia the weather that had made their journey from the Falklands so uncomfortable brought us an unexpected amount of snow. Unfortunately this was combined with high winds that made working outside all but impossible. When it eventually abated we were able to travel around the island, although progress was hampered by the tendency to get stuck in high drifts and to fall between tussock into waist-deep snow. On the rocky slopes of La Roche and Gazella the wind had sculpted the snow into long, sinuous ridges that glittered in the sunlight and formed deep cornices above the paths.

Eventually the ship returned, though the swell was still to great for her to launch the cargo tender. Over the course of two days cargo was transferred on and off base using smaller boats. It is a credit to the tenacity of the ship’s crew that the relief operations were completed successfully with all supplies apart from a small number of fuel drums being delivered. It was soon time for the departing personnel to be transferred on board. For Ruth this meant the end of two and a half years on the island. Her dedication to her work and to the animals had been extraordinary and it was clearly an emotional wrench for her to leave. Fortunately the prospect of a voyage South to the Antarctic peninsula did go some way towards softening the blow and it was with a sense of anticipation and excitement that Ruth, Jen, Jon, Iain and I boarded the ship.

From Bird Island the Shackleton was bound Signy, a small base in the South Orkney Islands. It was here that we would collect its 5 members of staff and help to close up the station for the winter, during which time it would be unmanned. Signy provides a base for staff studying wildlife (mostly penguins) and also glaciology and climatology.

For the first two days of or trip heavy swell and strong winds made for slow progress. The ship’s crew demonstrated their characteristic hospitality and welcomed us aboard enthusiastically. Unfortunately the Shackleton is notorious for her uncomfortable action in big seas and Jen and Iain were soon laid low by mal de mere. I was more fortunate and found that the bridge offered the best views on board, a good coffee machine and excellent company in the form of the Captain and his officers. This was also the ideal place to be when, a couple of days later, we came to dense pack ice. Earnest Shackleton has an ice-strengthened hull and is ideally suited for breaking her way through the pack. I watched with fascination as her bow rose and fell, carving a path through the ice, which crashed and splintered against her hull. With the ice came wildlife and my first glimpse of leopard seals. These impressive predators are winter visitors to Bird Island, where they can often be seen hunting penguins close to shore. They could be seen from the ship as they rested on the ice-floes, raising their head lazily and fixing us with a crocodilian stare as we passed by. Crabeater and Fur Seals could also slept comfortably on the ice. Often the ship would pass quite near before the seals woke and with a sudden panic, launched themselves into the water to avoid being crushed beneath the hull as we steamed on. Penguins were also thrown into confusion as we approached. The ones we passed now were mostly Adele penguins. Smaller and stouter than the Gentoos who had been our neighbours on Bird Island. Unlike the seals, the penguins were quick to spot the approaching ship. Alarm would spread rapidly through a group as they stood sentinel on the floating ice. Alarm became panic as we came nearer and soon the first penguin would break ranks and make a dash for the water. This lead to complete pandemonium as the remaining birds waddled frantically after them, often falling and sliding on their bellies, a riot of penguins crashing into one another as they sought refuge in the ocean. Generally we came no closer than a few hundred meters to these groups, but still the chaos was the same. Once in the water their confidence was restored and we often saw them porpoising gracefully alongside the ship, hunting for krill and seemingly unperturbed by our presence.

Bird Island

If once you have slept on an island,

You’ll never be quite the same,

You may look as you did the day before,           

And go by the same old name,

You may bustle about in street and shop,

You may sit at home and sew,

But you’ll see blue water and wheeling gulls,

Wherever your feet may go,

You may chat with the neighbours of this and that,

And close to your fire keep,

But you’ll hear ship whistle and lighthouse bell,

And tides beat through your sleep

Oh! You won’t know why and you can’t say how

Such a change upon you came

But once you have slept on an island

You’ll never be quite the same

                                                                        Rachel Lyman Field