Kayaking in Antarctica was never something I had even thought of when I put Antarctica on my bucket list. In hindsight, no one should go to Antarctica and NOT kayak if given the opportunity. But even once I was onboard, there was no guarantee I’d get the chance—only a few groups were selected each day, depending on weather and sea conditions. I was in group six, and when our turn finally came, I could hardly believe it.
It was partly cloudy when the announcement came: “Group six, report to the mudroom for kayaking.” Excitement buzzed through me as we suited up in drysuits and layers of fleece, pulling on gloves, booties, and life vests. We filed into the zodiac that would tow our kayaks out into Curtis Bay, the anticipation building with every ripple in the water.
Despite the clouds, the sun broke through just as we reached the bay, casting golden light across the ice. The water sparkled like it had been dusted in glitter, and every iceberg shimmered in the sunlight. We carefully transferred into the kayaks and pushed off into this surreal, icy dreamscape.
Almost immediately, our group paddled into broken sea ice—crunching through the slush to visit a seal lounging lazily on a nearby iceberg. It lifted its head to look at us, and I couldn’t help but smile. I was kayaking in Antarctica, ten feet from a wild seal, surrounded by nothing but ocean, mountains, and floating ice. It felt like another planet.
We set off after that to see if we could spot a minke whale that had been seen nearby. But by the time we made it to the area, the whale had moved on. So we turned back, paddling through thick patches of ice again—which, I’ll tell you, is no easy task in a kayak. My arms were already burning, but there was no time to think about that because suddenly our guide got word of humpback whales just up ahead.
He urged us to paddle hard to get into position, and I mean hard. We moved fast to a small clearing in the water. That’s when I heard it: the deep exhale of a whale blowing, and it was close—really close.
Within seconds, a massive humpback whale surfaced less than 20 feet from my kayak. It was so close I could feel the fishy mist from its blow on my face. It lingered, circling us slowly. It didn’t seem bothered by our presence—in fact, it almost seemed curious, like it had chosen us. And I, somehow, was right in the center of it all.
Our guide kept yelling instructions—“Paddle left! Back up! Turn that way!”—but it didn’t matter where I went, the whale kept coming toward me. At one point, it was headed straight at my kayak, and I couldn’t do anything but sit still and watch, my heart pounding with excitement. And then… it dove.
I looked straight down through the icy water and saw it—this massive, gentle giant swimming directly beneath me. My breath caught. That was the moment. That’s the one I’ll never forget. I’ve always dreamed of something like that happening, but I never thought it actually would, let alone in Antarctica.
The whale stayed with us for more than 30 minutes, circling, diving, surfacing again. It felt like a private show in the most remote place on Earth. Eventually, the guides called it— reluctantly, it was time to head back. We were already late getting back to the ship.
But our new friend wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye.
Even after we loaded back into the zodiacs, the whale followed, surfacing nearby and stalling our exit. We had to wait until it was a safe distance away before we could motor off. Antarctic traffic jam, courtesy of one very social humpback.
Back on the ship, our kayak group was buzzing. Every single one of us was lit up with adrenaline, awe, and disbelief at what we had just experienced. We couldn’t stop talking about it, replaying every moment. The seal, the ice, the sun, the whale that came to say “hi” and then stuck around for the party.
Kayaking in Antarctica wasn’t a bucket list item, but it was magic. Pure, icy, unforgettable magic.
Very enjoyable read!