Although it had been on my bucket list for about 15 years, Antarctica had always seemed like this mysterious, unreachable place—something you read about in textbooks or see on documentaries. But one morning in February, bundled in layers and grinning like an idiot, I stepped foot on the seventh continent and thought: I’m really here.
The Journey South: Ushuaia and Onboard Life
The adventure started in Ushuaia, Argentina—the southernmost city in the world and the last stop before Antarctica. Between its jagged mountains, chilly winds, and the nonstop hum of adventure-seekers, Ushuaia truly feels like the last stop before falling off the map.
Before boarding the ship, I spent some time exploring the town—wandering past signs that proudly marked Ushuaia’s claim as the southernmost city in the world, grabbing cinnamon rolls and Irish cream tea at a cozy little mountain tea house, and meeting up with the group I’d be adventuring with: about 120 hashers from all over the world. If you’ve never heard of hashing, it’s an international drinking club with a running problem. Most of the people were strangers to me at this point, but hashing has a way of turning strangers into friends pretty quickly. (That’s a whole story of its own—feel free to Google it if you’re curious!) The city itself felt like a mash-up of contrasts: graffiti-covered walls next to modern glass cafes, statues bracing against the wind, and more photo ops than I expected. Also, weirdly enough, every building seemed to be a sauna. No air conditioning, and I found myself cracking windows in the middle of the night just to cool off enough to sleep.
After a few days and the chaos of luggage drops and a whole lot of waiting around, we finally boarded the ship. The moment we pushed off from the dock and entered the Beagle Channel, the excitement became real. The seas started picking up around 3:30 a.m. as we entered the infamous Drake Passage—but more on that in another post.
The ship itself became a floating world—early bird breakfasts, afternoon teas, marine wildlife lectures, zodiac briefings, photography workshops, and lots of time spent staring out at the open sea, searching for whales or seabirds.
We even had a competition onboard to guess the exact time of the first iceberg sighting. I was just eight minutes off the actual time and won a bottle of champagne. It felt like a good omen.
Once the icebergs came into view, we knew we were getting close. The energy onboard shifted—buzzing, electric, contagious. Crossing the Antarctic Circle felt like a moment out of a dream, and we marked it with a quirky little celebration known as the Order of the Red Nose. It’s an old sailor tradition where you kiss a dead fish to pay tribute to Neptune, the Roman god of the sea. Yep, I kissed the fish. Yes, it was salty. And yes, it was 100% worth it.
And then—Antarctica.
Detaille Island: Base W and the First Footsteps
Our first Antarctic landing was on Detaille Island, and it hit hard—in the best way. The sky was clear, the sea was calm, and as we cruised in on the zodiac, that magical mix of white-blue ice and rugged coastline felt like something from another world.
Every time we disembarked or reboarded the ship, there was a boot-washing ritual we had to follow. It wasn’t just for show—this was a serious effort to prevent any contamination between the ship and Antarctica’s fragile ecosystem. First, we stepped into a tray filled with a disinfecting solution that smelled faintly medicinal. Then we moved to a rinse station to wash it off. It became part of the routine pretty quickly, and actually, it felt good to know we were doing our part to protect such a wild and untouched place.
Detaille Island is home to Base W, a British research station built in 1956. It was meant to be a base for dog-sledding survey teams but had to be abandoned just three years later when the sea ice became too unpredictable. The team there had to make a tough call and leave quickly, taking only their most essential belongings and their dogs. One of those dogs, Steve, escaped during the evacuation. Months later, he shocked everyone by showing up—healthy and wagging—at another station on Horseshoe Island. Legendary, Steve.
Base W is still standing, almost exactly as it was left: beds made, underwear hanging on a line, radio messages still stacked neatly on a bunk. We couldn’t go inside, but just standing outside that building, looking out over the frozen sea, was surreal.
Nearby, we spotted our first penguin rookery in the distance and a few seals lounging on the ice. There were outbuildings too, including one that had served as a doghouse before dogs were banned from Antarctica in the early 1990s to protect native wildlife from canine distemper.
Later that day, we found a penguin rookery and saw them up close. They waddled, they slid, they flopped into the snow like exhausted toddlers. I fell in love. The way they hesitated at the water’s edge, then dove in together like a group of nervous kids on a dare—it was one of the most unexpectedly emotional things I’ve ever watched.
Then came the epic polar plunge. I did it twice—once in a swimsuit and once fully naked (because why not?). The water was a brisk 37°F (3°C), and it took my breath away. This, however, was not the crew’s first rodeo, and we were greeted back on deck with warm towels and tequila shots. Antarctica knows how to party.
Pleneau Island: Penguin Mayhem and Iceberg Alley
Pleneau Island was an absolute highlight. We landed during molting season, which meant the penguins were in the middle of shedding their old feathers and growing new ones—basically the worst time for a penguin to be seen on camera, but an amazing time for us.
They stood motionless for long stretches, conserving energy while their bodies did the work. It was a mix of adorably fluffy chicks and grumpy, scruffy adults trying to survive the awkward phase. We also got to witness feedings—watching a parent regurgitate food into the mouth of its chick, which is equal parts fascinating and gross.
This island is part of what’s known as “Iceberg Alley,” and it didn’t disappoint. Huge chunks of ice were grounded in the shallow waters, forming what looked like a frozen sculpture garden. We cruised through in zodiacs, cameras clicking constantly. I could’ve spent hours just staring at the different blues—some bright like Gatorade, others deep and moody, all reflecting against the water in hypnotic patterns.
The Kodak Gap: Beauty, Icebergs, and Una’s Tits
We were still buzzing from our time on Pléneau Island—surrounded by curious penguins and grinning like kids at summer camp—when we climbed back aboard the ship. Before we could even think about warming up or settling in, the announcement came: don’t get too comfortable. The Lemaire Channel was up next, and we’d all want to be on deck for it.
Sailing through the Lemaire Channel—nicknamed “Kodak Gap” for good reason—was one of those moments that made everyone drop what they were doing and rush to the upper decks, cameras in hand and breath visible in the freezing air. It’s a narrow passage flanked by towering ice-covered cliffs, and the scenery is so striking it almost doesn’t look real. The journey through the channel only took about 40 minutes, but there was real uncertainty about whether we’d even be able to enter. A massive iceberg was blocking part of the entrance, and the captain wasn’t sure we’d make it. But he was willing to try. The ice is always shifting, the landscape never the same twice. We managed to skirt around the iceberg on the right side, bumping into a smaller one along the way, and just like that—we were in.
Cold air whipped across the deck, but we all stayed there…the view was too incredible to miss. The cliffs on either side loomed tall and dramatic, streaked with blue ice and carved by time. We passed by the twin peaks known as Una’s Tits —two perfectly shaped mountains that are impossible to miss once you know what you’re looking for. It was funny, a little absurd, and somehow made the whole scene even more unforgettable. There’s something special about a place that can make you laugh and leave you speechless at the same time.
Neko Harbor: Setting Foot on the Continent
Our continental landing happened at Neko Harbor, a dramatic bay surrounded by towering glaciers. This was the moment that hit the hardest: actually stepping onto the Antarctic mainland.
Neko was named after a Norwegian whaling ship, the Neko, which operated here in the early 1900s. You can still hear echoes of that history—remnants of whaling gear, a few scattered bones, and a solemn reminder of what humans once came here to do.
There was a penguin highway snaking through the snow and a short trail marked with boots that led us past more gentoo penguins. While we were there, our guide asked us to pause for a few minutes of silence. It was one of the most powerful moments of the trip—just standing still, listening to the sounds of Antarctica. The distant creaks and cracks of glaciers calving, the wind rustling past, the soft squawks of penguins, and nothing else (almost.) It felt sacred.
On our zodiac ride afterward, we got lucky again—seals on icebergs, penguins swimming beside us, and two minke whales surfacing not far from our boat. I could even smell their “stinky minke” breath. At one point, one swam directly beneath us. It was one of those “Did that really just happen?” moments.
Paradise Bay: Ice, Stories, and a Cold One
Our excursion through Paradise Bay was short but memorable. We didn’t set foot on land this time—just cruised by in zodiacs, weaving between chunks of ice and getting up-close views of massive glaciers and snow-draped cliffs that continued to look like something out of a movie. The water was mirror-still in some spots, reflecting the white and blue world around us like glass.
We passed by Brown Station, an Argentine research base that’s still active during the summer months. From a distance, it looked almost toy-like against the vast Antarctic landscape—bright red-orange buildings clustered on the rocky shore. But the base has a bit of a dramatic history. Back in 1984, a doctor stationed there learned his assignment had been extended and, well… he didn’t take it well. He set the entire base on fire to force an evacuation. No one was hurt, but it’s one of those wild, only-in-Antarctica kind of stories that apparently gets passed around on the water like folklore.
Toward the end of our zodiac ride, Neil—one of our guides and one of the folks who put this whole trip together—met us with a surprise. Ice-cold beers, handed out with a grin. I found myself sitting in a zodiac, snowflakes landing on my jacket, holding a beer in one gloved hand and staring out at icebergs the size of buildings. Drinking a beer in Antarctica, on the water, with snow falling around me? That might be the coolest beer I’ll ever have.
Mikkelsen Harbour: Whalebones, Lost Penguins, and a Lucky Spot
The next morning, we landed at Mikkelsen Harbour, a sheltered bay on the Antarctic Peninsula with a deep connection to the region’s whaling past. Named after a Norwegian whaling manager, the harbor was once used as a safe anchorage for factory ships during the early 20th century. Evidence of that era is still scattered along the shore. As soon as we stepped onto land, we found ourselves surrounded by whalebones—some bleached white with age—and the remnants of a small wooden whaling boat, now collapsed into the stones and snow. It still amazes me how small those boats were compared to the whales they hunted. The scale is hard to believe until you see it with your own eyes.
The island also hosted another bustling penguin rookery, mostly adelies, but we spotted at least three chinstrap penguins waddling among them. Our onboard penguin expert explained that this area doesn’t usually see mixed colonies, so the chinstraps were probably a little lost. But he reassured us they’d be just fine here—they’d blend in and thrive alongside the adelies without any trouble.
After plenty of time observing the penguins, we climbed back into the zodiac and took off to explore the nearby coastline. As we cruised past snow-covered ridges, I noticed what looked like rows of tiny black dots on a distant slope. I asked aloud, “What are all those black specks?” and my boatmates turned to look. We steered in that direction and discovered an entire hillside crawling with penguins—hundreds of them. It was one of those quiet, proud moments. I may not be a wildlife expert, but I was feeling pretty sharp that morning.
Curtiss Bay: Kayaking with Giants
Curtiss Bay was where I got to fulfill a dream I didn’t even realize I had—kayaking through the Antarctic ice.
We suited up, got hauled out by zodiac, and loaded up into two-person kayaks. Within minutes, we spotted a leopard seal sunbathing on an iceberg. We took the opportunity to pause and take pictures of the seal. As we continued on, we laughed as we struggled through field after field of floating ice. Finally, we made our way back to a clearing.
Then, it happened—a humpback surfaced right next to my kayak. I could hear it breathe. I even looked down and saw its massive shadow just beneath my boat. I fumbled for my camera and captured part of the moment, but mostly I just sat there, stunned, listening to our guide tell us to move, but no matter where we went, so did the whale.
It hung around for a while—curious, calm, almost playful. Eventually, it gave us one last tail flick and disappeared below the surface. We were all a chatter after that – no one could stop talking about how lucky we were, first for the experience, and second, that the whale didn’t do anything unexpected.
Deception Island: Fire and Ice
One of our final landings was on Deception Island, a flooded volcanic caldera still considered active. Ships can enter through Neptune’s Bellows, a narrow passageway flanked by towering cliffs.
The island was once a major whaling and research hub. We walked through the skeletal remains of a massive whaling station—rusted tanks, decaying buildings, and what’s left of several burial sites. Over 30 men were buried here, but many of their graves were washed away during volcanic eruptions in the 1960s.
Knowing that Sir Ernest Shackleton had once hoped to reach Deception Island during his Endurance expedition made standing there even more surreal. After his ship was crushed by ice in the Weddell Sea, he aimed for rescue on Deception Island—but relentless sea ice and brutal weather forced him to change course. He and his crew eventually made the perilous journey to South Georgia Island instead. Standing on that island, picturing what might’ve been if Shackleton had made it, added a haunting layer of history to an already unforgettable place.
We hiked up a steep ridge where wind gusts reached an estimated 50 mph. The cold bit into my lungs, and the snow pelted sideways, but it was worth it. This was the raw, rugged Antarctica I had imagined. The kind that humbles you.
Last Stop: Half Moon Island and the End of the Ice
Our final excursion took us to Half Moon Island, part of the South Shetland Islands. Technically, we had already left the Antarctic continent—though if Neil hadn’t told us, I’m not sure any of us would have noticed. The landscape still looked and felt like Antarctica in every way: snow-covered ridges, rocky beaches, and plenty of penguin colonies.
This island was home to a large colony of chinstrap penguins, easily recognized by the thin black line that wraps under their chin like a little helmet strap. We also spotted several gentoo penguins mixed in. But the real surprise was how many fur seals were there—dozens of them lounging across the island like they owned the place. We had originally planned to walk across the island to visit Cámara Station, an Argentine summer research base tucked into the shoreline, but the seals had other ideas. They were spread out across the trail, and with that many in the way, we had no choice but to turn around.
Half Moon Island has been used seasonally for scientific research and tourism, but it also holds a little bit of history. The remains of early 20th-century seal hunting activities can still be found there, a quieter echo of the same industry that once dominated the region. It was a strange, poetic place for our last outing—still wild, still full of life, but with subtle hints of human footprints.
The Final Day: Ushuaia, Farewells, and Champagne Toasts
We began our journey back across the Drake Passage with a bit of urgency. The captain explained that weather was rolling in, and he had made the decision to, in his words, “haul ass.” If we didn’t go full speed, there was a real chance we’d get stuck waiting out a storm on the Antarctic side—or worse, make it across only to find the port in Ushuaia closed. At the time of the meeting, the Drake was rated a 4.5 out of 10, but it was expected to get rougher. I braced myself for another night of being rocked awake by waves. It wasn’t exactly a smooth passage, but it wasn’t as rough as I was expecting (and crazily hoping for).
Our final full day at sea turned out to be calm. We had our disembarkation briefing, followed by a series of flash lectures that wrapped up the educational side of the trip. Eddy shared insights on krill, Olivia covered pinnipeds (seals), Will gave a talk on the Drake Passage itself, and Julian lightened things up with some “Icy Facts about Antarctica.” It felt like the perfect way to wind down: a little more knowledge to carry home, along with everything else we’d seen and felt along the way. Finally, we had a slideshow of pictures from the photography group (I was grateful to have been a part of that!), and the Captain’s Farewell Cocktail. As we crossed the Beagle Channel back to port, a double rainbow graced us. It was the perfect ending to an unbelievably spectacular trip.
We spent one last night on the ship and woke up in port to the wind that had been expected. That was the first time it became obvious why we had needed to haul ass. I spent my final day wandering town, grabbing hot chocolate spiked with Baileys, and celebrating the end of the trip with new friends. We popped champagne—including the bottle I won for the iceberg sighting—and reflected on everything we had experienced.
Penguins and whales. Icebergs and glaciers. Silence and wind. History and stillness.
There’s something about Antarctica that changes you—not in a dramatic, life-altering way, but in this subtle, grounding kind of way. It’s like the world pulls into focus a little more clearly afterward.
And now, I get to say I’ve been to the seventh continent.
And I will never, ever forget it.
