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< July / August 2000
	Sea Kayaking Supplement
In the wake of Shackleton Sea Kayaking South Georgia Island Agnus Finney

Explorer Sir Ernest Shackleton's boat, The Endurance, was crushed by ice in the Weddell Sea in 1915. Shackleton escaped and subsequently saved his companions by sailing a 22-foot open whaling boat 800 miles from the Antarctic Peninsula to South Georgia Island, then crossing South Georgia on foot in order to reach help at an old whaling station.

T.S. Eliot had read about this epic and refers, in his masterpiece The Wasteland, to an incident where the three members of the group that crossed South Georgia over unmapped and untrodden terrain were "under the constant delusion that there was one more member than could actually be counted."

We felt the same way, as I and two companions spent a day and a half hauling our kayaks and equipment up to the 400-meter saddle of Shackleton Gap, including six hours of hiking into a 25-knot headwind with both rain and whiteout conditions on a snow-covered glacier. A great feeling of humility at the fortitude of these early explorers helped power us on each step. There was always "The Boss"—as Shackleton was known—or some other form of human inspiration traveling with us in the wilds at the bottom of the planet.

South Georgia lies as a lonely wind- and weather-ravaged island 800 nautical miles east of Cape Horn. In winter, the sea-ice comes to within 30 nautical miles, and in summer the coasts in places can be awash with ice that has calved from one of the many glaciers that cascade into the sea, or adorned by the odd rogue berg that has escaped from the confines of the Weddell Sea and silently floated northward.

Wade Fairley and I had traveled to South Georgia two years earlier en route to paddling for three weeks along parts of the Antarctic Peninsula. Sometime after that trip Wade suggested that we attempt a circumnavigation of South Georgia. I initially thought this was lunacy but, after poring over the charts, decided that it may be feasible.

It took nearly a year to get authorization from the British authorities in the Falkland Islands. Not surprisingly, they were reluctant to grant a permit for what seemed an outlandish idea. A range of support material, including a positive letter from the original surveyor of South Georgia—and some fortuitous staff changes—saw the permit heading our way. By this stage the third member of our party had dropped out and Wade chose Bob Powell as his replacement—a North American who we'd both worked with as raft guides.

The three of us met in Ushuaia, the southernmost city in South America. We organized the last bits and pieces utilizing (in our minds) excellent Spanish and wondered naively why so many people were giving us blank looks. Two days later, the Alla Tarasova, the Russian cruise boat that Wade had organized a lift with, sailed for South Georgia and seven days later we were sitting in front of the South Georgia Harbor Master, the very serious looking Patrick Lurcock. Lurcock informed us that even though there was a small garrison of British military personnel stationed at Grytviken, where the Tarasova was now moored, they were restricted to the immediate 500-meter area in their runabouts, and the nearest assistance, which in any case would not be forthcoming, was by Her Majesty's destroyer, 36 hours steaming and 100,000 pounds sterling in fuel costs away. We were also informed that we were, under no circumstances, to eat any of the wildlife—contrary to the suggestions of the surveyor Mr. Bomford in his letter of support.

We had no intention of relying on either. We had worked out escape routes off the wild west coast, had crampons, ropes and ice-axes to facilitate this, and the knowledge that if it was anything more serious 36 hours would be too late anyway.

Thirty-eight days of food, fuel and related paraphernalia made for heavy boats and impressive blisters as we headed north. Fourteen days of food had also been cached at the southern tip of the island. The barometer stayed high as we pushed hard northward for a week. Even though it stayed high, in any two-hour period we got rain, hail, snow and sunshine, all the while traveling past steep, inhospitable clifflines that came straight out of the sea. On some days it wasn't possible to land for twelve hours at a stretch and when we did we had tussles with a problem we hadn't foreseen from the safety of our couches in Australia: fur seals.

It was the height of fur seal breeding season and our route took us into the most populated breeding area on earth. The males had come ashore a month earlier and started the ferocious and bloody process of staking out their territories, and the females had come ashore over the last few days to give birth and would then be "in season" again. An adult male fur seal has inch-long incisors, an extremely infectious bite, is twice the size of a Rottweiler and can do 20 km. per hour chasing you down the beach. The trick to dealing with them was to work out where their territories lay, and to try and land somewhere in between. If they had spent the last month fighting with their neighbor in order to determine that line, then they would be reluctant to move too close to you and start the fighting afresh. That was the theory we developed anyway.

Toward the end of the first week, after having nearly been blown out to sea on two occasions and having been harassed by seals many other times, we paddled into Right Whale Bay, which was, we were told, the last relatively seal-free beach before Elsehul and Undine Harbor at the northern tip. Our information was wrong but the unsheltered center of the beach had the least density of seals and, after half an hour of struggling across the sand with our loaded boats while fending off the odd male with our paddles, we had an exposed, windblown site for our tent.

The next morning I went to get some fresh water about 400 meters from camp. The "territories" theory seemed to be working until I looked up to see my two companions being chased down the beach by an aggressive male fur seal. Bob was trailing and just as the seal was about to latch onto his backside he tripped over his big feet and all 6'7" of him fell in a heap on the beach, where he adopted the universally recognized fur seal posture of submission. The seal wandered off—a close escape for Bob and his precious drysuit.

As we headed off in our boats we knew we had a much worse fur seal scenario ahead of us if we attempted to land at Elsehul. We were right—the number of seals there forced us to push north, to Bird Island and the small albatross and fur seal research station. As we sat rafted up in our boats trying to contact Bird Island by radio, there was a profusion of wildlife around us. There were penguins and fur seals swimming in the water, and hundreds of birds both in the air and adorning the ominous 300-meter cliffs above us.

The southern oceans are the most fertile feeding grounds on earth and it's hard to imagine its abundance of wildlife. Every food chain has its share of predators, the most feared close to South Georgia being the Leopard Seal. Leopards have been known to attack humans and sink inflatable boats left in the water overnight. We were still trying to contact Bird Island when out of the swirling water slid the evil-looking reptilian snout of a Leopard Seal. But this one was relatively small so I took my camera out—just as it rose from the water and bit the bow of my boat! It then surfaced next to Wade for a nibble on his paddle before heading out after easier quarry. The three of us were still stuck off the northern tip of South Georgia in minimal visibility, unable to see Bird Island, with our route of retreat being a 30-kilometer paddle to a beach that had caused us all sorts of problems.

We struck out across the Sound by compass, since Bird Island was still enshrouded in mist. On pulling clear of the Cape, the big swells from the west coast announced their presence by the muffled roar of surf on the far rocks. Bird Island was only 150 meters away before its jagged shoreline appeared. And, as we had feared, a strong tide was running against us. Just like Shackleton, who had trouble landing on South Georgia 85 years earlier, we had to paddle in close to the rocks where the current was weakest but just out of reach of the pounding surf. Help was too far away now—one wrong move and we were on the rocks. I was in front and at the worst point of our snail-like crawl when we came to a rock outcrop where the current pushed in closest with its greatest velocity.

A brief glance to check on the others and I was into it, windmilling my arms as fast as they would go. Only a meter at a time, then flail for an eternity. And another meter. While my body was at its extremity I remember my mind being incredibly calm and analytical—What were the safety margins involved? Fallback positions? Consequences? Could I get a fraction closer? Another backwash, check on the others, brace. One more surge and I was there. Relief, but then another anxious eternity as first Wade and then Bob inched past. I wasn't out of the fire until all three of us were past. The conditions eased a little after this and an hour later we were being kindly and expertly guided through the absolute morass of fur seals at Jordan Cove by the leading light of the British Antarctic Survey. Then a hot shower and shepherd's pie!

The next morning the barometer dropped like a stone. Our first section of west coast lay before us, and we were very cognizant of overstaying our welcome in the cramped confines. Some big swells greeted us, along with lots of rebound and a few particularly tense minutes in between a rock outcrop, an iceberg and the Cape, with waves going every which way.

Once past the Cape, the paddling was uncomfortable as well, bouncing us around like a cork, slop landing on our decks, and only 1- to 2-kilometer visibility. Because it was obscured by mist, we were forced to make an 11-kilometer crossing by compass to Wilson's Harbor. Halfway across, a wave landed on my back deck and over I went! Upside down, five kilometers off the coast of South Georgia—what a nightmare. Cold, fear, sort your head out, roll back up. Two hours later we were pulling into Wilson's having only made 30 kilometers after a long, hard day paddling. It would be another 30 kilometers between the most optimistic landing spots once farther south.

Inclement weather kept us at Wilson's for the next six days and on the seventh day we decided to go paddling. I rose at 5 a.m. but it was still too rough. A couple of hours later it settled down so we headed up the Harbor and out around Saddle Island where it began to get lumpy. A kilometer across to Cape Demidov and the start of the most disorienting waves I've ever experienced—the type that plagued Shackleton during his entire 800-mile journey. A convex coastline causes waves to come from all angles and the feeling of disorientation is intense—moving up, down, sideways, forward and backward—all on a fraction of one swell. And then there are the "ordinary" problems of these headlands—reefs, bomboras, grounded icebergs and a shoreline that is steep, dark and craggy, with a pounding surf at its base. Every third or fourth stroke was a brace and if you had problems the others wouldn't have been able to assist you anyway. After we pulled in at Cheapman's Bay and set up camp to the background noise of the crackling glacier, we realized we had traveled less than 20 kilometers and were totally exhausted.

The next day we paddled across the mouth of King Haakon Bay to Shallop Cove and walked up to the saddle behind it for a view down the southern part of the west coast. Immediately south were two enormous glaciers, followed by the Fanning Ridge, a 1,000-meter-high range that dropped straight into the sea, with surf stretching for over a kilometer out to sea from its northernmost point. We returned to our boats and found a beach to set up camp. It was a subdued and pensive threesome in the tent that night. Our fallback was to paddle back to King Haakon Bay and then carry our gear over the legendary Shackleton Gap, though we were unsure what that terrain would be like. But we had also come here to paddle around the island. The next morning I arose and packed my bags but the slow speed of the other two informed me that we were all of the same opinion—the west coast was too dangerous and we would be too far out of our comfort zones. Shackleton's Gap was to be our new route south. The Gap would presumably have its own assortment of problems but there was a general lifting of spirits, though a residuary disappointment at not being able to paddle that magnificent coastline.

Shackleton's Gap didn't disappoint us. At the crest we parted company with the ghosts of Shackleton, Crean and Worsley who headed south across the icecap in leather boots with brass screws as crampons. We had our own problems. What would the descent be like? It could be ice falls or rock cliffs. As my boat started to overtake me on the descent I decided to jump aboard and slide. The icefalls moved in closer and closer from the south and there were rock outcrops to the north, but our narrow snow slope continued down and down, with the three of us grinning with glee. Then I looked up to see Wade's kayak careening toward crevasse and icefall territory. Fortunately it hit some pressure ridges, had some air time, and slowed sideways to a stop. There was no substantial damage so fits of laughter ensued. The snowslope kept heading downward and eventually stopped only fifty meters from the beach.

The next three and a half weeks were then spent paddling down the relatively gentle east coast. We still had 40- to 50-knot winds hammer us as we paddled across the mouths of some of the bays. We found ourselves plowing through ice that had calved off the glaciers, and had our tent blown flat by winds so strong that both ourselves and our kayaks were blown along the beach. At Larsen Harbor, Wade and I climbed up higher and found ourselves surrounded by majestic, wedding cake-clad peaks of 1,000-2,000 meters in altitude, with the deep blue Drygalski Fiord below us, and the awesome peace and solitude of a magnificent wilderness surrounding us.

South Georgia never let up on the challenges. Even asleep on a calm evening there was the threat that we had parked our tent or kayaks in the middle of an elephant seal's preferred route to a mud wallow. But this was all part of the privilege of being able to experience and live this subantarctic gem to its fullest. As I lay awake on our last night, with the sounds of King and Gentoo penguins trumpeting and squawking, the "slop, slop, slop" of a female Elephant seal traveling across a nearby stream, the belching of the males down on the shore, and the haunting call of the Light-mantled Sooty Albatross as a refrain, I was aware, like Shackleton, of how privileged I was to experience this extraordinary island.