A long-cherished dream and a new state-of-the-art expedition ship come together in an epic adventure to Antarctica.

Photographs by Matt Dutile

Fog, ice, and rock converge on the massive slope at Brown Bluff on Antarctica’s Tabarin Peninsula.

Antarctica snuck up on us quietly. As kids, my brother Kevin and I used to create our own mini White Continent by draping one of our mother’s white sheets over a series of cardboard boxes. Toy penguins scaled the boxy summits; plastic whales cruised around their base. There was also a rather stout stuffed walrus and a polar bear mother-cub duo — Arctic creatures, yes, but it would be a few years before our geography teachers set us straight on that score. We loved our little Antarctic world. But never in our wildest imaginings did we expect that, three decades later, we’d be experiencing the real thing.

On a foggy morning two days out from the Argentinian port town of Ushuaia, Kevin and I were standing in the sixth-deck bow lounge of the Seabourn Pursuit, binoculars at the ready. Our crossing of the notoriously rough Drake Passage had been smooth and uneventful, and now, after all that vast emptiness, we were determined to be the first to spot land.

And then, suddenly, unassumingly, there it was. The shores of Robert Island to starboard, and Nelson Island to port, serving as the enormous frozen gates of the South Shetland Archipelago. Thanks to a favorable tailwind, a pair of roll-reducing stabilizers, and a rather light two-meter swell, we had arrived almost a full day ahead of schedule. We would set foot on Half Moon Island that afternoon.

*Left to right:* A young chinstrap penguin taking a stroll near the rookery at Half Moon Island; a porthole with a view.

For most of recorded history, the world’s seventh continent had existed in the global imagination as a hypothetical, undefined landmass. European explorers only made the first confirmed sightings of the Antarctic mainland in the early 19th century, and a renewed effort to plot the last remaining blank spots on the map would later kick off the Heroic Age of Antarctic Exploration. This began in 1897 with the Belgian Antarctic Expedition of Adrien de Garlache aboard the Belgica, and ended after Ernest Shackleton’s third and fatal voyage on the Quest in 1922. Other legendary explorers of the time — Jean-Baptiste Charcot, Roald Amundsen, and Robert Falcon Scott among them — set out in the name of country and science. Not all of them made it back alive. The misfortunes of those like Shackleton, stranded for nearly two years on the ice, live on as tales of undaunted leadership and bravery under the most extreme conditions. These giants cemented the mythos of Antarctica among future generations, including a pair of young brothers growing up in New Hampshire during the 1990s.

At Half Moon Island, the Pursuit settled into the crescent-shaped bay and engaged its dynamic thrusters — a nifty feature that allows it to hover on a fixed GPS point and avoid dropping anchor where it might damage wildlife on the seafloor. After a dozen inflatable Zodiacs were craned down from the upper deck, and bright yellow-parka’d passengers in color-coded groups lined up to take their turn ashore, we set foot on a rocky beach. A large colony of chinstrap penguins settled into their rookery amid the bare rocks up the hill. Downy chicks peeked out from their parents’ bellies in a survey of the strange visitors clomping around in rubber boots and trekking poles. In mid-January, the adorable balls of gray fluff were at every penguin colony we visited. Needless to say, camera shutters, including my own, thwacked away to obscene image counts.

Dazed and awed by what we had just seen, we scrubbed our boots (to prevent carrying avian influenza between colonies) and boarded a return Zodiac a little over an hour later. It was the next group’s turn to ogle the endearing wildlife and stunning scenery. In line with rules set by the International Association of Antarctica Tour Operators, only 100 passengers at a time can go ashore to limit the impact of tourism and preserve the region’s fragile ecosystem.

A gentoo penguin rookery at Port Charcot, with the Seabourn Pursuit in the background. — A gentoo penguin rookery at Port Charcot, with the *Seabourn Pursuit* in the background.

Because Antarctica is an international nature reserve, the self-governing body sets out the only real law of the land here; cruise operators like Seabourn take it upon themselves to rigorously enforce its guidelines. Back on the Seabourn Pursuit, I asked Seb Coulthard if this model of self-policing could really be practical. “Travel to Antarctica comes with a large amount of responsibility, both from operators and visitors,” he replied. “We are in fact ambassadors of our nations when we visit. It is up to each of us to be responsible travelers.”

A Fellow of the Royal Geographic Society, Coulthard first fell in love with the Antarctic while stationed on a British air defense destroyer as a helicopter engineer. In 2013, he and five others reenacted Shackleton’s epic 1,335-kilometer journey from Elephant Island to South Georgia in a replica lifeboat for the Discovery Channel docuseries Shackleton: Death or Glory. He had been recruited by Seabourn as one of the two dozen highly qualified members of the expedition team, responsible for piloting Zodiacs, leading kayak and submersible excursions, and providing knowledge on a wealth of subjects.

One evening, we sat for a fireside chat with Alex Nemeth, the first Hungarian to climb all Seven Summits — the highest mountain peaks on each continent. She recounted her experience battling the extreme wind and -50°C temperatures that plagued her above 4,000 meters on Antarctica’s Mount Vinson. “That was the coldest I have ever been in my life,” she told a packed audience. “It wasn’t until a few days after we got back and I removed my socks and gloves that I noticed I had frostbite on eight of my fingers and toes.” She wagged her hands at us, grateful that they were all still there.

Others, like Seattle-based couple River and Paul Niles, brought their infectious energy to every Zodiac outing. They joined us one evening for a terrific “hosted dinner,” an initiative by Seabourn for passengers and crew to mingle and share stories. Another morning, Argentinian Juan Martin Goity and Canadian Joe Palmieri helped Goity’s countrymen at Primavera Base in Cierva Cove to recover barrels of fuel and supplies for the research station. A massive glacial calving wave had washed them into the bay the previous night, and the successful efforts to retrieve them not only saved the station’s season but also prevented damage to the marine environment.

Passengers walkingaround the bow of the Seabourn Pursuit after the ship’s “ice landing” at Hanusse Bay: expedition team member Juan Martin Goity. — *Left to right*: Passengers walking around the bow of the *Seabourn Pursuit* after the ship’s “ice landing” at Hanusse Bay; expedition team member Juan Martin Goity.

Much to our delight, the fog and steady drum of snow that came with our first glimpse of land proved to be the only time we’d see such conditions along the Antarctic coast. Days of extensive sunshine and balmy weather were our norm. My wife even sent me a news headline proclaiming home in New York City was, in fact, colder than Antarctica that week. I had unknowingly managed a warm weather escape.

Of course, our enjoyment of the southern summer went hand-in-hand with the myriad comforts aboard the months-old Pursuit, which was in its maiden Antarctic season. Kevin and I ordered complimentary champagne and caviar — one of those open secrets known to frequent Seabourn travelers. We also made use of the recreational facilities: four Jacuzzis and a glass-backed pool, a spa, sauna, and gym. The two of us dined at multiple restaurants (these range from casual chic to fanciful), relaxed at the top-side entertainment lounges, and watched presentations in an auditorium-like space with room for all 264 passengers.

Another of the ship’s calling cards is its two Cruise Sub 7-300s. At Skontorp Cove, I boarded one of the submersibles with five fellow guests and pilot Kevin Tough to dive 243 meters below the surface. As the mini-sub descended over a half-hour, the light from above fading to inky blankness across adjoining acrylic domes, micro fauna emerged from the frigid waters. Hundreds of little krill danced between our spotlights along with bioluminescent invertebrates and pencil-thin fish, proving that even in the depths of such a hostile environment, life finds a way.

Our cruising schedule was defined by twice-daily excursions: one on land, one by Zodiac. But few experiences were as rewarding as taking to the water in a two-person kayak. In Neko Harbor and the Fish Islands, little bits of melting ice pop-popped like Rice Krispies as we paddled through channels filled with them. The water was at times so clear you could see the immense bulk of icebergs below the surface, fading away in hues of cerulean and turquoise. I quickly gained a newfound appreciation for their scale. We then circumnavigated a miniature archipelago of nesting imperial cormorants, their eyes ringed by skin as blue as ice from the deepest, oldest glaciers.

Visiting a massive iceberg arch at Winter Island, off the west coast of the Antarctic Peninsula.

Antarctica captivated us with its endless march of seabirds, seals, whales, and most of all, the curious penguins. At Paradise Harbor, we circuited a route crisscrossed by “penguin highways,” the packed-snow paths the flightless birds plow on their way between icy shores and rocky rookeries. We couldn’t help but laugh waiting on our own paths for a conga line of gentoo to amble by, unconcerned with our presence.

Motoring on a Zodiac past Esperanza Base, one of nearly 20 scientific research stations dotting the Antarctic Peninsula, our group spotted thousands of nesting Adélie penguins. Dozens more leapt through the water and hopped onto chunks of “bergy bits.” By the time we turned back for the ship, the wind and waves had picked up precipitously. The sea undulated in meter-and-a-half-high crests as our Zodiac porpoised in imitation of the penguins we had just seen, albeit with much less grace. It was a reminder that Antarctica is one of the wildest places on earth, and changing conditions can demand your attention at a moment’s notice.

A dinner of lobster tail at the Seabourn Pursuit’s fine-dining restaurant; the ship’s aft pool and hot tub. — *Left to right*: A dinner of lobster tail at the *Seabourn Pursuit*’s fine-dining restaurant; the ship’s aft pool and hot tub.

Between excursions, Kevin and I planted ourselves on the bow deck, cameras and binoculars at hand in case the fins of humpback or minke whales broke through the water. On one occasion, a trio of humpbacks swam so close the spray of one misted a handful of onlookers, Kevin included. There were plenty more moments to relish: standing alone on the top deck in the early morning hours as the otherworldly light of the polar sun danced between snowy peaks and voluminous clouds, or observing, from the balcony of our suite, penguins peeping out of the salty water and icebergs passing exceptionally close.

We also ticked off a series of Antarctica must-dos. At Prospect Point in the Fish Islands, those of us brave enough to dare the 1° C waters jumped in for the Polar Plunge. I, of course, wore my tuxedo T-shirt to blend in with the local wildlife. (A good soak in the pool and a few glasses of champagne helped warm my bones for the rest of the day.) At the base of Brown Bluff, a great hump of volcanic rock at the very tip of the Antarctic Peninsula, I finally set foot on my seventh and final continent; other passengers had brought along signs and T-shirts celebrating the same milestone. A gaggle of us would gather in the Constellation Lounge, cocktails in hand, to toast the exact moment we crossed the Antarctic Circle during our fifth evening along the peninsula.

It’s clear that polar journeys have advanced by leaps and bounds from the scurvy-plagued days of Amundsen and Shackleton. But some explorers of that day never skimped on style. Charcot, the “Gentleman of the Antarctic,” famously traveled with his butler. In a photograph from Bastille Day in 1904, glaciologist and geologist Ernest Gourdon and photographer Paul Pléneau can be seen (with Charcot and their ship Le Français in the background) sitting in wicker basket chairs on the ice, with a bottle and two glasses of Mumm Cordon Rouge champagne.

*Left to right*: Captain Ertan Vasvi; trekking in the snow at Port Charcot.

In Hanusse Bay, our most southerly destination, the crew members recreated that scene for us. After a morning spent canvassing the fast ice — sea ice that has been “fastened” to the coastline — and spotting both a rare emperor penguin and Ross seal in the process, Captain Ertan Vasvi announced over the speakers that we’d be attempting an ice landing. A trio of Zodiacs slowly pushed a few erstwhile icebergs out of the way for the next hour, as Vasvi lined up the Pursuit. Every passenger and crew member crowded onto the bow decks to watch as the ship nudged bit by bit into the ice. Cracks opened and spiraled out with every second we pushed forward, until the vessel had carved into a stable position 250 meters into the ice. It was ours, and her, first-ever ice landing.

Minutes later, Nemeth and expedition leader Juan Restrepo stepped out, belayed tightly to each other and the ship, to test the ice for crevasses with three-meter poles. Within another half hour, the crew had marked a path and set out tables of champagne for eager guests. We took our turns to disembark, champagne in hand, laughing as we occasionally sank in a knee-deep blanket of snow.

The afternoon sun reflected so strongly off the frozen environment that within minutes we were sweating through our T-shirts and thermal underlayers. But nothing could dampen the utter joy of the experience. There was a post-wedding giddiness to it — that sheen after a night of drinking, dancing, and celebrating. Some flopped down to make snow angels or threw snowballs with mischievous grins.

I quickly scanned a panorama of the unending expanse of ice and mountains at the edge of our circle, before texting it to a colleague deeply prone to motion sickness. They worried if the experience would outweigh the potential suffering on our return voyage across the Drake Passage.

Only two words accompanied my photo: “Worth it.”

The Seabourn Pursuit at Petermann Island. — The *Seabourn Pursuit* at Petermann Island.

The Seabourn Pursuit will return to Antarctica in November with 13-day itineraries priced from US$10,274 per person based on double occupancy.

This article originally appeared in the March/May 2024 print issue of DestinAsian magazine (“At The Bottom of The World”).

Cruising the Antarctic in Style

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