The Drake Passage, south of Cape Horn, is generally reckoned to be the wildest, stormiest, most seasick-inducing stretch of water on the planet.
Today, however, it's about as rough as a small puddle in a light breeze. This condition is known to the crew as "Drake Lake", and to the rest of us as "thank **** for that." Apparently we've sneaked between two storm systems, thus avoiding the anticipated/dreaded 30-foot waves etc. Jolly good.
Much of today has been taken up with assorted briefings: how to get into a Zodiac without capsizing it, how to avoid a seabird projectile-vomit attack, how to tell a Southern Giant Petrel from a Northern Giant Petrel (hint: don't even try...) A great deal of incompetent photography has occurred: this morning I took about 300 photos of a Black-Browed Albatross and, having edited them down to remove the ones which were out of focus, grotesquely overexposed or just that bit too blurred, I'm left with one perfectly-in-focus photograph of three-quarters of a Black-Browed Albatross. You'll have to take my word for it that it's a Black-Browed Albatross, because the brows are generally found on the head, which is in the quarter that didn't quite make the cut...
Still sailing due south, we've just crossed the Antarctic Convergence, where the waters of the Southern Ocean meet the Circumpolar Current and the sea temperature drops from 5 degrees to sub-zero in the space of 30 miles. The air temperature has dropped accordingly from "a tad parky" to "brrrrrrr" and by dawn there may be icebergs on the horizon. We're heading for Deception Island in the South Shetlands, with a view to landfall in the morning. Assuming it's still there, of course: it's an active volcano.
