Ags (base commander) blonds Joe (tech services).
Stacey (penguin assistant) blonds Mick (seal assistant).
Stacey visits the Bird Island salon.
My turn.
This is why you should leave it to the professionals.
Sunday, 26 December 2010
The Blonding
On Bird Island, the majority of seal monitoring is done at the Special Study Beach. All new pups born on this beach are given an identification mark using blond hair dye, and thus when the first pup is born at SSB and the blond hair dye is broken out, tradition dictates that everyone on base, or at least everyone who is willing or not physically strong enough to resist, also gets blonded. This year was no exception. Initially I planned to go for a few tasteful highlights, but then at the last moment, perhaps overcome by the peroxide fumes gently wafting from earlier victims, I threw caution to the wind and decided to go completely blonde. What I did not know is that young hair takes up peroxide more easily than old hair, so after an hour of marinating in bleach the crown of my head was very blond indeed but the tips remained resolutely brunette. The overall effect was a lot more Marilyn Manson than Marilyn Monroe, but I guess not many people will see me for the next two years, unless I do something foolish like post a picture on my blog.
Wednesday, 15 December 2010
Welcome to Bird Island
On the 30th October the JCR arrived at Bird Island, and I got the first glimpse of the place that will be my home for the next 30 months. It was (unusually) a beautiful sunny day and both Bird Island and South Georgia looked rugged and stunning in the early morning light. Everyone disembarking the JCR was quickly ushered into the cargo tender and ferried ashore, where we were met at the jetty by Stacey, Mick, Claudia and Joe, the current winterers, and Andy, who arrived a few weeks before we did. After some hasty introductions we began unloading cargo and that pretty much became the theme for the rest of the day.
For the winterers, who have spent the last six months in the company of just three other people, First Call must be overwhelming. Not only is the island inundated by all the new summer people and visiting BAS dignitaries, but also by about a dozen people from the JCR who have come ashore to help with relief and generally just to have a look round. And there is certainly plenty to look at. The first thing that grabbed my attention was three elephant seals relaxing on the beach. Elephant seals are really big. That may seem like a redundant statement given their name, but you simply cannot begin to appreciate until you see them in the flesh – and that’s a whole lot of flesh – just how gigantic they really are. They are huge, colossal, vast, enormous and any number of additional big sounding adjectives you care to think of. A fully grown male elephant seal can reach five metres in length and weigh up to three tonnes, yet they can move on land with surprising speed, rippling across the beach like, well, there’s nothing that ripples across a beach in quite the same way as a three tonne seal, it’s something you just have to see. As you might expect from such exceptionally large animals, the elephant seals spend most of their time lying around dozing, or floating languorously in the water of the bay. Occasionally one would rear up its head and roar; a booming, low-pitched sound that echoed around the hillsides and could no doubt be heard all the way across to South Georgia. Then two of the seals would make some wild-eyed lunges at each other and crash their blubbery bodies together. These fights never seemed to amount to much, however, and pretty soon they would be dozing once again, often cuddled up together.
As well as the elephant seals, there were several male Antarctic fur seals hauled out on the beach. The males show up early in the summer to establish territories in preparation for the coming breeding season. Their behaviour alternates between gentle snoozing and violent confrontations with neighbouring seals. In amongst the seals were flocks of sheathbills and brown skuas, all brazenly investigating anything that might possibly be edible. At the height of seal breeding season there will be lots for them to eat; the beach is littered with the bones of seals that didn’t quite make it last year. Giant petrels also benefit from the glut of food provided by dead seals, and a few paddled lazily around in the water of the bay on the offchance that they might spot something worth scavanging. Albatrosses swooped by overhead, and on the hillside behind the base hundreds of white dots revealed one of the island’s albatross breeding colonies. In fact there were creatures everywhere you looked, and I kept finding myself simply standing staring at the wildlife, mouth agape, and would have to force myself back to the task in hand – unpacking a year’s supply of tinned pineapple chunks.
This was just what I could see from the jetty within the first five minutes of landing. There is, of course, a whole cornucopia of delights waiting to be discovered on other parts of the island- wandering albatrosses, diving petrels, storm petrels, blue-eyed shags, and penguins, penguins, penguins; tens of thousands of them in all their noisy, smelly, clumsy splendour. But there is plenty of time for all that. Did I mention how long I’m staying for?
The peak in the background is La Roche, the highest point on Bird Island (1200 feet). The base and white satellite dome are just visible on the shore.
The base and jetty. Those specks all over the beach are Antarctic fur seals.
The most unimaginatively named mountain in the world, Snow Peak, on South Georgia, peeping through the mist.
For the winterers, who have spent the last six months in the company of just three other people, First Call must be overwhelming. Not only is the island inundated by all the new summer people and visiting BAS dignitaries, but also by about a dozen people from the JCR who have come ashore to help with relief and generally just to have a look round. And there is certainly plenty to look at. The first thing that grabbed my attention was three elephant seals relaxing on the beach. Elephant seals are really big. That may seem like a redundant statement given their name, but you simply cannot begin to appreciate until you see them in the flesh – and that’s a whole lot of flesh – just how gigantic they really are. They are huge, colossal, vast, enormous and any number of additional big sounding adjectives you care to think of. A fully grown male elephant seal can reach five metres in length and weigh up to three tonnes, yet they can move on land with surprising speed, rippling across the beach like, well, there’s nothing that ripples across a beach in quite the same way as a three tonne seal, it’s something you just have to see. As you might expect from such exceptionally large animals, the elephant seals spend most of their time lying around dozing, or floating languorously in the water of the bay. Occasionally one would rear up its head and roar; a booming, low-pitched sound that echoed around the hillsides and could no doubt be heard all the way across to South Georgia. Then two of the seals would make some wild-eyed lunges at each other and crash their blubbery bodies together. These fights never seemed to amount to much, however, and pretty soon they would be dozing once again, often cuddled up together.
Don't mess with me: an elephant seal shows off its dentition.
A rather more relaxed elephant seal having a bit of a float.
As well as the elephant seals, there were several male Antarctic fur seals hauled out on the beach. The males show up early in the summer to establish territories in preparation for the coming breeding season. Their behaviour alternates between gentle snoozing and violent confrontations with neighbouring seals. In amongst the seals were flocks of sheathbills and brown skuas, all brazenly investigating anything that might possibly be edible. At the height of seal breeding season there will be lots for them to eat; the beach is littered with the bones of seals that didn’t quite make it last year. Giant petrels also benefit from the glut of food provided by dead seals, and a few paddled lazily around in the water of the bay on the offchance that they might spot something worth scavanging. Albatrosses swooped by overhead, and on the hillside behind the base hundreds of white dots revealed one of the island’s albatross breeding colonies. In fact there were creatures everywhere you looked, and I kept finding myself simply standing staring at the wildlife, mouth agape, and would have to force myself back to the task in hand – unpacking a year’s supply of tinned pineapple chunks.
A male Antarctic fur seal stakes his claim.
Sheathbills love to eat seal and penguin poo, a habit which has earned them the unfortunate nickname 'shit-chickens'.
A brown skua waits patiently for something to die.
Skua bath time.
Seal bones lend a touch of the macabre to the beach.
Fur seals sleep wherever they damn well please.
This was just what I could see from the jetty within the first five minutes of landing. There is, of course, a whole cornucopia of delights waiting to be discovered on other parts of the island- wandering albatrosses, diving petrels, storm petrels, blue-eyed shags, and penguins, penguins, penguins; tens of thousands of them in all their noisy, smelly, clumsy splendour. But there is plenty of time for all that. Did I mention how long I’m staying for?
Rugged: the north cliffs of Bird Island.
A pair of southern giant petrels.
It can snow at any time of year on Bird Island, but you still have to stay on your nest.
In the background are Willis and Trinity Islands, in the foreground is Big Mac, the largest penguin colony on Bird Island where an estimated 40,000 pairs of macaroni penguins come to breed.
A suspicious blue-eyed shag.
Some of last year's wandering albatross chicks are still here, and should be fledging soon. They start off a lovely chocolate brown colour and get gradually paler as they age.
A wandering albatross chick, with me for scale.
Another wanderer chick, with some particularly spectacular cloud formations over South Georgia in the background.
Some of my comrades. From left to right: Julia (atmospheric scientist), Paul (technical services) and Ags (base commander).
A macaroni penguin. This one is sitting on an egg, which is why it looks a bit weird.
King penguins do not breed on Bird Island, but a few haul out here to moult, during which time they look exceptionally scruffy.
Gentoo penguins look sleek and sophisticated in their black-and-white outfits...
...though not all the time.
Sunday, 5 December 2010
The journey south - James Clark Ross
The final stage of my journey to Bird Island was aboard the RRS James Clark Ross, a massive research vessel owned and operated by BAS. For passengers such as myself the JCR feels more like a luxury hotel than a working ship; with private ensuite rooms, three course dinners with full table service and the Officer’s and Scientist’s Lounge featuring a fully stocked bar. Rumours that the ladies have to wear cocktail dresses to dinner every night turned out to be unfounded, however.
The JCR was launched by HM The Queen on the 1st December 1990 and is equipped to conduct a wide range of scientific survey work. She can steam at a steady two knots through level sea ice one metre thick (the ship that is, not The Queen). To assist passage through heavy pack ice a compressed air system rolls the ship from side to side freeing the passage. The ship is named after Admiral Sir James Clark Ross (1800-1862) who conducted early explorations of Antarctica and also discovered the magnetic North Pole in 1831. These achievements were enough not only to get a BAS ship named after him but also a sea (The Ross Sea), an island (Ross Island) and an ice shelf (The Ross Ice Shelf).
On Wednesday 27th October the engines were fired up and the ship pulled out of Stanley Harbour and set a course for South Georgia. Not immediately though, first we parked up just outside the harbour to allow the crew to raise and lower the lifeboats a few times. There was also a lifeboat drill for us. The drill begins with the emergency alarm going off, whereupon we have to grab an immersion suit and life jacket from the wardrobe in our cabin and proceed with all due haste to our muster station. For us scientists this happens to be the bar. Not, sadly, so we can soften the prospect of our imminent demise with a few stiff gins & tonic, but simply because it is a nice big room close to the cabins. The captain may then give the order to abandon ship, in which case we must don our immersion suit, which is basically a baggy, bright orange dry suit that covers every part of you except your face. The bits where your hands go are thick neoprene mittens, so once inside the suit all manual dexterity is lost. This makes the next step – donning your life jacket – rather tricky. The life jackets on the JCR are of a design that has changed little since the sinking of the Titanic, consisting of two enormous pieces of foam strapped to your torso with white fabric tapes. The combined effect of the immersion suit and life jacket is to almost completely restrict movement of any part of your body whatsoever, and thus attired you are expected to make your way to the lifeboat – and remember in a real emergency it might be completely dark with the ship pitching and rolling in heavy seas – and climb in through the narrow door. The lifeboat is fully enclosed and can hold 80 people, strapped to narrow wooden benches along the walls and central aisles. Before it is launched you are given a sea-sickness tablet, since even the most hardened sailor can get sick inside an enclosed lifeboat. Once one person is sick this tends to set off a chain reaction and everyone else also starts being sick. At this point, inside an enclosed space that is quickly filling up with sick, you will be wishing they had given you a cyanide tablet instead of a sea-sickness tablet. Finally the lifeboat is launched, or launches automatically if the ship sinks first, and you then drift at sea, sloshing around in the sick, trapped inside your immersion suit and eating a teaspoonful of marmite a day until you are rescued. I sincerely hoped we did not have to abandon ship.
After the lifeboat drill we all went and stood on the monkey island (not as entertaining as it sounds, it’s just the open bit at the top of the ship) and watched as the Falklands receded into the distance. As we headed out to the open ocean Commerson’s dolphins frolicked around the bow of the ship and albatrosses, giant petrels and cape petrels glided through the air around us. There had been much speculation about who would be sick and who wouldn’t, and I was a little intrepid as we set off, having never experienced really violent seas myself. I was kind of looking forward to the challenge as well though, and to being able to say ‘I sailed the Southern Ocean and didn’t throw up at all’ or ‘I sailed the Southern Ocean and puked non-stop for three days until nothing was coming up but stomach lining’. The Southern Ocean is, after all, reputed to be one of the most unpredictable and tempestuous oceans of them all, and after three days on it I can confidently say ‘I sailed the Southern Ocean and it was calm and sunny and the worst thing that happened was I felt a little bit sleepy’.
The RRS James Clark Ross at dock in Stanley.
It's massive! Here's a photo with me in for scale.
The JCR was launched by HM The Queen on the 1st December 1990 and is equipped to conduct a wide range of scientific survey work. She can steam at a steady two knots through level sea ice one metre thick (the ship that is, not The Queen). To assist passage through heavy pack ice a compressed air system rolls the ship from side to side freeing the passage. The ship is named after Admiral Sir James Clark Ross (1800-1862) who conducted early explorations of Antarctica and also discovered the magnetic North Pole in 1831. These achievements were enough not only to get a BAS ship named after him but also a sea (The Ross Sea), an island (Ross Island) and an ice shelf (The Ross Ice Shelf).
The JCR also transports equipment to bases. This is a snow blowing machine headed for Rothera.
Here's a close up of the warning sign on that snow blower.
On a tour of the engine rooms with Duncan, the Chief Engineer.
This is the drive shaft that turns the propeller, with me for scale.
On Wednesday 27th October the engines were fired up and the ship pulled out of Stanley Harbour and set a course for South Georgia. Not immediately though, first we parked up just outside the harbour to allow the crew to raise and lower the lifeboats a few times. There was also a lifeboat drill for us. The drill begins with the emergency alarm going off, whereupon we have to grab an immersion suit and life jacket from the wardrobe in our cabin and proceed with all due haste to our muster station. For us scientists this happens to be the bar. Not, sadly, so we can soften the prospect of our imminent demise with a few stiff gins & tonic, but simply because it is a nice big room close to the cabins. The captain may then give the order to abandon ship, in which case we must don our immersion suit, which is basically a baggy, bright orange dry suit that covers every part of you except your face. The bits where your hands go are thick neoprene mittens, so once inside the suit all manual dexterity is lost. This makes the next step – donning your life jacket – rather tricky. The life jackets on the JCR are of a design that has changed little since the sinking of the Titanic, consisting of two enormous pieces of foam strapped to your torso with white fabric tapes. The combined effect of the immersion suit and life jacket is to almost completely restrict movement of any part of your body whatsoever, and thus attired you are expected to make your way to the lifeboat – and remember in a real emergency it might be completely dark with the ship pitching and rolling in heavy seas – and climb in through the narrow door. The lifeboat is fully enclosed and can hold 80 people, strapped to narrow wooden benches along the walls and central aisles. Before it is launched you are given a sea-sickness tablet, since even the most hardened sailor can get sick inside an enclosed lifeboat. Once one person is sick this tends to set off a chain reaction and everyone else also starts being sick. At this point, inside an enclosed space that is quickly filling up with sick, you will be wishing they had given you a cyanide tablet instead of a sea-sickness tablet. Finally the lifeboat is launched, or launches automatically if the ship sinks first, and you then drift at sea, sloshing around in the sick, trapped inside your immersion suit and eating a teaspoonful of marmite a day until you are rescued. I sincerely hoped we did not have to abandon ship.
The lifeboat / sick factory.
After the lifeboat drill we all went and stood on the monkey island (not as entertaining as it sounds, it’s just the open bit at the top of the ship) and watched as the Falklands receded into the distance. As we headed out to the open ocean Commerson’s dolphins frolicked around the bow of the ship and albatrosses, giant petrels and cape petrels glided through the air around us. There had been much speculation about who would be sick and who wouldn’t, and I was a little intrepid as we set off, having never experienced really violent seas myself. I was kind of looking forward to the challenge as well though, and to being able to say ‘I sailed the Southern Ocean and didn’t throw up at all’ or ‘I sailed the Southern Ocean and puked non-stop for three days until nothing was coming up but stomach lining’. The Southern Ocean is, after all, reputed to be one of the most unpredictable and tempestuous oceans of them all, and after three days on it I can confidently say ‘I sailed the Southern Ocean and it was calm and sunny and the worst thing that happened was I felt a little bit sleepy’.
A cape petrel.
Launching the cargo tender that transfers people and supplies to Bird Island.
Unloading some cargo at Bird Island.
Fuel for the summer months - 120 barrels have to be moved by hand to the fuel store.
Bird Island, home for the next 30 months.
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