54° 30′ S, 158° 57′ E

 

We hadn’t managed to see everything at Sandy Bay this morning. I don’t remember eating lunch (much like breakfast, too excited), but I’m back outside again, waiting to get on the zodiacs and go ashore. The sun is gone, the sky clouded over and mist-grey. The light is beautiful and soft, and it’s like another day entirely. There’s a raft of Giant Petrels bobbing the water as we speed back to the shore. They’re a mix of Northern and Southern, but none of them are our white morph, Galadriel.

This time we head towards the wave platform. Or we try to, anyway. Dave and I are waylaid by King penguins, huddled on the sand asleep, or waddling up to us with curiosity in their deep brown eyes. King penguins were slaughtered in their millions on Macquarie Island, and rendered down for oil until the 1920s. But these penguins have no fear of us now, the horrors of being tossed into digesters lost to the earlier generations. Of all the penguins I have met, Kings have the most melodic call, a gentle, wavering fluting that wafts above the wild braying of the Royals.

There’s the gauntlet of Elephant seals to run before we get to the rocks, with faces I’m not even sure a mother could love. I’m holding my breath as we pass by, and they gape and leer at us. The fresh tang of seaweed cuts through the warm seal stench, as great swathes of bull kelp are heaving and twisting in the tide pools.

 

The patterns that form and break as belts of kelp slide over each other are beautiful in themselves, but to add interest, Royal penguins pop in and out of the thick mess. I’m not sure if they’re having fun being tossed in the swell and twisted in the kelp, but they keep going back for more. Scrambling up on to the rocks looks difficult, and a few unwary squabblers on the waterline are sucked down as the surge catches them.

Suddenly there’s a smaller penguin in their midst – not a Royal. It’s a Southern Rockhopper, looking concerned, and definitely trying to make his way ashore. The heavy kelp is much harder on the little Rockhopper, but once he wriggles through, he’s much more nimble crawling over the top of it and up the steep rocks. That makes three species of penguin in one day!

I’m reluctant to leave the tide-pool drama, but there’s still more going on, and I don’t want to miss anything. Back past the Elephant seals, there’s moulting King penguins looking very fluffy. Some are more inquisitive than others, taking a break from their morose, itchy preening to keep an eye on us.

There’s yet more to see, along the beach in the opposite direction. Around little bays lined with penguins, past hummocks of grass and mud that conceal Elephant seals, past Skuas nestled into the grey gravelly sand, there’s a small colony of King penguins. It only stretches as far as the eye can see – to the next headland. A near-solid mass of grey, white and gold. There’s a few of last season’s babies dotted around, lumps of fluffy brown down and wicked-looking black beaks, with none of the elegance of their parents yet. I’m kneeling in the sand in front of a tide of King penguins. I give up on photography, because how can you capture the sense of a sight like this?

 I don’t really. Giving up photography would be like giving up breathing, but I am breathless for a while. Other expeditioners laugh and comment that I’ve clearly never been to South Georgia (another island on my dream list), because this is nothing.

Nothing?

This is everything.

This is all I want, to sit on a beach and feel minuscule compared to the weight of the wilderness and the mass of countless millions of penguins. To feel my place in the world to be nothing but what it is – another life among billions. To see rabbit-free hills and know that despite everything that we do and have done, saving our wilderness is possible. We can turn around what we’ve inflicted and make right what wrongs we have wrought. To be approached by fearless birds, in their place, their domain. To feel more alive than ever.

If this is nothing, then someone please put me on the next ship to South Georgia.

And then all of a sudden, there she is. Our white-morph, Galadriel. Too far away to photograph adequately, but beautiful regardless. Shining amongst her ragged brown companions, poised to intimidate. They tear apart a penguin carcass floating in the washed beach. Beautiful, and brutal. That’s nature.

Meanwhile, the King penguins are getting a bit up close and personal. Sometimes too close! But I don’t mind in the slightest, they are beautiful in every detail. Grey feathers shine like burnished metal, and their throat and breast is a glowing sunrise. The densely packed feathers give the smoothest gradients, a perfect fade from gold to white.

While graceful when poised, King penguins have a hunched walk that is solid and serious. I imagine them carrying little briefcases, to and from the colony. Maybe I’ll photoshop those in later. Maybe not.

I get the feeling I’m being watched, and the bulbous eyes trained on me are those of young Elephant seals. They’re much easier on the eyes than the adults, though they still smell. And they make weird noises. But piled up like little sausages, they are very cute.

All too soon, we have to leave (What do you mean, it’s been four hours?). I leave the King colony as the sun lances through the clouds. Back past piles of Elephant seals. Back past shabby moulting penguins. I keep stopping, trying to make as much of the last few minutes that I can. All of us photographers are. There’s the wild pull again, the longing to head off into the hills and explore, to be surrounded by wilderness.

We’re kneeling in the surf photographing platoons of penguins waddling down the beach and into the waves. But we have to go, as much as we don’t want to. There’s an ache in leaving, but we’re grinning from ear to ear, scudding on the waves around the rock platform to see the endemic Macquarie Island shags. Rafts of penguins escort us back to the ship, Giant petrels overhead, and Light-mantled albatross are wheeling against the rugged hills. 

Back on board, we’re immediately outside, pausing only to turn our tags and dump what gear we don’t need for photographing. The clouds are heavier but there is silver light on the water, the wind is rising and there are seabirds everywhere. Every last second of light, every opportunity. We missed seeing Orca earlier on, so we keep an eye out for any sign of cetaceans – but there’s nothing but birds. Not that we mind at all. Every moment is worthwhile.

  

Dinner won’t wait though, and we’ve been at it all day. I could keep going forever, but my stomach reminds me that food is a requirement for life (and thus future photographing). And we still have tomorrow morning on Macquarie. There’s always more to see. And I think it’s fair to say I made the most of today. Despite the buzz, I’m asleep the moment I hit my bunk.

 

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