The 7th Continent
Updated: Aug 24
From the upper deck of Hebridean Sky, the winds are gusting from all directions. The ship drifts along the Beagle Channel, a strait in Tierra del Fuego Archipelago on the extreme southern tip of South America, sandwiched between Chile and Argentina. The temperature reads 46°F, far warmer than where we’d just been, but it is chillier than expected. With a firm grasp on anything within reach, we try to keep balance as we tilt our heads back, eyes up to the star-studded night sky. I’d been gazing with awe at the constellations’ celestial formations, and hope to see the International Space Station move across the sky once again, just as I had on a clear night earlier in the week. It’s rounding about midnight, and with just one more day to call this ship home, I can’t help but reflect on the beauty of the last fifteen days. Mourning a loss in a sense because I know the end is near, I’m at a crossroads with time. To think I’d once thought two weeks was too long, in this moment, I am certain it wasn’t long enough. I wonder if this voyage will forever be the pinnacle of my travels; the one by which all my future journeys will be measured against. Something in me has changed; I am different today than I was before I came here. None the wiser to her mysticism, all I can conclude at this point is that I have laid my heart down and surrendered myself to the immortal beauty of Antarctica. She holds a part of me, and with me, I hold a piece of her.
Admittedly, I had been naïve. In all the years of my life that I have pondered the places my innate wanderlust would take me, Antarctica