Two-degree waters sound positively balmy when you’re in Antarctica. Until you’re immersed in them, that is.
Five days into a Chimu Adventures cruise to the Antarctic Peninsula, the time has arrived for our long-awaited polar plunge. I’ve been anticipating this moment with a mix of excitement and trepidation. I’m excited because it’s an experience that will be cool to share to anyone who’ll listen. And I’m anxious because it might freeze my baby beans.
After two rocky days at sea, forging across the notoriously fickle Drake Passage, our first landfall was a welcome sight. Soaring to an altitude exceeding 2000 metres, Smith Island – part of the South Shetland group – should be easy to spot. But in 30 years of sailing to the frozen continent, our ship’s geologist David McDonald confessed that he’d only ever seen it twice.
“It’s mostly obscured by clouds,” he said.
For the next few days, we bobbed about inside languid coves and bays populated by moulting penguins and blubbery seals. The conversation over meals was about how many whales we saw or whether we bought postcards to send home from the world’s southernmost post office. But it was also about this moment, and who planned on braving it.
Of our ship’s 200 passengers, roughly a third are huddled together in an assortment of swimming costumes on the lower deck, where songs from rapper Vanilla Ice (Ice Ice Baby) and the movie Frozen are blaring from a Bluetooth speaker. There’s a group of women dressed in pink tutus and one proud extrovert is bundled up inside a pair of test-patterned budgie smugglers. A crew member strips down to her lacy black underwear then skips straight to the front, bypassing the queue so she can return to work.
“Is anyone doing it naked?” someone asks.
A pause, before someone answers. “Not these days. Not with social media.”
There are dives, jumps, pin drops and bombs, with each effort scored by crew members. An attempted backflip fails miserably, resembling a breaching whale slapping against the water’s surface. Some gently lower themselves into the water to keep their hair dry. They’re quicker getting out, popping up onto the platform like penguins desperately escaping the jaws of a leopard seal.
When a panic-stricken Kiwi girl surfaces for air, she waves an arm frantically above her head, her voice muted by the cold water. “Bikini top?” she eventually spits out.
“Yeah, still there.”
“Thank God,” she says.
Eventually, it’s my turn to jump and I strip off my jacket and beanie while shifting from one foot to the other in an effort to keep warm. I’m handed a fortifying shot of whisky to help. Though I’m no fan of whisky, now’s not the time to quibble.
From the platform, I perform my best swan dive into the water then roll over onto my back, using most of the 20-metre rope length tied to my harness in case I need rescuing. Then the cold starts to hit.
I swim back slowly at first, then with increased urgency. By the time I make it back to the platform, my toes and fingers are hurting like hell.
One crew member hauls me up. Another shoves a shot of vodka into my hand. I can barely hold on to it.
“Drink it,” he says. “It will help.”
After gulping it down, I feel like letting out an almighty roar.
“Ready to go again?” he asks.
“Not a chance.”
The writer travelled courtesy of Chimu Adventures.
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