We had a lot of downtime on our Antarctica trip: between four days crossing the Drake (two in each direction) plus all the time in transit between adventures, there was lots of opportunity to chat with fellow passengers. And a frequent topic of conversation was: what brings you to Antarctica? It’s not exactly a hop, skip and jump from anywhere: everyone on the ship had gone literally to the end of the world to be here. You don’t generally do that for no reason.

Quite a few of our fellow passengers were joining the coveted Seven Continents Club. (Hope that’s me someday, but I’ve still got three to go.) Others were there to cross the Southern Circle or to step foot on mainland Antarctica. When asked “why Antarctica?” by fellow travelers, I’d usually demur: “because it’s there.” (Quoting George Mallory on climbing Everest.) But that actually wasn’t the truth. Yes, I wanted to come to Antarctica because its very existence was drawing me there. But there was something in particular I was looking for.

On the Antarctic Peninsula, along the route frequented by tour operators, is a bay called Wilhelmina Bay. On the surface, it looks much like any other bay along the craggy Antarctic coastline. Towering black mountains, blue ice glaciers, a heavy marine layer and occasional bursts of blowing snow from the katabatic winds. But under the surface, there’s a confluence of krill in such numbers as to draw, at any time, dozens and dozens of whales – so much so, that the bay has earned the nickname “Whale-mina Bay.” When I started researching a possible Antarctic voyage, all the way back in 2018, Wilhelmina Bay jumped off the (web)page at me. It became the fulcrum around which all of my Antarctic dreams swung: the idea of kayaking in this remote wilderness and seeing a whale.

I wasn’t picky – I’d take any type of whale and any behavior. And while I’d love a close-up visitation, just to be there and to share space with one of these giants – that’s all I asked.

For days before, knowing we were headed for Wilhelmina Bay (our kayak guide, Jess, celebrated a birthday on our trip and used her birthday wish on my dream), I was a mess. What if we didn’t make it there? What if we couldn’t kayak? Worst – what if we didn’t see a whale? Steve told me to get a grip and try to just look forward to it without turning it into a fountain of anxiety. But I couldn’t. It was a dream that had been living in the very center of my heart for years, and on the eve of it finally coming true, I was afraid I’d come all this way, and get so close, only to miss it.

We did see a big mammal right off the bat, but it wasn’t a whale – it was a massive leopard seal, hauled out on the sea ice.

This was Steve’s absolute favorite moment of the trip. (Being taller, he had a better view than I did of the leopard seal, and a better sense of its scale. But I could see it fine – and it was gigantic. Pictures do it no justice; its head was the size of a male lion.)

We bobbed around watching the seal for awhile, but then YT’s radio fizzed to life. There was a whale in the vicinity.

Dreams. Do. Come. True.

I’d thought that if I did see a whale from my kayak, I’d be in floods of tears. But I was just at peace – just being there with this majestic animal.

I still can’t believe this afternoon was real and that it really happened to me.

Reluctantly, we tore ourselves away from the whale (actually, it left us after a few of our fellow kayakers decided to try to get closer than the whale wanted) and headed slowly back to the ship. We changed into cozy clothes and climbed up to the observation dock, not wanting to miss a moment as we cruised out of Wilhelmina Bay. And as we slowly motored out to sea, whales began surfacing all around our ship – so many that we couldn’t tell which direction to look; there were whales to port, whales to starboard, whales surfacing off the stern, whales diving off the bow: we counted more than forty. We had to scrape our jaws off the deck before heading inside.

What a gift this place was. Thank you, Antarctica.

Next week: we paddle the sparkling waters of Cierva Cove.