Tucked deep in the Southern Ocean, South Georgia Island is a place few people ever see—and even fewer under perfect conditions. As our expedition neared the end of the austral summer, the chance to land at St. Andrew’s Bay seemed slim. But nature had other plans. What followed was a morning so luminous and fleeting, it felt like a personal gift from the penguins themselves.
St. Andrew’s Bay is home to one of the largest King Penguin colonies on the planet. Last night, the weather forecast was nebulous—no clear indication whether conditions would allow a landing. But when I awoke this morning and saw the mountains illuminated by the rising sun, with relatively calm seas below, I had a good feeling. Sure enough, within half an hour of anchoring, our expedition leader gave us the go-ahead to prepare for boarding Zodiacs.
My group was first out. As we neared the shore, a small jetty came into view, crowded with penguins. Most were standing, some swimming. Behind them, the South Georgian range towered above in jagged majesty. But when I turned and looked out toward the open sea, I saw a thick fog bank stretched across the horizon. It was surreal—dense fog ahead, yet sunlight and clear skies where we stood. As if South Georgia had opened a sunlit window just for us.
The landing went smoothly. After dropping my life vest in the barrel, I noticed two penguins facing one another, clearly engaged. I imagined one saying to the other, “The red coats have landed!” And so we had—Zodiac after Zodiac, depositing dozens of adventure travelers, all eager to commune with a million penguins.
Penguins are always in motion—streaming to and from the sea to feed. Others cluster in small groups, mostly minding their own business, though now and then one delivers a slap, a quick peck, or a chest bump. But I never saw them truly fight.
Most gather in a vast colony, juveniles—those brown, fuzzy “potato balls”—intermixed with sleek, tuxedoed adults. At first, the sounds seem constant and chaotic. But after a while, patterns emerge. I began to distinguish the shrill chirps of the young from the deeper calls of adults. Sometimes, the colony quiets a little, and the juveniles carry the soundscape alone. It’s that ebb and flow—the layered harmony of a million voices—that allows one call to rise above the rest. Somehow, parents and chicks find each other. (All the dots in the images are King penguins.)
After two glorious hours observing the penguins from ground level and from a hilltop perch, it was time for my group to return, making way for the second half of our fellow travelers. Reluctantly, I retrieved a life vest and boarded the next Zodiac.
Back on the Silver Wind, I lingered on deck, still mesmerized by the mountain backdrop. The beach below was a flurry of black-and-white dots—penguins by the hundreds of thousands, maybe a million. The weather continued to hold. The second group would be lucky too. Even through lunch and the Captain’s call to raise anchor, the sun stayed with us.
And then, just as we began to sail away, the mountains, the penguins, the bay itself—all of it slowly disappeared into the mist as if it were Brigadoon. But it was a farewell, not a loss. As if the land knew its season was over, and we had been its final guests until spring once more warms its shore. (Image on left was taken at lunch time; right image taken on sail away,.)
The morning was indeed a gift—wrapped in time.
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