Today was meant to mark the beginning of a three-day expedition to some of the most remote islands on Earth. First up: Tristan da Cunha, the world’s most remote inhabited island. The next day would bring us to Nightingale Island, part of the Tristan archipelago and renowned for its rich birdlife. Finally, we were scheduled to visit Gough Island, another member of the group and a UNESCO World Heritage Site—home to more than 10 million seabirds representing over 20 species. Gough also hosts a South African weather and research station, staffed year-round by a rotating crew of five to ten.
But for the past two days, both our Expedition Leader Jamie and the Captain had been tempering expectations. Strong winds and rising swells were in the forecast. Yesterday, they briefly entertained the idea that a narrow 2.5-hour window might allow a quick Zodiac landing on Tristan da Cunha—just enough time for a whirlwind visit before retreating ahead of the weather.
I was hopeful when I woke up—until I stepped out onto my veranda. The swell was significant. Manageable, perhaps, for seasoned seafarers, but risky for cruise passengers relying on inflatable Zodiacs. A few of the expedition team ventured out in a Zodiac to assess conditions on both port and starboard sides. After consulting with the Captain, they made the call: no landing today.
Still, the locals managed to approach our ship in their sturdy RIB (Rigid Inflatable Boat) to drop off a passenger en route to South Africa and exchange supplies. In return, they gave us enough Tristan da Cunha lobster to feed everyone on board—a delicious consolation prize. Afterward, we cruised slowly around the island for wildlife viewing.
Seasonal Wildlife
For days, the expedition team had described the Tristan archipelago as home to the greatest concentration of seabirds in the world. Yet, as we approached, I saw only a handful. Why?
Because seabirds only return to land to nest—and our visit comes at the tail end of the breeding season. Most chicks have fledged, and the adults have already returned to sea. We saw only a few late-season stragglers, like the Atlantic yellow-nosed albatross. Once I understood the timing, I reset my expectations and appreciated the quiet beauty of the place.
Nightingale and Inaccessible Islands
The Captain made it clear the night before that we wouldn’t linger in the Tristan group due to worsening weather. After cruising Tristan, we headed directly to Nightingale Island, then on to Inaccessible.
Nightingale Island is known for its Northern Rockhopper Penguin colony and as a critical breeding site for millions of seabirds. A few small holiday huts, used by Tristan islanders for occasional getaways, dot the greenery. From the ship, the penguins were distant—even with my 600mm lens, they were hard to see. In the photo, you can make out the huts nestled in the vegetation. Just below them, where the guano stains the rocks, tiny white specks mark the chests of the Rockhoppers. The island has a quiet charm, even in the mist.
It took about an hour to reach Inaccessible Island, and by then, the weather had worsened. Rain began to sheet down, and the bridge recorded a gust that registered Force 12 on the Beaufort scale. Most passengers stayed indoors.
As we neared the island, its name made perfect sense. Towering cliffs rise straight from the sea, leaving virtually no place to land. While one or two landing spots exist, they are only usable in ideal weather—which this was not. Inaccessible is home to the Inaccessible Island Rail, the world’s smallest flightless bird, as well as penguins, petrels, shearwaters, and albatrosses. But again, due to the timing, most had already left. I spotted a few albatrosses and shearwaters braving the wind, but the cliffs stood mostly silent—wild, wet, and undisturbed.
Closing Thoughts
In the end, the day didn’t unfold the way we had hoped. There were no landings, no close-up encounters with penguins or seabird colonies in full voice. But sometimes, especially in places as remote and unpredictable as these, the experience lies in the attempt. The misty cliffs, the sound of waves against the hull, the sudden gusts of wind—all of it was a reminder that nature doesn’t perform on cue. Still, watching locals skillfully maneuver their RIB alongside our ship, sharing their lobster and waving us off, was a highlight of its own. The swell may have kept us at a distance, but the day still delivered something rare: a glimpse of life on the edge of the map, and the quiet beauty that remains, even when plans go sideways.
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