It had been 36 grueling hours since we’d entered the storm, and the ship had begun to rock and creak and groan. We swung from starboard to port side, as I lay in my bed drifting between lulls of sleep and moments when I felt as though I was levitating above my mattress. By morning, my espresso machine had found its way to the floor and a heavy table had wedged itself against my bed.
Harrowing episodes like this one are common on the Drake Passage, a notoriously rough body of water between the tip of South America and Antarctica’s South Shetland Islands. Sometimes it’s known as the Drake Lake (when it’s calm) or, in an instance like this when the weather is rather less pleasant, the Drake Shake. For 48 hours straight, our ship, Swan Hellenic’s Minerva, lurched through giant swells and waves that rose 30 feet high. Passengers clung to their drinks and gripped handrails as they staggered down hallways. Some were so seasick they didn’t leave their staterooms. I found refuge in the ship’s sea-facing sauna, where I watched the horizon dip and rise, nauseated at times.
Navigating through the Drake, as explorers have done on ancient vessels for centuries (sans creature comforts and modern technology such as stabilizers, which ships, including Minerva, have today), feels like a rite of passage to Antarctica. Not only does it make the arrival on the white continent so much sweeter—like you’ve actually earned it—but it also prepares you for an environment that can be as hostile and unforgiving as the voyage that gets you there.
Antarctica is so remote and inhospitable that travelers can visit only a few months of the year—in the Southern Hemisphere’s summer, before everything freezes over. Yet interest in this
