Beyond the Ice: My first expedition to the Antarctic Peninsula

Billy Heaney recently travelled with ExplorEarth on his first trip to Antarctica. He had an extraordinary and life-affirming experience - spotting penguins, whales, seabirds and experiencing the famous Drake Passage -  which he is excited to share with ExplorEarth members in this exclusive four-part day-by-day diary. 

How did my first expedition to the Antarctic begin? In the pitch dark of a Premier Inn at Heathrow Airport, showering by phone torchlight at 4 am. That’s how. It wasn’t until much later that I learned why my flight to Paris had been cancelled: a nearby tube station had caught fire, shutting down the entire airport. But hey, you didn’t come here in search of post-apocalyptic movie settings (it’s honestly what it felt like; it was weird). You came here for adventure and a substantial number of penguins. 

Let’s skip ahead a day and a half. It’s around 11 am local time in Argentina, and the Andes are rising in the distance—snowcapped, jagged, and utterly magnificent. Welcome to the end of the World.

Birding began the moment my boots hit the tarmac — upland goose, tick! I wasn’t hanging around; it was time to find some beasties. I think that’s what excites me most about travelling, spotting wildlife that I’ve never seen before. I was on about 10 new species of bird before I reached the town centre. Winning. 

Ushuaia, the World’s most southerly city, was buzzing under moody skies, with other fellow excited Antarctic adventurers lugging their rucksacks to drop-off locations. Even the city pylons had a lot going on — Chimango caracaras were loitering like naughty teenagers, keeping a wary eye on the local street cats.

After offloading my ridiculously heavy bag (note to self: get one with wheels next time), I wandered along the waterfront to stretch my legs and rack up a few more birds. Kelp geese — endearingly dinky. Dolphin gulls – noisy! Giant petrels? Absolute units. Imagine the love child of a vulture and a grumpy-looking seagull. I love them. After a short lunchtime break sampling some of the local delicacies, it was time to board my floating home for the next 11 nights. Hello Plancius.

The crew welcomed us with warmth and enthusiasm, easing us into our new life at sea with safety briefings and lifeboat drills. The captain’s welcome speech, on the other hand, was sobering — a reminder that the ocean doesn’t play by anyone’s rules. The Drake Passage was looking, how should I put it, gnarly. I quote “Big storm. Not good. We may not leave port till tomorrow”. Insert an expletive of your choosing here. 

We remained docked for the majority of the first evening, the wind howling through the Beagle Channel. But spirits remained high — especially after spotting my first black-browed albatross gliding by during dinner. A sei whale even bid us farewell as we eventually slipped away from the dock. Not bad for day one.

Today, we played a slow-motion game of hide and seek with the weather. I remember overhearing some of the other guests talking about the conditions over breakfast: “Well, it doesn’t seem that rough out here, does it?”.

They hadn’t realised that we were still tucked in the sheltered waters of the Beagle Channel whilst the Drake Passage was roaring just out of reach. Calm down, Gabrielle. This bit of a motion was nothing compared to what we were heading into, but more on that shortly. 

The morning was filled with briefings and biosecurity checks — all part of keeping the Antarctic pristine and penguin-friendly.

After lunch, the birding ramped up. Black-browed albatrosses appeared gliding effortlessly over the small white-capped waves, and then — floating into view with that unmistakable tuxedo swagger — our first penguins! These were Magellanic, and these plump-looking birds were named after the explorer Ferdinand Magellan, whose crew first spotted them in 1520.

The real showstopper, however? A brief but heart-thumping sighting of four Type A orcas slicing through the water. I’ve been quite lucky in recent years, encountering orcas off the coast of Iceland, Norway and Scotland. But I’ve never seen an orca as big as the male that was in this pod. At around 9.5 metres long, Type A orca are the largest orca eco-type in the world and are proper chunky monkeys. Those of us who were lucky enough to be out on the deck at the time had 3 to 4 views of this small pod as they surfaced for a few breaths before they stepped on the accelerator and disappeared into the waves. 

Soon after, we had yet more cetacean encounters, a small group of Peale’s dolphins cruised past the port side, a pair of sei whales surfaced on the bow as we reached the mouth of the Beagle Channel, and then, as we gently nudged into the Drake later that afternoon, three dusky dolphins danced alongside us—playful escorts, like aquatic cheerleaders. It was as if they were saying, “Wait, you’re heading out there? Good luck!”

They don't call it the Drake Shake for nothing.

Today felt like being inside a washing machine set to "Davey Jones Locker." Waves clocked in at an average of 10 metres, winds howled at 50mph, chairs fell, boiled eggs ran across the floor, and Plancius leaned dramatically — 42 degrees at one point (this was the moment I half fell out of my bed) as we battered through a spell of 13-14 metre waves. It's safe to say that more than one passenger turned a shade of green like Shrek. 

Between naps, seasickness meds, and a steady stream of ginger tea, I managed to catch a moment of pure magic: my first-ever wandering albatross. With an astonishing wingspan of up to 3.5 metres, it soared above the bow—silent, majestic, unbothered by the chaos below. It vanished into the spray as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving me wide-eyed, awestruck… and reaching for another ginger biscuit.

Dinner was a cabin-bound affair after lunch descended into chaos. The Drake had made its point, and thankfully, I'd kept my breakfast and lunch down.

What a difference a day makes. By morning, the waves had eased, stomachs had settled, and the horizon looked less like a mountain range and more like a promise.

I spent the day scanning the sea from the upper deck, with lectures from the expedition team filling the quieter moments. Light-mantled sooty albatrosses put on a show, doing laps around the Plancius; Cape petrels dotted the sky like confetti, whilst several grey-headed albatross sped past the boat like feathered Ferraris. These open ocean feeders hold the record as the fastest bird in level flight and can reach speeds of up to 127 km per hour. 

There were no cetaceans for me today, though two southern bottlenose whales were glimpsed by the crew working on the bridge whilst the guests (me included) were busy filling their stomachs back up at lunchtime.

I woke to the first whispers of Antarctica—tiny icebergs drifting silently past my porthole as we slipped through the misty waters of Boyd Sound, edging closer to Trinity Island. Before my first cup of tea even warmed my hands, distant humpback whales reminded us we were in serious cetacean country.

By 9:30 am, I was bouncing across the icy water in a zodiac, headed for Mikkelsen Harbour. Grinning from ear to ear, I could barely contain my excitement. I was now only moments away from setting foot on Antarctic snow for the first time. Gentoo penguins waddled and scuttled through the drifts, while pale-faced sheathbills (the only Antarctic bird without webbed feet) tiptoed inquisitively around our boots. Scattered among the snow lay massive, ghostly whale bones. Silent relics of a much darker chapter in this region’s history.

Back onboard for lunch with more humpback whales popping up around the Plancius. Then, came the showstopper: a zodiac cruise around Cierva Cove in the afternoon sun. The clouds pulled back like theatre curtains, revealing a world of dazzling light and sculpted ice.

Meandering through blue-hued bergs, we arrived at Penguin Island (I’ll give you one guess why), where chinstrap penguins screamed into the wind, joined by lurking skuas, Antarctic shags, and even more gentoos.

Then, there was wildlife chaos. A massive, 4-metre-long female leopard seal surfaced right beside our zodiac, a limp, freshly killed chinstrap penguin clenched in her jaws. I’ve dreamed of seeing a leopard seal since I was about five years old—and here she was, just metres away, playing with her prey like a waterborne cat toying with a mouse. The power and proximity were heart-thumping. Brutal and unforgettable. What a welcome to the Antarctic.

A slightly earlier wakeup call of 06:45 for us to get out on deck before breakfast and marvel at the view as we cruised through the postcard-worthy LeMaire Channel – the gateway to the southern end of the Antarctic Peninsula. Sheer 1,000-metre peaks rose dramatically on either side of Plancius, while humpback whales surfaced gently in the stillness, logging in the calm water. As far as coffee moments go, this one may never be topped.

Later that morning, we boarded the zodiacs for a cruise around Pléneau Island and into Salpetriere Bay. What unfolded next felt like something straight out of Frozen Planet. Hundreds of gentoo penguins and multiple humpback whales were feeding together in a flurry of splashes, flukes, and flippers. Penguins porpoised joyfully through the water or launched themselves onto drifting icebergs, while the whales’ exhales sent up great fish-scented plumes that hung in the cold air. Absolute marine mayhem.

We weaved through a sculptural maze of icebergs before encountering a leopard seal hauled out on the ice, snoozing peacefully as soft snowflakes fell around him. We watched, hushed and awestruck, for ten perfect minutes before leaving him in peace. There’s something profoundly humbling about sharing the landscape with an apex predator. As we returned to the Plancius, two of the scientists accompanying us on the expedition darted the seal to take a blubber biopsy for their marine pollution study. A nerdy highlight of the entire trip was having the opportunity to smell the dart once they arrived back onboard – I just sniffed it rather too enthusiastically.

The afternoon brought a slightly windier sea state, more scattered humpbacks, a lone minke, and southern fulmars! A flash of an Antarctic petrel and our first proper tabular icebergs — like floating white cathedrals. The orca alert went out across the tannoy, but they vanished before we got a visual. What a tease.

Somewhere in the early hours, Plancius crossed south of the Antarctic Circle. That first cup of tea hit differently.  Warmer, more fulfilling, like a quiet toast to a childhood dream now unfolding in real time. 

By 8:30 am, we were ashore on Detaille Island. The landing was steep and slick—an icy scramble straight into a frozen postcard. We were met by a cliffside welcoming committee of Adélie penguins, their heads bobbing and flippers flapping. Nearby, ice-strewn bays were cluttered with seals: at least ten crabeaters, a lone Weddell, and a grumpy-looking Antarctic fur seal. 

The real marvel of the island, though, was Base W: a hut once used by the Falkland Islands Dependencies Survey (now the British Antarctic Survey), operational between 1956 and 1959. When encroaching sea ice forced a rushed evacuation—on foot, 25 miles across the ice—the team left almost everything behind. Rusted tins of food, HP sauce, old skis, dusty radios, yellowed newspapers. It’s a spellbinding time capsule.

Back in the zodiac, we looped the island. Two humpbacks offered a close fluke-wave goodbye, while Adélies comically posed on the shoreline. With that white eyeliner and pristine-looking tuxedos, Adelies are hands down the most dapper-looking of the Antarctic penguins. Back on the Plancius, the afternoon was spent cruising through the Crystal Sound — huge icebergs, calm waters, and yes, you guessed it, more humpbacks. No orca. Yet.