The most disorienting part about being back on land is – if you know, you know – dock rock. Yeah, the people, the bustle, the sidewalks and cars and shops and greenery and smell of the earth, but those are all familiar friends that you knowingly left behind, and knew you would see again. The crush of the bar, and the beer and pisco sours, and the dogs playing in the park and the street. Glorious reunion with remembered and looked-forward-to sensations.

No, it’s in the quiet of the night when you finally drop into your (non-moving, terrestrial) bed, and have to put an arm out to stop the swaying. It’s when you have to hold onto the handrail in the shower stall to keep your balance because, with no outside reference, it’s impossible to shake the visceral illusion that it’s rolling ten to fifteen degrees each way.

It passes after a day or so, but it gets me every time: the disorientation, the sense of vertigo when your brain is insistently telling you one thing, and the rest of your body, the rest of the world is telling you something entirely different.

But to wrap up: yes, we made it. There was (and remains) a bit of a logistical poop show about getting the ship to the actual pier it’s supposed to end up at. Due to a traffic jam at Prat Muelle, we got shunted off to a secondary pier three miles north of town. It took a couple more hours for word to percolate for the customs folks to come find us there. And during which time the plan came down that we would only be at that mooring until six in the morning, after which the ship would have to wait offshore at anchor until nine or so this evening, after which it could finally come in to the pier where all its supplies and support equipment has been waiting.

I took the opportunity to message my shoreside accommodations and see if they could take me a day early. Yes? I stuffed everything in my duffel and bolted shoreside as soon as permission was granted.

But backing up: the Strait passage. Glorious as I remembered it: a maze of unearthly, forbidding islands rising from the mirror-still water. Magellanic penguins, fur seals and a couple of whales (pilot whales? false orcas?). A chorus of jagged mountains and unbroken glaciers waiting in the second row. Mile after mile and hour after hour until the repetition became almost tedious. We sallied out to the bridge deck to wave at a passing cargo ship. No one was visible on their deck to answer our waves.

The scenery grew more gentle after Cape Froward, the southernmost contiguous point on the continent. Settlements came into view along the coast. More ships, more towns, until they merged and blended into a compact city where a mass of ships clustered just offshore.

That mass of ships, the Pratt Pier, was our destination but, as I’ve already explained, it was also our problem. The RSS Attenborough, Ukranian icebreaker Noosfera, massive Chinese Xue Long 2, R/V Roger Revelle and another ship or two were jockeying for space at the pier, each being held up from departure by some or another logistical snafu.

So, as I explained, we got shunted.

Others made it ashore in dribs and drabs. It was clear that plans for any sort of organized dinner was right out. Lily and Genevieve got held up by customs trying to get their samples off the boat, had to give up and come ashore without them – it was after 10:00 p.m. that we managed to regroup. Some folks had been doing fancy drinks at Cabo earlier, but they were gone by the time we made it down to the square. Pub Colonial? That’s where everyone had to be.

Bucket brigade of freshies while we wait to clear Customs

And they were. I hadn’t even made it to the front door before I’d gotten swept into three different “Pablo – what the heck are you doing in town? Are you sailing south?” conversations from past shipmates. Half our ship, the incoming Sikuliaq gang and Noosfera scientists mixed about 50-50 with the local crowd to positively choke the place. Too many conversations happening all at once. Too many new faces, too many old friends. I never actually made it as far as the bar itself. Questions about what I’m doing, how the transit was, how Sikuliaq rides in open ocean (“How are your meds?”). Tons of kids heading off for their first sea time (“It’s going to be amazing. How are your meds?”)

It was a strange sensation to step outside of myself and look back. There I was, at the eye of one of half a dozen swirling whirlpools of veteran and brand-new Antarcticans-to-be. The old salts slapping my back, giving me hugs, telling me it was good to see me again, asking about the ride. The new kids wide-eyed with questions. If you didn’t know better, you’d think that I  was one of the old salts, a grizzled veteran of the sea who actually knew a thing or two about…wait. I’ll push back on the “grizzled” bit, but as intermittently as I’ve been going south, I’ve been doing this for over a decade. I guess I have seen a thing or two. I do have some stories to tell, and some hard-earned advice to give.

It was a strange sensation to see myself in this light. Y’all know I have a lifelong Walter Mitty complex. Not the Ben Stiller movie, which I freakin’ adore for obvious reasons, but the original James Thurber story, where Mitty keeps imagining himself as a daring pilot, a skilled surgeon, or whatever, only to be rudely awakened to his humdrum real life.

Except that when I get jostled back to reality, I discover that I have somehow actually managed to do many of those things that my errant imagination has dreamed up. (Kind of like in the Ben Stiller movie, which may explain why I love it: ordinary guy finds himself leaning further and further out of his comfort zone until…)

Still, it’s unnerving. Disorienting. I want to put a hand out for one of the pillars to keep my balance.

But the new kids have a question about the Drake, and Bird is deferring to me. They’ve heard the stories, and they’re nervous. For most, it’s their first time at sea. I can’t be flippant – they’re depending on me, the ostensible old salt, for assurance.

“It’s going to be amazing. Indescribably amazing – you’re going to be at a loss for words to tell your friends back home. You’re going to have a hard time not thinking about it, talking about it afterwards. You might end up being a lifer…” I look over at TR and Julian at the center of another vortex. Bird and Darren and Meghan. Yeah.

“But the crossing? What about the crossing?” Yeah. What can I tell them?

“It can get rough. How are your meds?”