Marking my Territory
After seeing every country in the world, you do two things—at least I do. One, you return to your favorites. Two, you chase the unknown. Recently, that meant Jersey and Guernsey which are island-territories belonging to the UK, Greenland under Denmark, and St. Pierre and Miquelon with France. There are a million more out there, and while I’m not on a mission to see them all this time, I still love heading to places that most people never think about. This time, however, the call was impossible to ignore: Antarctica.
The Journey South
Antarctica is unlike anywhere else on Earth. No country claims it, no government runs it, and yet it exists, silent and indifferent. I needed to be there. I’ve been to all 193 countries, and not stepping foot on all seven continents felt like a failure. I had to fix it.
The problem, of course, was getting there. You have to cross the Drake Passage, the treacherous water between South America and Antarctica. I have a long history of being seasick—just a ride to Catalina Island as a kid could ruin me for days. A two-day crossing across some of the roughest waters in the world sounded like a nightmare. When I heard about the “Fly the Drake” option, I was sold immediately. Two hours in a plane instead of two days in misery, take my money. I booked it sixteen months in advance, dipping into savings for what was arguably the most expensive trip I’ve ever taken, sixteen thousand dollars before even counting the flight to Chile. But there are some things you just do because you must.
I flew Tijuana to Mexico City, then Mexico City to Santiago, where I spent three nights soaking up the city before heading further south to Punta Arenas, Chile, our official launch point. The town was quiet and charming, with Spanish-colonial architecture, a central park, and my personal highlight, a no-frills sandwich shop called Lomito’s that I visited twice before leaving. The next day we had briefings on the trip—safety, logistics, and a warning that the weather could delay us indefinitely. Flights to Antarctica are notoriously unpredictable, and trips occasionally get canceled altogether. When the staff finally announced we were leaving at four in the afternoon, the relief in the room was palpable.
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Come Fly with Me
The flight itself was smoother than expected, and the boxed lunch was surprisingly good for airplane fare. Two hours later, we were down on King George Island, Antarctica, at last. Continent seven. And then the adventure took a turn for the absurd.
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Houston, we Have a Problem
But instead of boarding the ship immediately, we were bused to a base camp made of ten shipping containers – a weather delay. The wind was vicious, the hours stretched on, and eventually, staff passed out sleeping bags and air mattresses. We weren’t going anywhere – at least, not tonight. One hundred people packed like sardines, sleeping on the floor, together, all of us trying to survive the cold, the noise, and the general chaos. Sleeping was nearly impossible. I ended up in the hallway, each creak and footstep inches from my head, a form of cruel torture. The rooms themselves were no refuge. Snoring bounced off the walls, creating a cacophony that made any hope of rest fleeting.
Life on the Inside
Breakfast arrived as a corn-and-beef slop in a plastic container, followed by boxed ravioli for lunch, a minor improvement at best. That afternoon we were told we would be stuck for another night because the wind had made the zodiac ride to the ship too dangerous. We were so close and yet so far, with no real answers, just the frustrating certainty that our plans were slipping away. Dinner, supposedly lasagna, was an unrecognizable mass, and stepping outside to see the landscape was almost impossible without risking frostbite; my warm clothes and toiletries were locked away in checked luggage. Wi-Fi, functional about seventy percent of the time, became the only real comfort.
Extended Stay
Night two brought a slight upgrade to a room, but the sleep was still tortured by a neighbor whose snores resembled the roar of a dragon and a door that let in icy gusts each time it opened. By the third day, even a pumpkin-lentil goop for breakfast couldn’t keep spirits from dropping. The uncertainty was maddening—hours stretched into a blur of waiting, leaving everyone questioning whether we were part of some cruel reality experiment or being watched by hidden cameras for a reality show.
Bustin’ Out!
Finally, late morning, it was time to leave. Boarding the bus, then the zodiac, and finally stepping onto the cruise ship, the relief was overwhelming. After three nights of sardine-style sleeping and inedible meals, entering my suite with a king bed, sitting room, veranda, and marble bathroom felt like entering paradise. The shower, the bed, even brushing my teeth for the first time in days, became acts of sheer joy. Meals, even the simple fresh fruit and cornflakes, felt like luxury after three days of slop.
My So Orney
The cruise was cut in half, four days to two, but I focused on the moments we still had. Day one, Orne Bay, offered my first proper view of Antarctica: snow-covered hills and mountains that were far from flat. The first climb up a snowy slope was brutal but thrilling, and by the time I reached the top, I was stripping layers, nearly sweating in the cold. Antarctica had finally revealed itself, harsh and beautiful, and every miserable moment getting there suddenly felt worth it.
Fire Drill
They had the system down to perfection. When it was time for a land excursion, we made our way to the mudroom on deck three, each of us with our own locker. Boots, giant parka, gloves, goggles—everything we’d need for a few hours in this frozen wonderland went inside. Like gearing up for a ceremony, we layered ourselves in down and straps, zipped and buckled, and then climbed into a zodiac with nine other passengers. And just like that, we were off, skimming across glassy, icy waters toward snow-dusted shores. It was quiet, breathtaking, almost surreal—like stepping into a different world where the air itself made you feel alive.
Penguins and Policies
Ketley Point was our afternoon escape, and it was staggering—snow-crusted cliffs, icy wind biting at your face, and everywhere you looked, penguins. Dozens of them, waddling, sliding, utterly unconcerned by our presence. I wanted to reach out, to touch them, to toss myself into the snow and play, to somehow be part of their world. But that was never going to happen. The rules were strict, merciless even: keep your distance, don’t crouch, don’t sit, and for God’s sake, don’t put a single thing on the ground. I understood why. This place is fragile, and human interference would ruin it in a heartbeat. So I watched. And I followed the rules. And so did everyone else, for the most part, though the longing to break them, just a little, lingered in the air like the cold itself.
The Captain of Her Heart
Suffice it to say, “The Sultan” decided to make a dinner appearance. In case you don’t know, I moonlight as the dictator of a tiny, very real country called Slowjamastan, and if you haven’t gone down that rabbit hole yet, I highly recommend it—it’s worth the trip. Some of the passengers thought I was the coolest thing on the boat; others probably assumed I belonged in a straitjacket. Either way, my full-on diplomatic getup earned me a VIP, behind-the-scenes tour of the bridge—an invite straight from Adrian Medina, el Capitán himself. And yes, it felt exactly as absurdly awesome as it sounds.
Day Two
Our second—and last—full day gave us two more landings: Half Moon Island and Fort Point. On paper, there’s nothing there. Snow. Penguins. Seals. That’s it.
And somehow, it was everything.
I stood in the middle of a nesting area, surrounded by baby penguins—awkward, fragile, absurdly alive in a place that seems designed to kill anything foolish enough to try. No photo, no clever sentence can explain it. This wasn’t sightseeing. It was witnessing.
It was humbling. It was overwhelming. It was magic. And it will stay with me long after the cold fades.
Last Stop
Credit where it’s due: the ship hustled. They clawed back the lost time and gave us one last landing before we packed it in. Edgell Bay.
I hiked up to the summit—lungs burning, camera bouncing—because that’s what you do when the view promises to be worth it. And it was. The bay spread out below, clean and indifferent, the kind of beauty that doesn’t care whether you’re there or not.
It was a good place to end. No speeches. No grand finale. Just one last look, and the sense that the journey knew exactly when to stop.
Every Vacation has its Last Day
Getting out turned out to be mercifully easier than getting in. We waited it out on the ship, killing time, watching the weather, until the plane finally showed. One last zodiac ride. A stop at basecamp. An hour of waiting. Then we lifted off—north over the Drake, back toward civilization, back to Punta Arenas.
Sure, the beginning was brutal. Half the cruise gone to weather. The kind of reminder Antarctica delivers without apology. And sure—by any rational measure, it was a long way to go and an unreasonable amount of money for only two full days on the ground. But it could’ve been worse. We could’ve gotten nothing at all.
What we did get mattered. This wasn’t about quantity—it was about proximity. Standing on land most people will never touch. Being close enough to penguins to hear them, smell them, feel how real and unromantic they are. I’m grateful for that.
Even getting stuck, in hindsight, had its own strange reward. It’s a good story. And not many people get to say they slept on Antarctica.
And then there was the journey around it all—the unexpected richness. Mexico City. Three nights in a generous, beautiful Santiago. Punta Arenas, a bonus I didn’t know I needed. In the end, it all counted.
