Antarctica Sailing Expedition: Ice, Wildlife & the Spirit of Exploration

There are some places that leave a mark on you—and Antarctica is one of them. It’s not just the scale of the ice, or the wildlife, or even the isolation. It’s the way all of those things come together to create something that feels… rare. Like you're seeing a part of the planet few ever do, and in a way that’s somehow quieter, slower, and more meaningful than you expected.

We hosted our first  Antarctica: Private Sailing Expedition Photo Workshop aboard the SY Ocean Tramp this past January, and I’m still catching myself flipping through images and thinking, Did we really just experience that?

Every trip to Antarctica is different. This one is especially personal. With just six photographers on board, plus our crew and myself, it was a special experience. 

Skipping the Drake—and Getting Right to It

This trip starts in Punta Arenas, Chile, where we all gathered before flying down to King George Island in the South Shetlands. The charter flight across the Drake Passage is something we’re always grateful for. It saves several days of open ocean sailing and a rough ride—so instead of bracing against 30-foot swells, we were on the ground in Antarctica in just a couple of hours.

Once we landed, we loaded our gear into Zodiacs and shuttled out to Ocean Tramp, already anchored in Admiralty Bay. That’s when it started to feel real—ice in the distance, penguins nearby, and our little sailboat bobbing in the bay, waiting to carry us into the wild.

The Beauty of Traveling Light

One of the most meaningful aspects of this trip was the size of our group. Six photographers, no cruise directors, no headsets or color-coded lanyards. Just a handful of people with cameras and a shared love of photography and exceptional places.

That intimacy allowed us to be flexible. If the weather opened up, we went out. If wildlife appeared out of nowhere, we didn’t have to rush back to a schedule. We could stay. That kind of freedom is rare in Antarctica—most travelers see the continent on large ships where landings are brief and carefully timed.

We weren’t trying to conquer the map. We just followed the weather, the light, and what felt right each day.

First Stops: Big Ice and Subtle Moments

After a overnight in the Shetlands, we crossed the Bransfield Strait—an 8- to 10-hour sail—to reach the Antarctic Peninsula. It’s a stretch of ocean that can turn rough quickly, but we tried to time our crossing with the best weather window. We were anxious to get the trip started.

Our first stop near the peninsula was Charlotte Bay, a place that immediately reminded us how different Antarctica is from anywhere else. Massive icebergs drifted silently around us—some the size of city blocks, with streaks of deep blue and cracks that looked like sculpture. It’s hard to describe the silence here. It's not the absence of sound, exactly. It’s more like the world has turned the volume way down.

We cruised through the ice, spotting Weddell seals stretched out on floes, and watched a pair of humpback whales move through the bay, surfacing now and then with long, deep breaths. A handful of blue-eyed shags flew overhead—birds that look a lot like cormorants, except with striking turquoise rings around their eyes that catch the light in such a beautiful way.

Penguins, Whales, and a Bit of Humor

Over the next few days, we explored a handful of iconic spots along the peninsula—Cuverville Island, Wilhelmina Bay, and Danco Island—each with its own rhythm and mood. Cuverville is home to a massive gentoo penguin colony, and while the chicks hadn’t hatched yet, we spotted plenty of nesting adults carefully guarding their eggs. There was a quiet anticipation in the air—like the early notes of a much bigger story that would unfold in the weeks ahead.

Nature still found ways to entertain us. At one point, we watched a tern relentlessly dive-bomb a confused gentoo who had clearly wandered too close to a nest. It was a reminder that even here, in this vast frozen wilderness, territory disputes are very much alive and well.

Wilhelmina Bay—or “Whale-mina,” as it’s sometimes affectionately called—lived up to its reputation. We saw several humpback whales surfacing and feeding just a few dozen yards from our yacht. Drifting quietly on the water, watching these gentle giants exhale plumes of mist into the cold air—it was the kind of moment that slows everything down and makes you feel small in the best possible way.

A Morning in Paradise

One of the most memorable overnights was in Paradise Bay. The name sounds dramatic, but it fits. We anchored next to a glacier, and in the early morning hours, the conditions were absolutely still—no wind, flat water, soft pastels in the sky. We stepped out on deck with coffee in hand and just listened. The occasional phffff of a whale’s breath, the distant rumble of ice calving… It felt like the world was holding its breath.

We photographed the glacier and mountains from every angle and lingered long into the morning. No rush. Just letting the light change and enjoying that rare calm.

Hidden Bay and an Unexpected Show

A few days later, we pushed into Hidden Bay around 3:30 a.m. chasing the possibility of a soft sunrise. It was overcast at first, and we weren’t sure if we’d get much—but we stuck around. That’s something we’ve learned in Antarctica: conditions change quickly, and patience often pays off.

By midday, the clouds began to lift. A low fog clung to the peaks, then cleared, revealing brilliant blue skies. The ice was glowing, the water was calm, and the light was sharp. We cruised through the bay and had a close encounter with a leopard seal and a crabeater seal. We captured amazing images of wildlife, plus the stillness of floating ice with an amphitheater of glaciers and mountains surrounding. This was hands down my favorite day of the trip.  

Weather, Whales, and Penguin Chicks

Antarctica’s weather is famously fickle. We had our share of bluebird days, and we had times when we hunkered down in bays, riding out wind and low visibility. But even those days had their charm—editing photos below deck, sharing stories over dinner, and watching for breaks in the clouds.

We continued down through the Lemaire Channel, a narrow passage of towering cliffs and scattered icebergs. In good light, it's almost surreal. Every turn looks like a painting. That afternoon, we were lucky—clear skies, golden light, and reflections you only get once or twice a season.

Later, we visited Port Lockroy, home to a working post office and a thriving gentoo colony. Some of the chicks here were just days old, still tucked under their parents. We took our time—no rush, no distractions—and got some beautiful, quiet portraits of life in the colony.

Deception Island and the Long Loop Home

As our trip wound down, we made a stop at Deception Island, an active volcanic caldera with geothermal-heated beaches and rusting remains of an old whaling station. The winds howled, but we made it ashore. We hiked up to a ridge and watched the sun break through the clouds, casting golden light across the crater.

Back in the South Shetlands, we visited Half Moon Island and Yankee Harbor—both rich with penguins and seabirds. Yankee Harbor was especially lively, with elephant seals hauled out near shore and gentoo chicks running between nesting sites.

When the weather finally gave us the green light, we crossed back to King George Island, flew out on time, and landed in Punta Arenas just as another front moved in behind us.

Final Thoughts

It’s hard to put a trip like this into words. The photos help—but even they only capture pieces of it. Antarctica is about mood as much as it is about scenery. It’s the light, the silence, the movement of wildlife through an unforgiving landscape. It’s the camaraderie that forms when you share a small boat in a big place. It’s feeling tiny, in the best way.

Traveling by small boat gives you time and space that big cruise ships can’t. And while we trade a bit of luxury for access and intimacy, I think most of us would do it the same way again in a heartbeat.

We’re already planning future trips for 2025 and 2026, and working on 2027 dates. If the idea of photographing Antarctica from a small vessel, with time to explore and breathe, speaks to you—well, we’d love to have you on board.

📸 Check out upcoming dates here, and let us know if you have questions about the trip, the experience, or the logistics. We’re happy to help.