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Dolphin, whale. . . and shipwreck
Port Stanley - world capital of shipwrecks
The ruggedness and remoteness (if anything on this planet can be considered remote anymore), and the violence of its winds and its history make the Falklands exciting and unforgettable. A place reminiscent of the Scottish wilds and of Viking legend.
But it is the surrounding seas that contain the sharpest memories of the 700 islands and stark rocks that stand alone in a tight cluster in the Southern Ocean..
As I look now at the large map covering my study wall, I see recorded the images - and the unspoken dramas -of ships wrecked and lost there since the 1850s. There are hundreds of them: barques and battleships (the giant Scharnhorst among them); brigs and sealers; colliers and drifters; clipper ships, schooners, men-o-war. . . The wrecks - let alone the souls aboard them - outnumber the entire population of the great island of West Falkland!
The souls lost on all those ships probably outnumber all the people living on all the islands and islets that make up the archipelago.
The Falkland Islands are together bigger than Wales or the UN member-state of Lesotho. The Falklands carry 630,000 sheep, but only 3,900 people. Two-thirds of these live in Port Stanley on East Falkland, which must be the shipwreck capital of the world.
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A bay near Port Stanley, where we saw the rare Peale's Dolphins at play.
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| We had no time to travel inland, but it is surely a wild and wonderful place, offering all the remoteness and solitude that can be found in part of civilisation. One of the main ports, Howard, for instance has only about 40 inhabitants who run the 200,000-acre sheep farm. More distant Pebble Island is 40km long with its own air-strip, horse-race track and hotel. . . but it too is really only a sheep farm with just a handful of people. Regrettably in some ways, oil has been found offshore, and annual tourism (air and cruise-ship) is suddenly flooding the Falklands, outnumbering the local population many times over.
My memory of our very short visit to East Falkland is of a time-frozen little harbour; of a village pub and chapel, and of wildlife at nearby Gypsy Cove - penguins, dolphins and birds, especially the dramatic big, big, red, red Robin - called a Longtailed Meadowlark. We saw a pair of them above the beach, very close to us and just outside the 'Keep Out' area. The minefields that lie there are still ready to explode, more than 20 years after the Argentine war.
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Guns of the Falklands War, pointing to our cruise-liner, which will take us
to the whales.
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My best memory is of the rich seas off the Falklands.
On deck only an hour out of Port Stanley I bumped into ship's lecturer Professor Jim Butler, naturalist and conservation scientist, protector of threatened wildlife and a song-writer and jazz expert. We hadn't time to talk because, while he was spotting sooty shearwaters for some passengers, I happened to see a whale blow. The signal was a round puff of spray far on the horizon. Soon there were more spouts and Jim Butler said "You're right . . .We've got a whale! A big whale!"
Spouts were soon going up like cannon-ball hits. As passengers gathered, he shouted happily again: "There she blows!"
We were staring straight into the reflections of the sun, which made it difficult, but about three pairs of whales came sufficiently close for us to see clearly the big, sharp dorsal fins. The whales spy-hopped, with their noses above water.
"Anyone see a white lip?" asked Butler.
I didn't. He thought he did. Others divided. We'd seen two different species.
"We are looking at Seiner (???) whales here. Fin whales over there," he said.
While the sea was still alive with whales, forward, amidships and aft, I suddenly saw some dolphins coming straight at us. As they surfed alongside, Prof Butler identified them as Peale's dolphins, similar to those we'd seen in shallow water at Gypsy Cove.
"Look at their white sides. They're very localised; very acrobatic. They show off nicely, but you won't see them anywhere else in the world."
While we watched them, a monstrous pillar of spray, far out, caught my eye. It slowly vanished on the wind . . then exploded upwards again.. Butler turned to watch it through his binoculars and said: "That could be a Blue Whale. That spout must have been at least 35 feet!. Huge! Let's hope it comes close."
The other spouts were like large fuzzy balloons, but this was a pillar of 'steam' rocketing straight up.
"It can only be a Blue Whale! You'll see as it undulates by us that it has a ridiculously small little dorsal>" (in relation to its immense length; the greatest mammal ever measured).
It never came close. But we all knew we were in its presence.
The various pods of whales disappeared and we gave our eyes a rest from squinting into the sun-drenched sea by going round to the starboard side. Jim Butler I.D-ed a Diving Petrel, a bird that flies over the waves or dives and swims in them with equal facility.
"Look at his stubby little wings, almost like a penguins . ." he said while scanning for more birds amid "a surprising lack of albatrosses."
The reason for all the marine activity, he explained, was that these rich waters were a popular route for all kinds of wildlife travelling north from the approaching southern hemisphere winter. "It's a great privilege to sail in this channel in daylight," he said.
While he was talking I noticed more black and white dolphins approaching. As they jumped and spun over the waves on their way towards us, our bearded professor shouted excitedly, "Hour Glass dolphins! Watch how the white and tinge of yellow on their sides appear in 'painted waves' that nearly touch, forming the shape of an hour glass."
The dolphins leapt high to show off their unique pattern. Another whale spouted on this side of the ship. Then followed a long, passive period.
I was lightly dressed, having intended to take a fast walk. The other watchers were all wrapped and muffled up. I suddenly realised I was stiff with cold and reluctantly left my observation spot and went up to the cabin for a coat and woollen hat. I watched a calm sea and red sunset from there. The shivering would not cease.
But memories kept me very warm within. |
