Antarctic Adventure # 14 - Gritviken
By Susan Ellis
Emotional energy hung in the rain clouds, the humid air filled with memories; a collected consciousness on the shores of King Edward Cove at Grytviken. We saw a stony shoreline of damp green grass and fur seals; the land quickly rising to jagged mountain peaks that were shrouded in swirling mist. Always that rainbow present, disappearing when the rain clouds lowered and gracing us as rain clouds lifted. It was raining when we made our landing which was away from the whaling station. Seals barked at us as we walked up the wet grass to a white picket fenced enclosure. It was a grave yard. Along with others, it was the final resting place of Sir Ernest Shackleton who had died of a heart attack while at Grytviken in January 1922. His wife decided he should remain near his greatest love and so his grave faces south to Antarctica. All others resting there face west. We drank a toast to the Boss in Irish whiskey, as neat as possible in the pouring rain. The next day I would say my last goodbye to Shackleton. I had followed him through the Weddell Sea, Cape Valentine and Point Wild on Elephant Island, and now I had come to Gritviken. In 2006 I had been to the Chilean ports of Punta Arenas and Valparaiso - destinations of the tugboat Yachko from the Elephant Island exodus. My time with Shackleton was certainly a key life journey. Only Stromness remained.
The emotional energy hung heavy in the rain clouds as I walked through the ruins of the whaling station, set up by the Norwegians on a British Territory. In the museum I learned the macabre statistics of how many whales had been processed here. How greed for oil in the developing world led to the near extinction of these mighty mammals. I had previously learned that when whales became scarce, attention turned to seals and penguins for the addictive oil. Addicted humans have found that once they use oil they cannot live without it. Amongst those rusting vats, beached ships with harpoon guns in the bow, poised, waiting, I was in pain.
Oil. Today we fight wars to maintain its supply. In the past whales were dragged up on the beach and hacked to pieces…No I don't even want to put to print what actually happened so that a light in some far off home could be lit, a machine could be greased. Soon whales were used in the tanning process, for fertilizer, in margarine, soap and food. I looked at metal tripots knowing smaller animals and birds had been boiled in them for their oil…
There was a classic babbling brook coming down the hillside, narrow with plush green banks. It ran by the Whaler's Church standing alone away from the rushing relics of the past. On this day it was a perfect spot to enter and get out of the rain, change camera batteries, clean streaked lenses and witness one of our passengers spontaneously play the organ. I stood in the pulpit, in the balcony, and looked at the commemorative bust of C.A.Larsen, the whaling ship Captain whose name seems to be associated with all great Antarctic adventures and the founding of the South Georgia Whaling industry. He commissioned the church to be built and it was consecrated in 1913. Shakleton's funeral service took place there. It fell into disrepair as the whalers left in the 1960s. A charitable organization which maintains the cemetery and Gritviken buildings, runs a museum and gift shop, has restored the church. I signed the visitor's book and looked out through the rain patterned windows.
Whaling ended on South Georgia with the decimation of the whales, in 1965. In total 175,250 whales had been processed since the first one was brought to Gritviken in 1904.
I did not walk to the British Post Office to buy stamps. But walked, accompanied by a king penguin, to the pebbled beach where a zodiac waited to return me to the M/V Polar Star. The rain had stopped, the rainbow reflected from a pale sky over tranquil waters and I returned to the ship trying to leave behind the spirits of the past which lingered in the bay.
Emotional energy hung in the rain clouds, the humid air filled with memories; a collected consciousness on the shores of King Edward Cove at Grytviken. We saw a stony shoreline of damp green grass and fur seals; the land quickly rising to jagged mountain peaks that were shrouded in swirling mist. Always that rainbow present, disappearing when the rain clouds lowered and gracing us as rain clouds lifted. It was raining when we made our landing which was away from the whaling station. Seals barked at us as we walked up the wet grass to a white picket fenced enclosure. It was a grave yard. Along with others, it was the final resting place of Sir Ernest Shackleton who had died of a heart attack while at Grytviken in January 1922. His wife decided he should remain near his greatest love and so his grave faces south to Antarctica. All others resting there face west. We drank a toast to the Boss in Irish whiskey, as neat as possible in the pouring rain. The next day I would say my last goodbye to Shackleton. I had followed him through the Weddell Sea, Cape Valentine and Point Wild on Elephant Island, and now I had come to Gritviken. In 2006 I had been to the Chilean ports of Punta Arenas and Valparaiso - destinations of the tugboat Yachko from the Elephant Island exodus. My time with Shackleton was certainly a key life journey. Only Stromness remained.
The emotional energy hung heavy in the rain clouds as I walked through the ruins of the whaling station, set up by the Norwegians on a British Territory. In the museum I learned the macabre statistics of how many whales had been processed here. How greed for oil in the developing world led to the near extinction of these mighty mammals. I had previously learned that when whales became scarce, attention turned to seals and penguins for the addictive oil. Addicted humans have found that once they use oil they cannot live without it. Amongst those rusting vats, beached ships with harpoon guns in the bow, poised, waiting, I was in pain.
There was a classic babbling brook coming down the hillside, narrow with plush green banks. It ran by the Whaler's Church standing alone away from the rushing relics of the past. On this day it was a perfect spot to enter and get out of the rain, change camera batteries, clean streaked lenses and witness one of our passengers spontaneously play the organ. I stood in the pulpit, in the balcony, and looked at the commemorative bust of C.A.Larsen, the whaling ship Captain whose name seems to be associated with all great Antarctic adventures and the founding of the South Georgia Whaling industry. He commissioned the church to be built and it was consecrated in 1913. Shakleton's funeral service took place there. It fell into disrepair as the whalers left in the 1960s. A charitable organization which maintains the cemetery and Gritviken buildings, runs a museum and gift shop, has restored the church. I signed the visitor's book and looked out through the rain patterned windows.
I did not walk to the British Post Office to buy stamps. But walked, accompanied by a king penguin, to the pebbled beach where a zodiac waited to return me to the M/V Polar Star. The rain had stopped, the rainbow reflected from a pale sky over tranquil waters and I returned to the ship trying to leave behind the spirits of the past which lingered in the bay.
Posted by Key Life Journey's Blog at 12/7/2008 11:41 AM 
Categories: Antarctica, South Georgia
Tags: tripots whale oil Gritviken South Georgia Whaler's Church Gritviken Ernest Shackleton whaling Polar Star
Categories: Antarctica, South Georgia
Tags: tripots whale oil Gritviken South Georgia Whaler's Church Gritviken Ernest Shackleton whaling Polar Star
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