Antartica

British-Australian thriller writer L.A. Larkin gets inspiration from the black beaches and abandoned whaling stations of the great white continent

- L.A. Larkin

A black-and-white chinstrap penguin, no taller than my knee, pecks at my boots expectantly. Clearly he hasn’t read the rulebook. Much as I’ve tried to stay at least five metres away from Antarctica’s wildlife — as visitors are asked to do — this inquisitive fellow is intent on investigating me and my camera bag.

I’m on Deception Island: a volcanic caldera, shaped like a ring doughnut with a bite taken out of it. Its centre hides a deep harbour and an abandoned whaling station. This is one of the few places on the Antarctic Peninsula where the beaches are clear of ice — at least in summer — thanks to heat from the dormant volcano beneath us. No wonder my feathered friend has chosen this thermally warmed island to nest on.

I’m standing on a beach of black volcanic sand at Bailey Head, looking out at an inky sea, and, in the distance, a turquoise iceberg that resembles a huge teapot. Penguins, like fat little torpedoes, launch themselves out of the surf and waddle inland, wings out wide for balance. Despite the flurry of activity, there’s order to the chaos. On one side of the beach, chinstraps head for the water. On the other, they head inland. I’m in the middle of a penguin superhighway.