The Longest Day

Off Marion Island, South Africa

27 January 2025

There’s an island in the middle of nowhere, halfway between the Cape of Storms and Antarctica. On Marion Island and its neighbour, Prince Edward Island, about two million seabirds of 29 species nest.

The importance of these islands is vital. Just one species – the wandering albatross (Diomedea exulans) – has some 40 % of its total global population breeding there.

Sooty Albatross

Life in the “Roaring Forties” isn’t easy, but humans, as always, have complicated it further. In the early 19th century, whaling fleets that frequented the area brought along domestic rats, which adapted incredibly well and began feeding on chicks that had no defenses against them. 

It was against that backdrop that BirdLife South Africa conceived the ambitious Mouse-free Marion project to rid the islands of rats once and for all. The idea is excellent — but it needs money. Lots of it.

One of the initiatives they thought up to raise awareness — and funds — for the project was the Flock to Marion: a luxury cruise to the islands with hundreds of birders aboard.

Northern Giant Petrel

I had been following the inituative from afar since 2022, when the first cruise sailed. But at that time we were still in the thick of the pandemic, or just coming out of it, and I never considered signing up.

As the saying goes, what goes around comes around and, three years later I ended up booking the Flock to Marion 2025. The path was not fdorect and had one or two extra turns but, I finally signed up.

The registration was done almost a year in advance, but time passed — as always — and I was genuinely excited to land in Durban the day before boarding the MSC Música.

The giant MSC Musica,
behind Nelson Mandela cruise terminal, in Durban

Finally, on Friday, 24 January 2025, after almost a one year wait, the big day arrived. Among the small crowd of about 1900 people boarding the ship in dribs and drabs, there I was, along with seven other Portuguese birders. The embarkation procedures were much simpler than I had imagined, and I soon found myself on starboard Deck 7, watching the birds that frequented the harbour.

The ship sailed late in the afternoon, and we knew we wouldn’t reach Marion until Monday, the 27th. We were told that the days at sea would be for resting, and that the real birding effort should be focused on the island days — the 27th and 28th. I heard that advice, but I turned a deaf ear — after all, how often does one find oneself in the Southern Ocean? Looking back now, of course those who advised caution were right.

Wandering Albatross

Every day of the cruise was special — but one was more special than the others. And that’s the one I’m going to talk about. We sailed up to what I came to call our D-Day: 27th of January, The Longest Day of the trip.

The excitement had been building since day one. Sunday the 26th had already been excellent, with wandering albatrosses showing up here and there. Smaller albatrosses and prions too. By the end of that day, I’d seen my first giant petrel, and I was thrilled, with a hint of a tear in the corner of my eye — almost all the goals I’d set out for the trip had already been met.

Could there be a better day still? Plenty of people who had sailed this route in 2022 had warned us, “Wait until you get to the island — you’ll see.”

I always thought they were exaggerating.

Soft-plumaged Petrel - dark morph 

Because it's better to be safe than sorry, I agreed with my roommate, Rui Pereira, to set the alarm at 3:20 am (!!!). By 3:45 I was on deck — it was dim, more dark than light. Of course I wasn't the first up but, there were only a few silhouettes in sight. There was an eerie silence among the guides and fellow early risers — by which I mean crazy people.

Suddenly I realize there was an american guide a few meters away, calling "Possible this, Possible that" to the dark silhouetes. I laughed to myself, Perhaps he was right. With that light, anything was possible.

I quickly arrived to the conclusion that I’d woken up too early — it wasn’t worth raising binoculars or camera for another half hour or so.

Light-mantled Albatross

Once the light improved, the show began to unfold. Birds were everywhere. Thousands of them. 

Instead of processing emotions or philosophizing about life, I just started working: shooting photos and recording everything I could see. After all, I had brought 20 memory cards — what were they there for if not to be filled?

Albatross for breakfast

Before breakfast, the star of the show was the first Light-mantled Albatross of the trip — perhaps the most beautiful of the seven albatross species we’d observe on this expedition. The subtlety in the variation of brown and silver tones is out of this world. 

The surprise was the common diving petrels: little auk-like birds with tiny wings, flying awkwardly as they skimmed and dipped across the waves. the name "diving" suits them really well.

The show had skuas, giant petrels, storm. petrels, several species of albatrosses, all in great quantity. An extraordinary mental strenght was required to turn my back on all of that and get some breakfast. Despite this early burst of excitement, it was only about 6 am.

The good thing was that even from the table on the 12th floor you could still see the wildlife. I didn’t eat alone, because I ran into one of my travel companions there, Hugo Blanco, who had also picked up the habit of having breakfast at the same hour. there are tastes for everything.

Common diving-petrel

After that first pit-stop of the day, we headed to the stern. 

The spectacle went on. There were great shearwaters in abundance, as well as wandering albatrosses and smaller albatrosses. Sometimes there were what looked like condominium meetings, with five, six, ten birds resting on the water. Many of them would rise to the height of our deck, on the twelfth floor, and even above our heads. To complete the scene, prions went by, along with several kinds of gadfly petrels. I was shooting constantly, and when I stopped to rest my arm, I simply stood there admiring the show. It was one of the best moments of the expedition: being able to see so many giant petrels so close. It’s one of those birds that looks as if it came from another age — a flying dinosaur with the looks of an assassin. It was my main goal for the trip, a bird I had only glimpsed for a few seconds the day before. The excitement was intense, but I didn’t let it take over the moment. I made the most of the opportunity and enjoyed it, while also filling the cards with a few more thousand records.

Salvin's prion

When we thought we’d had enough giant petrels, we decided to change our perch. We stayed astern, but went down two or three decks.

It hadn’t been long when we started hearing a real commotion coming from a bit of everywhere. A Cape petrel (Daption capense) was circling the ship. Madness ensued. It wasn’t a rare bird, but it was completely unexpected for that place and time of year. Apparently, it was on the opposite side of the ship. We were on the left and, it seemed, it was being seen on the right. These deck-switching manoeuvres rarely end well, so we decided to stay put and search from there. Not even two minutes had passed when I spotted the bird in the ship’s wake. “It’s there!”

There it came, performing acrobatic manoeuvres over the turquoise-blue water. Hugo still had to ask several times the usual question in situations like this — “Where? Where is it?” — and I had to give the reply that had already become famous on the trip: “Mate, get in behind me!”

Eventually, he spotted it too. The Cape petrel, besides being beautiful, was kind enough to stick around for a while. The photos weren’t easy, but they turned out well. Going from shearwaters and albatrosses to Cape petrels is tricky — it’s like switching from truck racing to Formula 1.”

Pintado petrel at the stern

Euphoria had taken over much of the ship. It was sheer popular joy. Hugo was in a trance — I can still feel the congratulatory slaps he gave me on the back.

I thought the day was already won, but the problem was that it wasn’t even eight o’clock yet.

We went back to deck 7 and the feast went on. Birds in their hundreds kept appearing. Our eyes never had a minute’s rest.”

Marion Island

We had already passed Prince Edward Island and, around nine o’clock, Marion Island could be seen in the distance. I was impressed by its size, but above all by its height, which I was told exceeds 1,200 metres. Up high, you could still make out patches of snow. In my mind I had pictured a small rocky islet, but what I saw was a proper island. A pity we weren’t allowed to approach closer than twelve miles.

Indian Yellow-nosed Albatross

It was around 10:30 that we started hearing people shouting ‘penguin!’. I had hoped to see one, but now hope was quickly turning into possibility. ‘Penguin at two o’clock!’ someone yelled, and immediately all eyes swung to that sector, scanning the water for the birds.

It still took a few iterations to fine-tune our vision and understand what a penguin actually looked like out there, and a few more to manage to photograph them. Clearly the hardest animal to spot — and, consequently, to photograph — during the entire expedition. The damn things were constantly on the move, diving nonstop. You had to figure out roughly where they were and then be lucky enough to catch them as they broke the surface. Most of the time you’d only see splashes or the water bubbling but, with patience I managed to see four species over the course of the day. The penguin saga went on all day long. In the end anything became possible — even photographing penguins in flight.

Macaroni penguin
(Yes, they can fly)

The morning had been lively, but it was time to go for lunch — preferably early. That way we could secure one of the window tables. Everyone had already realised that on this trip you had to keep one eye on the ball and the other on the surroundings at all times.

We were happily eating when Hugo said, 'Look over there, isn’t that the albatross we need?’ We looked over and saw two or three albatrosses passing by, one of them with an orange bill. It was undoubtedly a black-browed albatross.

The next minute was dramatic. How do you photograph an albatross through a salt-smeared window? With some effort, I managed to get the evidence. It wasn’t a great shot, but it was a record. And just like that, three lifers at once: a black-browed albatross, photographing through the ship’s window, and photographing while having lunch at the same time. This is not for everyon.

Black-browed Albatross
at lunch, through the glass

After the buzzing lunch, we went back to work — a cruise like this is no place for the lazy. During the afternoon, besides penguins, prions and multiple black-bellied storm-petrels, among many others, a few new stars appeared in the firmament. One was the grey-backed storm petrel. To spot it, I had to learn to recognise kelp — a squid-shaped seaweed they often associate with while feeding. Always learning...

The other was the blue petrel. It looks similar to a prion but has a white tail tip rather than a black one. In truth, that one earned true star status, to the point of causing repeated stampedes of dozens of observers. ‘Blue petrel to port!’ and off the herd would go from starboard to port, right through the casino. ‘It’s back to starboard!’ and everyone would rush back to square one. I did that several times over the course of the trip, more often with poor results than good ones.

On one occasion I clearly remember hearing the casino staff’s voices: ‘Bird! Bird!’ The important thing was that everyone was having fun. What we do in the name of science…

Blue petrel

It was also after lunch that the Portuguese, collectively, showed signs of life and made themselves known to the crowd. We reached Deck 7, and immediately Rui Pereira spotted and photographed a fairy prion, setting everyone nearby into motion, searching for the bird, which is not at all easy to find and identify among the hundreds of other prions. A few minutes later, Luís Custódia was complaining that he still hadn’t managed to see a blue petrel — and right then Bruno Silva spotted one, causing another stampede on board. A few minutes after that, the same Bruno spotted a white-headed petrel, which many people, including himself, hadn’t seen yet. Another little crowd in motion. All of this happened in less than half an hour. That’s when I noticed we were surrounded by people and said it was our turn, the Portuguese, to ‘spread a little magic’ — and laughter broke out. With that said, we decided to go ‘spread our magic’ somewhere else.

Bruno's White-headed Petrel

A slightly more delicate note was the visit to the ship’s hospital around four in the afternoon. Luís had had a rough night and wasn’t feeling well. Was it from the excitement? Having known him since 2010, I didn’t think he was joking. Throughout the day I kept telling him that if he wanted, I’d go with him to see the doctor, since English isn’t isn't one of his strenghts.
So, at 4 p.m. we went to the ship’s hospital — another lifer. The doctor was rather good-looking, by the way. Besides prescribing some medication, she also recommended a nebuliser treatment. We went to the treatment room and spent quite a while there. Fortunately, the room had a porthole, so we could keep an eye on the albatrosses the whole time. I even picked up the binoculars. Could it have been a world's first? Birdwatching from the ship’s hospital treatment room. I think I saw a smile — maybe a teasing one? — on the faces of the nurses and the doctor herself… The important thing was that, at the end of the ordeal, Luís felt better. His wallet felt lighter too, as consultations on cruises aren’t cheap.

Visit to the hospital, always with the albatrosses in sight.

We returned to Deck 7 and stayed there, enjoying every last second, until twilight faded into dusk. The last image I remember is of the swarm of birds trailing the ship. Thousands of birds of every species going about their business, all bathed in the late afternoon light. A vision from another world, but in a way it made sense — after all, we were at the end of the world.

View of Deck 7 starboard 

During the day, several guides asked me what I thought of the experience. My answer came straight from the heart:
‘You could tell me a thousand times what it’s like. Only by living it do you understand.’
I returned to my cabin with a full heart. I asked Rui, the owner of one of those wristwatches that track everything, how far we had walked that day — and I was astonished by the answer: ten (!) kilometres. On a 300-metre-long ship it’s hard to believe, but the watch said it, so it must be true.

Wandering Albatross

Despite being tired, the day ended like all the others. We went to dinner at one of the ship’s restaurants, the Belle Époque. I dressed more or less formally — traditions have to be respected. I was probably one of the few on the expedition doing so, and I’d been told on the very first day that I was among the best-dressed at dinner. Not sure if that was a compliment or a dig, but I didn’t care. You could see and feel how happy I was — and the rest of the group too.
And the best part? We were only halfway through. 

Dinner at the Belle Époque

#canaldoxofred