It was a fine day for a catamaran cruise. As we cast lines and slid into the dark flow of the channel, the southernmost city in Chile fading behind us, we didn’t have to sail far to find some pretty wondrous wildlife. In a rapid-fire sequence of just two minutes, an orca popped its head up in our wake. Then, a solitary dolphin jumped off our starboard side. And finally, a sea lion, swimming along, eyed us just a little suspiciously.
In some ways, this stretch of the Strait of Magellan, a 350-mile waterway that runs across the end of South America, is an intersection of worlds.
“The Atlantic and Pacific currents meet here, but we have lovely weather conditions today,” said our naturalist guide.
He gestured to our left.
“This is the Brunswick Peninsula, the end of the South American continent,” the guide explained.
Although it would be a rather long journey, theoretically, you could step foot on shore and walk all the way up the spine of the Americas. And on the right.
“That is the Land of Fire,” he explained—Tierra del Fuego, an island named for the fires the explorer Ferdinand Magellan said he saw burning across the island.
Soon, it floated into view. At first, the island didn’t look like much. Low, barren, and gray. Arriving, we found a forbidding environment. Sea cliffs ringed the beach. A big red-and-white lighthouse crowned a rise at the rear.
And, everywhere—penguins. Thousands and thousands of them. Magdalena Island is both a national monument and the long-time home to these adorable, flightless birds. Setting foot on the beach, I could see them, hear them—and smell them. A park ranger met me on the beach.
Building a Home Here
This part of the world is home to several types of penguins. But all the others that have rolled through are transients. The ranger noted that they once had a little rockhopper form an unlikely pair with a Magellanic, but the two never produced eggs together. King penguins, the second-largest species, have visited but never stuck around.
As we ascended a well-marked path in the direction of the lighthouse, scenes from the pages of National Geographic played out around us. Penguins are most comfortable in the water. Watching them swim is an absolute wonder. Below the surface, they’re like torpedoes, rocketing forward with almost unbelievable speed. They can dive more than 250 feet. From a ship, you’ll often see them hopping the waves, bouncing ahead with incredible ease. (It looks like great fun.)
But they need to come ashore and gather in rookeries like this one to lay their eggs and raise their young. They feed and protect the little ones until they’ve shed their fuzzy down layer (which isn’t waterproof) and acquired juvenile plumage, becoming big and strong enough to hunt on their own. Further south, in Antarctica, penguins build their nests out of stones and slide on the snow, propelling themselves on their bellies, to reach the waterline.
But here, the only option is to waddle. And instead of nests, they have little burrows, a few feet deep.
“They dig them with their fins,” the ranger explained. “And the babies stay all day in the hole.”
The father and mother take turns watching over the little ones, while the other waddles down to the water to find food for their little family.
The ranger pointed out the predators—big brown birds called Chilean skuas. If this were an animated movie, the skua would be the villains.
“He’s the hunter,” the ranger said. “He takes baby seagulls and penguins.”
Embracing the Solitude
The ranger is a young man, and I asked him about living in such a place. No restaurants or bars for an evening of fun. The closest supermarket is many miles away in Punta Arenas. He told me he lives with one other ranger—a former marine—in the lighthouse. After eight days on, he enjoys six days off back in town with his girlfriend.But does this relatively desolate place ever get lonely? No, not really, he said. Tourist boats arrive every day. And in the evenings, he goes on his own little photo safaris.
“I take a walk, I take a picture,” he said. “I love the wildlife.”
And he has time, too, to chill.
“I love to look at the ocean, read my book,” he explained. “It’s so ... Pacific.”
As in, peaceful.
