The Dreaded Drake Passage: Breaking down a Good Crossing
- Ruth Bergman
- Mar 5
- 8 min read
Updated: Mar 20
Gateway to Antarctica: The Price of Reaching the White Continent
The Drake Passage, named after Sir Francis Drake, is the stretch of ocean between the southern tip of South America and the Antarctic Peninsula. It serves as a critical connection between the Southern Ocean and the waters surrounding Antarctica. At approximately 500 miles (800 km) wide, it is the shortest crossing from any landmass to Antarctica.
Because no landmass interrupts the flow of water around Antarctica, powerful currents surge through the Drake Passage, making it one of the most treacherous bodies of water in the world. For sailors, it is often compared to Mount Everest—a formidable challenge that demands respect. The passage has claimed many vessels; more than 800 ships are believed to have sunk while attempting the crossing.
Our ship, Icebird, is a 60-foot yacht—not large by any means, but designed for Antarctic conditions. Weighing in at 40 tons, Icebird is well-equipped for the journey and has successfully made this crossing many times. Its captain and crew are seasoned sailors with extensive Antarctic experience, ensuring we are in capable hands as we face one of the most notorious stretches of ocean on the planet.
Dreading the Drake: The Anxiety Before the Crossing
It’s normal to feel some anxiety before traveling—usually a mix of excitement for new places and experiences, combined with concerns about what could go wrong. In the lead-up to this Antarctic adventure, my anticipation had been building for over a year, reaching an almost unbearable intensity. However, my excitement was tempered by real stress: the reality of traveling to a place with no emergency facilities, several frustrating last-minute changes to the expedition dates and Icebird’s crew, and, perhaps most unsettling, the unpredictable nature of the Drake Passage.
We began monitoring conditions on the Drake around mid-January. Like many, we feared the towering waves, though I have since learned that wind plays a far greater role in determining a smooth or rough crossing. As our departure neared, we appeared to have a favorable weather window. However, a two-day delay kept us stuck in the harbor at Ushuaia, watching that window slowly slip away. During those two days, we were caught between two competing anxieties: the fear that we might not leave at all and the fear that, when we finally did, the Drake would have turned against us.
The Last Calm Waters: Motoring Down the Beagle Channel
At long last, with a freshly repaired rudder and alternator—and a healthy dose of hope that the ship was truly up for the challenge—we set off from Ushuaia. It was a moment we had been anticipating for what felt like forever, yet our departure was surprisingly low-key.
Before facing the notorious Drake Passage, we first had to motor down the calm, sheltered waters of the Beagle Channel—a somewhat anticlimactic but undeniably beautiful start to the journey. Snow-capped peaks and rugged mountains flanked us on either side, their reflections shimmering on the water’s surface. Along the way, we passed the picturesque Chilean town of Puerto Williams, a final outpost before venturing into the open ocean.
And so, we waited. Waited for the calm to give way to chaos, for the gentle hum of the engine to be replaced by the howling wind, and for the test of the rolling swells of the Drake. The real adventure was about to begin.
Hoist the Sails, Hold On Tight: Entering the Drake Passage
We had bid our farewell to land and had been rolling with the waves for about a day, running on motor due to winds too light for sailing. Then, finally, the wind picked up to around 15 knots. That was the moment our captain decided it was time to set sail.
It’s hard to put into words the raw fear of watching our crewman step outside in the wind and rain, standing before Icebird’s towering rig to hoist the sails. The scene was both awe-inspiring and terrifying. The wind howled, the rain lashed against the deck, and for fifteen agonizing minutes—minutes that felt like an eternity—I genuinely feared for his life.
Then, as the sails caught the wind, the boat heeled over. I had spent time on small sailboats as a child, but nothing in my experience prepared me for the sensation of a vessel this size tilting dramatically onto its side. My rational mind knew this was normal—that we had a 10-ton keel extending three meters into the water, keeping us stable. The crew carried on with an air of practiced ease. But for me, it took a full 24 hours before I could breathe normally again.
Sailing is an awesome experience. The moment the motor shuts off, a profound silence settles in—soon replaced by the rhythmic sound of the wind filling the sails and waves breaking against the hull. In that instant, the boat becomes one with the elements, and a sailor feels the pride of mastering them.
Nowhere to Run, Nothing to Do: The Mental Game of the Drake
After we arrived in Antarctica, I asked one of the crew whether our crossing would be classified as a Drake Lake or a Drake Shake. She considered it a Good Drake—we were able to sail rather than motor through completely calm waters (a true Drake Lake), yet the waves, while reaching up to 2.5 meters at their highest, were far from the brutal 5-meter plus swells that the passage is infamous for.
That said, even one-meter waves feel incredibly shaky. Moving across the boat—say, to use the bathroom—requires gripping onto something with every step. As for showering? Forget it. You’re far more likely to break a bone than come out clean.
I have a bit of a reputation for seasickness, having had a few unfortunate incidents on past sightseeing tours. Naturally, I came prepared, dosing myself with Cetirizine (aka Benadryl), while others opted for Scopolamine patches. One passenger, however, declined medication and spent five miserable days in his bunk, sick and barely moving. Every few hours, we checked to make sure he was still breathing. Even with the meds, I teetered on the edge of nausea the entire crossing, taking every precaution to avoid tipping over. I didn’t read, didn’t use my phone, and stayed on deck as much as possible, my eyes locked on the horizon.
And so, four days passed. Watching the endless ocean and sky, a beautiful monotony. Spotting the occasional seabird. Plenty of time for conversation—though not necessarily much enthusiasm for it. Some podcasts and audiobooks. A few brave minutes in the cockpit, where the wind helped ease the motion sickness. And above all, an overwhelming amount of time for contemplation. A whole lot of contemplation.
And resisting the ever-present urge to ask, Are we there yet?
Unpredictable Fury: A Sudden Squall on the Drake
On the third day of our Drake Passage crossing, I took a peek at the ship's log. It read simply: "Good sailing. Good direction." A reassuring note, given that we had been pushing through steady headwinds of around 20 knots.
Around lunchtime, however, things began to change—fast. The wind started picking up rapidly, and suddenly, the crew sprang into action. Sails were tightened, the captain took the helm, and the atmosphere shifted from routine to razor-sharp focus. Within moments, the wind had surged to 40 knots.
This was a squall. It came out of nowhere and lasted no more than ten minutes, but those ten minutes were tense, intense, and humbling. The howling wind and churning sea made it clear who was in charge out here. Fortunately, our captain and crew were sharp, experienced, and quick to react. With calm precision, they adjusted course and sail, navigating us safely through this sudden burst of fury.
And just as quickly as it arrived, the squall was gone—a fleeting yet unforgettable reminder of the ocean’s power.
Rocked and Rolled: Daily Life During the Drake Crossing
To cross the Drake Passage, we sailed continuously, day and night. To keep things running smoothly, we established rotating watch shifts for both crew and passengers. The crew handled the actual sailing, while passengers assisted where possible and kept them company. As usual, I chose the sunrise shift—4 AM to 8 AM—paired with the 4 PM to 8 PM watch. Unfortunately, on this trip, both sunrises and sunsets were hidden behind thick clouds.
With fragmented sleep, lingering nausea, and a disorienting blend of day and night, life on board felt stripped down to the bare essentials. We had three meals a day—pre-prepared and surprisingly good—but I could only manage to eat small portions. A general drowsiness hung over the boat, a result of overnight shifts and the antihistamines most of us were taking to ward off seasickness. The constant motion of the boat made even the simplest tasks a challenge, requiring careful calculation before every step. Despite the practical wooden board with cutouts to hold cups, a rogue wave managed to spill an entire pot of coffee—straight onto my white ski jacket. And despite wisely gripping the handrails installed throughout the ship, I still managed to collect plenty of bruises on my hips from moments of lost balance.
I have nothing but admiration for our crew. Somehow, through the exhaustion, the rolling seas, and the unpredictable conditions, they kept everything running—sailing the ship, preparing meals, and ensuring we had everything we needed.
The First Shards of Antarctica: Icebergs on the Horizon
On the fifth day, we began to spot more and more wildlife—especially birds. We noticed some creatures bouncing along in the water. "Are those dolphins?" someone asked. No, they were penguins. A few hours later, a shape appeared on the horizon, turning out to be an iceberg, a foreboding glimpse of the incredible scenery to come. Our excitement grew as, over the next few hours, icebergs became more frequent. Eventually, we spotted land—not just any land, but smooth, snow-covered terrain, quite unlike the jagged ice of the icebergs. In Antarctica, you begin to understand why languages in the polar regions have a hundred different words for snow.
We ended the day nestled among the islands of the Melchior Archipelago. There, we witnessed our first fur seal colony and celebrated our arrival to Antarctica with a glass of champagne at an abandoned Argentine base.
Antarctica At Last and Ready for Action
After five days of sitting, doing as little as possible, and having more than enough time to contemplate life, the universe, and everything in between, I was beyond ready to finally begin the kayaking portion of this adventure. Thankfully, that would happen the very next day.
I’ve come to accept that I’m not a sailor at heart. I see the sailboat part of this journey much like I view an airplane or a car—essential for getting from point A to point B. In Antarctica, where vast distances can only be traversed by boat, it’s a necessity. It’s what brings us to the breathtaking places I’ll write about in future posts, and, just as importantly, it provides critical shelter from the storms and unpredictable weather that are so common on the Antarctic Peninsula.
That said, I’m grateful for the chance to test my relationship with sailing. I picked up a bit of knowledge along the way, not to mention some sailor jargon—though I still don’t understand why they need a special term for everything. While I probably won’t be seeking out sailing adventures anytime soon, if the opportunity to sail to Antarctica ever comes my way again, I wouldn’t hesitate to take it. As I reflect back on the overall experience, would Antarctica seem as magnificent if it was easy to get there?
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