Cold comfort adrift at sea

There had been a nervous buzz at breakfast. Only yesterday, we had learnt that ports in South America were closing to cruise ships amid the coronavirus pandemic.

We were the lucky ones, though. We had been told that because our ship had no illness and we had been isolated in Antarctica for longer than the quarantine period, we would be disembarking as planned on March 16.

At 6.30am, my suitcase is packed and, as I scour my cabin for any forgotten belongings, I hear the feared announcement.

There has been civil unrest in the port town of Punta Arenas, in Chile, where we are waiting to dock. Members of the public are rioting about cruise ships landing in their town and so we will have to wait to disembark tomorrow.

Travel is my job and I confess to being a travel control freak. I like to be organised and know where I am going and when.

I immediately start thinking what I can do to fix this situation, and this translates to nausea, and a growing feeling of dread.

As a freelance writer, this had been the trip of a lifetime. I had left home on Feb 27, a day after the continent of South America recorded its first case of Covid-19.

The 18-day journey to Antarctica and the Falkland Islands, on the new Hurtigruten ship, MS Roald Amundsen, had proved to be one of my favourite trips, with equal measures of adventure, luxury and eco-conscious travel.

Expedition leader Steffen Biersack had said on Day One: "This is not a holiday, this is an expedition."

Sure enough, new adventures materialised every day.

I watched penguin antics, crossed the Antarctic Circle, kayaked through icebergs, braved a polar swim and learnt to identify humpback, minke and fin whales.

Now, on the 18th day of the cruise, everyone is worried. Even a one-day delay will see us miss flights home.

What we did not know was that by the time we will actually disembark, flight routes as we know them will no longer exist and some countries will even turn away their own citizens.

The news the next day is terrible. We are informed we will not be docking in Chile under any circumstances, even though we have no suspected cases of the coronavirus.

We remain at anchor, staring at the town of Punta Arenas, feeling bewildered. I have been gone less than three weeks and have come back to a world I do not recognise.

In my mind, I run through options. Our diligent crew and Hurtigruten staff in their Norway office are scurrying around the clock, working on chartering planes at astronomical cost. Harassing them is pointless, as they are clearly doing everything possible.

I debate whether I should lobby my Australian government to help us disembark or perhaps contact the media. But Hurtigruten requests restraint.

It is working through diplomatic channels and negotiations are delicate, on a knife edge. Interference may have ramifications for our disembarkation, with publicity potentially leading to ports closing.

I feel exhausted from overworking the problem and getting nowhere. Finally, I realise I cannot fix this issue myself. Nor can I help in any way. It is time to let go.

A weight lifts off my shoulders and I channel my energy into coping mechanisms, exercising in the gym, walking on the top deck, talking to my kids on Internet calls.

I surround myself with positive fellow travellers. Despite the uncertainties, we find things to laugh about and it helps keep me sane.

The crew are inspiring us with positivity, especially the Filipino hospitality and housekeeping gang. They are watching their industry hit free-fall, while facing a lockout from their own country.

Nonetheless, they arrange a rocking concert where the ship's baker sings Elvis, the reception staff jive and Michael Jackson even appears. My personal favourite: the tender boat drivers deliver a riotous routine to Tom Jones' Sex Bomb.

As the days stretch on, expedition staff distract us with polar science and Antarctic history lectures, quiz nights, karaoke and even art classes. Despite my limited artistic prowess, I discover nothing calms the nerves like some penguin origami.

Eventually, we are informed we have permission to dock in the overseas British territory of the Falkland Islands, a place we visited a week earlier, in happier times. The passengers all cheer at the prospect, relieved to be moving. Like me, everyone feels better with a plan.

From Punta Arenas in the Magellan Strait, we head west to the Pacific Ocean, around Cape Horn, then east - the long way to the Falklands.

Our captain explains that Chile requires ships to take on a local pilot for the eastern stretch of the Magellan Strait. A pilot boarding our ship could interfere with our quarantine status and must be avoided.

The 6m to 8m waves around Cape Horn are an unwelcome addition to the journey.

We had crossed the infamous Drake Passage between South America and Antarctica, and again on the way back. Somehow, crossing it then had been nauseating but tolerable, a necessary step on the way to adventure.

Passing Cape Horn for a second time, and finding ourselves in the "Drake Shake" again, turns many passengers green. I mentally thank the inventor of seasickness tablets.

Finally sheltering in the calm waters of the Falklands, we learn we will evacuate via a chartered plane from the Falkland Islands military airport.

We will then transit, most likely through Sao Paulo, Brazil. The Australians will join another chartered flight to Sydney, while others will join commercial flights elsewhere.

Before we can complete the required 10-day quarantine, the Brazilian government also changes its mind. Finally, the day before disembarkation, Chile is back at the negotiating table and Santiago is confirmed as our transit airport hub.

On March 26, 10 days after our original disembarkation date, we bid farewell to our gilded cage.

Amid chaos and gratitude, we board our flight from the military airport. The connection through Santiago is anxious and some travelling to other countries miss their connections.

I board my second charter to Australia and, despite losing my luggage, our flight lifts off and I have home in my sights 24 hours after leaving the ship.

I am greeted in Sydney on March 27 with five hours of confusion among the airport staff, health officials and waiting police as to which quarantine restrictions should apply to our group. Finally, under strict hygiene rules, we are permitted to transit to our home cities - in my case, Perth.

Back at home, my family reunites in a blissful, precautionary self-quarantine for two weeks. As days go by, I am increasingly concerned for those ships still at sea, many dealing with cases of the virus while having nowhere to dock, locked out of the world in an untenable standoff.

We can't know what will happen with the virus, and like evacuating from a cruise ship, it is out of my control. I am drawing on new-found skills to ride it out, leaving solutions to the experts.

And when the stress gets too much, I can always fold an origami penguin.