January 28, 1989 – The Bahia Paraiso, an Argentine Polar Transport vessel, requested access to Palmer research station, an American research outfit set up to conduct studies in Antarctica. The tourists aboard were eager to delay their route to resupply the Argentine station in order to see how operations were conducted.
Sadly, after their visit, not two miles away, the vessel ran aground near Janus and Delaca islands causing, undoubtedly, the worst environmental disaster to ever happen in Antarctic waters. Though none aboard were lost, more than 600,000 liters of diesel fuel and other petroleum products were put into the water affecting nearby penguin and cormorant colonies, as well as inflicting untold damage on the invertebrates and algae ecology upon the ocean floor.
February 21, 2015 – I dive into the water next to the remains of the shipwreck wondering why I had never heard of such a catastrophe. More than 25 years later, even after a multi-national clean up effort, an oil slick still remains like a dark halo surrounding the upended vessel. It does not take much research to understand the limits of our news cycle, for at the same time a catastrophe of exponentially worse proportions was occurring in the northern hemisphere. The Exxon Valdez running aground in the Prince William Sound of Alaska which decimated the herring population, wild salmon, sea otters and countless other life forms that live in those rich waters.
Wreck diving has grown into quite a spectacle of late. Much work being done to remove all environmentally harmful products before purposefully sinking vessels in order to create an artificial reef for marine organisms to colonize. Such sites draw many a tourist down into the water to poke and prod, enjoying the revival that often occurs, and though I have enjoyed many of these experiences myself – none are as jarring as the ghost of ship never to meant to sink.
The story of the Bahia Paraiso is blurred, as if often the case in tragedies, but what is certain is that Palmer Station hailed the vessel warning that it was unwise to follow the course they were on. They informed that the channel was narrow with rocks rising, but it appeared the captain was not in a listening mood.
When arriving at the dive site, the damage was quite clear with several holes ripped into the keel. As the waves washed over them, they spouted like the blowholes of a large whale. Descending upon the wreck, I immediately noticed that the superstructure had been crushed. All but the hull remained with sponges having long colonized the remains to create homes for whatever creatures cared to move in.
Finding no available entry into the vessel itself, I set out to explore its surroundings with my dive partner – Ashley Knight. What lay on the bottom was a small museum of modern seafaring.
A fire hose uncoiled, likely with the hope of minimizing the fatal damage done.
A Marine VHF Radio Telephone.
The broken valve to a tank of pressurized gas.
Equipment used to lower the safety boats, aiding in the survival of all onboard.
Even a portion of the minimized name of the vessel painted upon the bow.
The breast bone of a penguin long dead.
This large, misshapen piece of metal had me stumped.
Thus I brought the footage to Captain James Griffiths and Ice Officer Piers Alvarez of the National Geographic Orion and was informed that this was a piece of pig iron - a large, heavy and inexpensive way to give weight to the keel of the vessel. Most probably dislodged when striking the rocks at speed.
Perhaps, most curiously found was a lost cassette tape with any identifiers long worn off by the salt water’s corrosion – leaving one to wonder exactly what song was playing when the vessel ran aground.
As is the case with most wreck dives, we resurfaced with many unanswered questions about what circumstances had caused such a disaster. Visiting the nearby Palmer Station though, we had long conversations about species recovery in the decades that have followed. Nature always seems to find away, even with the amount of obstacles we put in its path.
