“It’s wait, wait, wait, until it’s go! go! go!” said Svarcmyr, explaining how our wedding—something we’d inquired about just a few weeks before the sailing (and got the green light from our daughters before proceeding)—would unfold. 

We were already four days into the trip when having survived crossing Drake’s Passage with a minor bout of seasickness, thanks to Scopolamine and uncharacteristically calm seas (Matthew is fortunate to never succumb to motion sickness), we learned just before embarking on a gourmet six-course “Shackleton’s Culinary Journey,” which told the story of Sir Ernest Henry Shackleton, an Anglo-Irish Antarctic explorer who led three British expeditions to the Antarctic through a creative culinary lens, that our wedding ceremony would take place after dinner. The boat would pull up to the ice edge at Snow Hill Island, a popular stop because of its Emperor Penguin rookery and a wooden hut built in February 1902 by the main party of the Swedish Expedition.

After the other guests disembarked, Patrik said we would go last, with our bright orange jacket-clad shipmates serving as witnesses. We ended up having about 20 minutes to get ready, meaning that any time for getting cold feet would be left to when we were standing on the ice.

While it was as cold and windy as one would expect during summer in Antarctica, I swear I could feel the ice melt beneath our feet as we basked in the warmth of a moment both of us had long awaited.

Text: Bridget Williams - bridget@slmag.net