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The Silence That Stays With You.
Richard van Wyk’s personal account of awe, stillness, and perspective in Antarctica
There was a moment on Richard van Wyk’s second day in Antarctica where he simply stopped dead in his tracks. The realisation was so profound that he could do nothing else. All the superlative words we use to describe beauty, breathtaking, immense, timeless, lost their meaning when he landed on the ice.
A Different Kind of Silence
“Antarctica removes everything that competes for it."
Antarctica is not loud in its beauty, not dramatic in the way we have come to expect from extraordinary destinations. It does not demand attention. Antarctica removes everything that competes for it.
The first thing that hit me was the silence. Not the absence of sound as I knew it, but something deeper, something profoundly physical. As I stood in front of a cliff face of ice, the group had moved away, and I could see some of the others in the distance standing unmoving too.
In that moment of profound quiet, I noticed things I have forgotten how to feel.
The way my breath sounds in my own ears. The rhythm of my thoughts as they slow, stretch, and eventually settle. I felt the silence pressing gently against my chest and ears. I might have imagined that I could hear my own heartbeat. I still believe I did.
When the Noise Falls Away
In the busy world I spend most of my life filling space. Conversations, notifications, obligations, the constant hum of movement and expectation. Even in moments I call quiet, there is always something running underneath.
Antarctica stripped all of that away.
There is no background noise. No distant traffic, no signal, no sense of urgency creeping in from the edges, not even the rustle of wind through the trees. There are no trees. Only ice, sky, and the vast unbroken stillness of a place that exists entirely without me. In that moment I could see the immensity of time.
Letting Go
In the days on ice, I experienced several of these quiet, life-changing moments. Every time I experienced it my mind at first resisted. It searched for something to do, something to hold onto. But there is nothing to grab. No distraction to anchor me. And so, I let go.
And in that letting go, something unexpected happened. I began to hear myself again. Not the version shaped by meetings and deadlines, not the voice that responds to everyone else’s needs and perceptions, but something quieter, more honest.
“I began to hear myself again.”
The Gift of Solitude
One of my favourite times was in the early morning when everyone else slept. The sun was already as high as it would be at mid-day back home. I don’t think the midnight sun can be fully described, only experienced.
In that moment, with a warm coffee and quite warm and comfortable, looking at the ice sheets outside and a tiny speck of an Adélie penguin running over the crest of the hill, I was truly alone, like he was.
Being alone in that place was the kind of solitude that did not take from me, but returned something to me that I did not realise I had lost.
Time on the Ice
Time behaves differently on the ice. Without the usual markers, it stretches and softens. Minutes lose their edge. Hours feel less like units to be managed and more like space to exist within. Days are too short even when the sun doesn’t set.
I stopped checking. I stopped measuring. I even stopped anticipating what comes next. Instead, I arrived fully in what was already in front of me in every moment.
A Landscape That Asks Nothing
When Peter Ryan asked, “Would you like to go for a hike?”, every morning, the answer was yes without thought.
Hours later, standing high above the stony shore of the continent looking down on the sea ice in the shape of Ω, I realised that the landscape does not change for me, and that is its quiet lesson. It asks nothing of me. It simply exists, vast and indifferent, and in doing so reminds me how small, and how temporary, all the noise has been.
There are moments I expect I will always remember: the first step onto the ice, the endless horizon, the fragile light at midnight, the epic penguins. But it is the in-between moments that catch me returning to them.
Antarctica made me understand that nothing needs to be added to what already is.
Encounters With the Wild
Even encounters with wildlife feel completely different here. Having lived on the border of the Kruger Park I am not a stranger to interacting with wild things.
Here the meeting of the wild is less spectacle and there is no performance. It is about understanding our world and it feels more like a shared presence. Me and the emperor penguins, meeting briefly in a place that belongs entirely to neither. I truly realised the fragility of all species in this place.
There is something deeply humbling in that realisation. A recognition that the world continues, vast and complete, without my involvement but that I have an impact in a meaningful way. It is a character-building and deeply motivating experience.
The Role of the Ultima Team
The team at Ultima Antarctica was always very conscious of the impact of Antarctica on their guests, as much as they are constantly vigilant of not leaving any lasting impact on the land.
From the first moment on the massive cargo plane and setting foot on the ice, the crew take notice and understand what you are experiencing. They listen carefully to what you need without being intrusive. They are present without ever intruding. Attentive without ever interrupting.
They even make sure they have fantastic beer to pair with the superb food they serve. I felt as if I arrived as a guest and left with a new group of friends who I could always invite over for a cold one.
On the topic of consumption, they deeply understand that this is not a destination to be consumed, but an experience to be allowed.
After all, they are feeling the impact of Antarctica too. This isn’t some crafted ride or museum experience. It is truly a place that evokes change and they know it better than anyone. The entire experience was enhanced by a real caring involvement in every aspect of my experience.
The team lives in this environment for the entire season, working in conditions few can truly comprehend until you set foot here. They have a deep affinity with the place and a strong sense of responsibility for their role in telling the story of the Frozen Continent.
They are not simply hosts. They are custodians of something far more profound.
What Remains
When I left, the noise returned quickly. I guess it always does. The world I stepped out of is still waiting, unchanged.
But something in me is altered. Not dramatically, not in a way that can be easily explained, but in a quiet, steady shift.
I notice the excess more. I notice the unnecessary words, the constant rush, the way humans fill silence out of habit rather than need.
And sometimes, in rare moments, I find myself returning to that ice wall. I experience that brief stillness in the middle of everything.
I keep going back to my photos, not to show someone else. They could not understand what I tried to capture. I go back to catch a glimpse of that feeling again, and I do. Looking at the image of a snow petrel flying high above, I feel that peace.
Space
It does not last long, but it is enough to remind me that it exists. That beneath everything, there is a quieter way of being.
Antarctica did not give me answers. What it offered instead is space.
Space to step outside of myself. Space to listen without needing to respond. Space to realise that not everything needs to be carried forward.
And perhaps that is the most personal part of it all. Not the distance travelled, or the rarity of the experience, but the quiet recognition of what remains when everything else falls away.
What Antarctica Gave Back
In that vastness, I met a version of myself that is unhurried, unguarded, and strangely complete. There is nothing to prove, nothing to perform. Just the simple act of being, uninterrupted and whole.
It is easy to overlook how rare that is.
Antarctica gave that back to me, not by offering something new, but by removing everything that is not essential. What remains is simple, but it is enough.
The Ultima team know that you carry Antarctica with you long after you have left the ice behind. Enough to find small pockets of silence in unexpected places.
Enough to remember that clarity does not come from adding more, but from taking things away.
And maybe that is why I will always want to go back.
For now, I have these images and my memories, a quiet space I can return to, even when the world grows loud again.
Antarctica waits patiently, unchanged, reminding me that beneath everything I carry, there is always a stillness worth returning to, repeatedly when I choose.
