I am woken from the brink of sleep by an alien noise. Confusion. Is it a fire drill?

The Captain is on the phone. He is calling because I requested a wake-up call for filmic opportunities.

"You might wanna get up here. There's something interesting. You have about one minute until we enter some ice."

Confusion melts into panic. I throw on layers over my pyjamas, grab my camera and tri-pod and hurry on up.

A small group of ice-spectators gathers on the Bridge. Our ship is entering an eerily calm, ice-blanketed ocean. As the waves swell, the thin filmy-looking ice curves around them, softening their outlines.

The ship glides slowly over the never-ending ocean towards a heavy grey horizon. Our maximum speed in sea ice is six knots. It is strangely quiet.

I set up my camera and tri-pod on deck. I am up high, looking down on the water. I zoom in on the surface with my camera.

The ice-softened waves are in fact crystalline and spiky. The frosty white surface shimmers turquoise as it catches the dim afternoon light.

The Captain tells us that in his five years sailing the Drake, he's never seen ice quite like this.

Scientists try to classify the different types of sea ice. This was a combination of slush, grease ice and pancake ice.

A spooky, magical late-winter afternoon in the Drake Passage.