You might think that as a meteorologist who gets a rush from watching the summer sky light up from brewing storms that I would be excited to see lightning in my head. But no. I was just about as terrified as any of you would be.
On a Saturday last December I suddenly found a big circular jelly-fish-like blob floating in front of my face. The jelly fish had long, wispy tentacles, and floated in a sea of dust. I closed my eyes and shook my head, but it was still there when I opened my eyes. A few minutes later, the flashes began. Long curved bolts of lightning streaked across the peripheral vision in my left eyeball. With my eyes closed, I could see branching and arcing. With eyes open, it was like someone was flashing a bright light in my eyes.






Another day in Antarctica. A layer of stratus hangs over the Melchior archipelago, sending thick, grey undulating waves over the group of small islands. These snow-capped islands sit in glossy black water like scoops of ice cream floating in dark root beer. There is an abandoned Argentinian base here, but we’re not doing any landings. Instead, we’re in the zodiacs cruising for views of seals, penguins, and fantastical ice sculptures. We meander in and out of rocky coves painted in lichens and moss.