Volunteer Point is a spit of white sand on the northeast coast of East Falkland. Almost every king penguin in the islands stands together on it — about 1,500 breeding pairs — on open ground with no fence and no boardwalk. There is no road in either: the last of the two-hour drive from Stanley is trackless bog and open camp. From the low ground above the beach the colony resolves into a dense mass of white fronts and orange collars packed shoulder to shoulder, with a steady trickle of birds arriving from the sea. The six-metre rule binds you and not them, so if you sit down and stay still, curious kings will walk over and inspect you. Paired birds stretch their necks skyward and call together, a brassy duet that lets each one pick its partner's voice out of thousands. They repeat it all day, entirely indifferent to whoever is standing a few metres off.
The chicks are the other surprise. Hatched the previous summer, they stand almost as tall as the adults, wrapped in shaggy brown down and still begging to be fed, and they are usually the ones bold enough to come closest. Early observers wrote them up as a separate species, and nineteenth-century sealers called them oakum boys, after the teased, tarred rope fibre used to caulk ships. Because the breeding cycle is staggered, chicks are in the colony all year, so the two "species" were always seen side by side, which only hardened the mistake. From March they bunch into crèches and get through the southern winter by fasting on the beach while their parents hunt far out at sea, losing up to half their body weight. All day small parties shuttle between colony and water in single file, upright over pale sand streaked with green marram grass. Following them at a respectful distance takes you straight down to the surf. There they bunch up and hesitate, then commit in a rush through the breakers — and with sea lions working the shallows offshore, it is the one moment a king penguin looks fast.