A short walk from where the helicopter landed, I came face to face with the largest king penguin colony on the islands. More than a thousand breeding pairs huddled together near a white-sand beach, occasionally lifting their beaks in the air to let off rapid-fire calls. With jet black heads decorated with apostrophe-shaped shocks of orange, the three-foot-tall birds give off an air of majesty that kicked the air out of my lungs. But if the parents are all regal dignity, the offspring are the embodiment of awkward.

The fluffy brown balls, two feet high, alternated between cuddling up to their parents and running in circles with the energy of 4-year-olds right after a bowl of sugar-bombed breakfast cereal. They sang while flapping their wings, as if still unconvinced that they can’t fly.

All rules of engagement with wildlife — keep your distance, don’t interact — went out the window as the 7-month-old chicks cautiously approached me and the three other human visitors. One pecked at a glove our pilot had momentarily put on the cold ground. Another made eye contact with me, waddling up until it was a foot away. Then it abruptly turned around, cried out and barreled into a friend before steadying itself and running back to its parents.

I was told that during the summer months, this area sometimes has to be roped off because of the number of tourists. But we could wander the perimeter of the colony freely, watching as parents fed their young, and at least one pair seemed to be chastising their cheeky kid for getting too close to those other strange upright creatures.