The Entire Earth and Sky: Views on Antarctica

Two

Two This is the period between life and death. This is the way the world will look to the last man when it dies. —Richard Byrd, Alone (1938) Antarctic Peninsula; Fourth Month at Sea On a cold April morning, I was about to set myself free, bound for the Antarctic shore in a small inflatable boat, leaving behind our rotund black, white, and ocher research ship where I had lived for the past three and a half months, swaying in the waves, in front of cliffs appearing hewn from slub steel. We were at anchor, stopped, south of Argentina, south of Drake’s Passage, en route to a small research station further south still, to take a look at how people live on the Antarctic Peninsula. But we were in no particular hurry; it was clear and reasonably warm for the early austral autumn, about 40 degrees Fahrenheit. We wanted to walk on land. There were four of us headed to the island: Maggie, who drovetheinflatable;twoscientists,IngridandPablo;andWerner , who worked in the engine room and doubled as a “survival expert” for shore parties. Werner, an Austrian who pronounced his name with a V sound (Verner), began the same 62 * the entire earth and sky lecture I heard on each of these shore-bound cruises. He was thin, maybe six feet tall, with deeply wrinkled skin, a gray afterthought of beard. He wore a bright orange survival suit, one that would float and keep the wearer alive for a few minutes if one were to hit the liquid-ice water. Mags wore one as well. Me, the reporter, and the two environmental scientists woreonlyourGore-Texparkas,fleecejackets,standardcamping -store attire. No one spoke about how the life-extending gear was divvied up, why there wasn’t more for everyone. It’s just how it is. Wernerwasokuntilsomethingwentwrong.Then,asIwitnessedoverthemonths ,hangontoyourhat.Wernerscreamed, hewavedhisarmsaroundwildly,hebecameasortofTeutonic character speaking a mixed language, Germanglish. I first saw this side two weeks into the expedition, when he taught me how to steer the ship. Why a guy from the engine room was given the honor only occurred to me later. I had wanted to learn to steer. It looked fun and interesting and reminded meofallmyfavoriteahoy-mateytales,thestuffthatsatisfied my wanderlust when I was too young to act on it. I wanted to know what it felt like to steer the ship across the open ocean, to move past tabular icebergs alone in the sea. Who knew when I would get such an opportunity again? Of course, no one needed to know that during the months at sea, I stretched out in my bunk each morning and discussed with God sinking ships, floating hopelessly alone on the sea, a watery death. God and I had cut a deal: Our ship would not sink, but if it did, I would be one of the people rescued . Sure, I told God, it would be harrowing if this had to happen, but when they shot off the pressurized containers, releasing the soft, lozenge-sided lifeboats, I would climb the ladder down the side of the ship, get in one, and then a helicopter would come and fish us out. I kept this mantra to myself, of course, because the idea that the helmsman two * 63 was considering her abandon-ship routine at any moment while also trying to ease the vessel through floating ice or across dark and wind-blown seas might have been grounds to lose the privilege. Work at sea was divided into four-hour shifts; working on the bridge was called “watch,” and meant steering a one hour-long shift, shifting to the bridge deck and scanning the sea with glasses, coming inside and doing a fire watch below decks, closing doors knocked open by pounding seas, making tea and Milo, an Ovaltine-like malt drink, for the entire watch complement—in our case, four. I would begin my fourhour shift by conversing with God, not being in the moment, moving in the wheelhouse almost as if in a dream. I would look around and think, Wow! This is great! Well, how did I get here? Then focus on our rolling, how each one of us, four or six on the bridge, moving the same way to the same swells, moving across the water, hearing the mates, Bernadette or Ken or Bob, call...