by Chris Turney
Chris takes us out in a Zodiac. Snares has no natural harbor, but with the light northerly winds, the Shokalskiy has found shelter below the cliffs to the south. It’s a ten-minute journey across open water to a rocky platform on the eastern side. We leap ashore. A quick wave and Chris disappears to take the rest of the expedition members for a tour of the island’s coast. Sea lions watch us suspiciously from a nearby outcrop as we set up next to a large colony of noisy Snares crested penguins, whose distinctive red bills and yellow eyebrows give them a comical professorial look. It’s a perfect backdrop for the last Hangout of the first leg, and Leticia is over the moon. Well-practiced by now, we connect effortlessly with the satellite, and a room of smiling faces greets us in return. Professionally, Leticia guides the questions while Nicole and Kerrie merrily share some of their discoveries on the expedition: the wildlife, the changing climate, the history of the islands. The penguins squawk and crow, happily hopping and grooming themselves in the background. The students love it.
I’m just relieved we’re finishing the Hangouts on a high.
When we’re all done, I stay online. I have one more job to do, something a little different this time: a Hangout in History. It’s a new initiative by Google that aims to bring history alive, with actors recreating famous events and pupils asking the questions. The Black Death, Guy Fawkes, Elizabethan England—all are played out with a fantastic grotesqueness that’s guaranteed to grab attention. This time, the setting is Elephant Island, 1915. Two months after the Endurance has sunk in sea ice, Shackleton’s men are stuck on the Antarctic Peninsula and increasingly worried about the “Boss.” I’m here to guide the pupils to the great man. I have a script and am primed to drop in clues at the appropriate time. Dressed in heavy clothing, two explorers with clipped English accents emerge on the screen, seated in a tent filled with coils of rope, lamps, and scientific gear. The students appear, wearing Edwardian garb, cheering with excitement. The set-up looks brilliant. We get started, sharing ideas as Shackleton’s story unfolds.
All of a sudden, the satellite link drops out. I’ve been cut off and there’s no getting them back.
I hope it’s not a sign.
CHAPTER FOUR
There Be Dragons
This is it. This is for real. We’re heading for the Antarctic.
It’s two o’clock in the afternoon, 8 December, day twelve of the expedition. The Shokalskiy only returned to Bluff yesterday and we’re already leaving again.
Only two hours ago, immigration officials were on board stamping our passports for departure from New Zealand waters, something we didn’t do on the first leg. Now we’re off. Gray clouds threaten rain, but most of the team have come up to the top deck to say their good-byes to loved ones at home, milking the last phone reception we’ll have for four weeks. There’s a palpable sense of excitement in the air as photos are taken and messages sent. Our connection to the world is about to become a whole lot smaller.
I’m nervous. We’re heading beyond the subantarctic islands this time. We may have the best possible ship, team, and equipment, but I know my history. Almost all expeditions that set out for Antarctica thought they were well prepared, and few returned with plans fulfilled. All too often, carefully designed science programs went awry because of a change in conditions. Some never returned at all. Shackleton left with high hopes and came back a scarred man; Mawson nearly lost his mind over the loss of two friends. No one sails to the Antarctic without thinking twice. We’re going somewhere far beyond immediate help; somewhere that can never be taken for granted. We will have to work hard as a team and trust the conditions favor us if we’re to achieve all we’re aiming to do.
It’s a moment to savor with the family. Few have worked harder to make this expedition happen. And now we’re about to share our biggest adventure yet. Cara and Robert are chatting excitedly, taking their last look at land and adjusting to the feel of the ship. They spot my parents, Ian and Cathy, who have traveled from their home in Christchurch to see us off. Next time we see them, the Shokalskiy will have traveled more than 3,000 miles across the Southern Ocean. We exchange exaggerated waves with the two small figures on the promontory. Mum and Dad look tiny against the rocks.
I breathe in deeply and catch a last waft of trees, tinged with sea spray. It’s a reassuring smell of land, of safety. A trawler passes by, struggling against the current running offshore, its turquoise hull stark against the green promontory of Bluff.
Everything seems very small out here.
I put my thoughts to one side and turn to Annette and give her a hug. “Amazing to be finally off, isn’t it?”
She smiles back at me. “Yes, love. I can’t believe we’re here.”
“No regrets?”
“None.”
All of a sudden, the siren blares out across the ship’s tannoy system. Lifeboat practice.
Everyone on the Shokalskiy has an allocated space on one of the two lifeboats. If anything untoward should happen, you need to know where to go. In an emergency situation, the last thing you need is confusion and panic as people struggle to find space on a lifeboat.
Donning our bulky orange life jackets, we make our way to the stern and join the good-natured queue. We’re on the port side with the kids, and head toward Nicola the cook at the bottom of the lifeboat ramp. Smiling, she ticks us off the list as we climb into the brightly colored vessel. We sit snugly side by side in the small orange capsule. There’s hardly room to breathe, let alone move about. There are twenty-five of us inside, but the lifeboat can carry twice this number. A few whispered conversations break the silence. Minutes later, the last of the team are in and the hatch is slammed shut. The temperature immediately starts to rise. The little light that pierces the dimness comes from a small window above the steering wheel in the stern.
There’s a hushed silence as the broad shoulders of Vladimir make their way through the heaving mass to the stern.
“Welcome aboard. I am the second mate and safety officer. We have in this lifeboat some water, some foods and fishing equipment. Now we’re starting the engine and check. Please.”
Vladimir turns to another Russian crew member, who presses the starter motor. The engine splutters to life. Oars hang from the ceiling in the event that all else fails.
Vladimir declares matter-of-factly: “Our lifeboat in good condition.”
Everyone laughs nervously.
We’ll only be using the lifeboats if Igor decides the Shokalskiy offers absolutely no protection. With wild seas, near-freezing temperatures, and the threat of bergs and sea ice, getting into a lifeboat in the Southern Ocean is only a last resort. With the vessel’s sense of claustrophobia, the darkness, and the choking smoke from the engine, the possibility of using it as refuge is not something to dwell on.
* * *
The last thirty-six hours has been madness. Even before the Shokalskiy docked in Bluff’s harbor, we pulled out and checked over all the gear and samples. We kept anything needed for the second leg on board and carefully packaged everything else to return home with the team cycling off. The first leg was a good test of our kit, to find what worked, what didn’t, what needed modifying and what we were missing. During the day, replacements were bought in Invercargill; broken gear repaired; water tanks topped up; equipment and supplies restocked and restowed; cabins made ready for our new shipmates. For good or bad, we’ve done all we can. If we’ve forgotten anything now we’ll have to make do. Everything depends on the team.
I’m sorry we’ve lost most of the team from the first leg, but I can’t help being excited by those who have joined us for the longer voyage. Early on in the planning, we decided against advertising to fill the science roles on the expedition. You have absolutely no idea who will apply. Science attracts people on all parts of the spectrum. Like any walk of life, science has its prima donnas, control freaks, and loners. I’ve known colleagues who go to work in a dressing-gown, some who bark, some who just stare at their feet. They may be world-class
researchers, but that doesn’t mean you want to be stuck on a boat with them for weeks on end. Chris and I wanted passionate professionals, who were optimistic and like-minded. And most important, people we could rely on. Confidence in your team is of crucial importance. In a hazardous environment like the Antarctic, you have to trust those to whom you give instructions. Your life might depend on it.
Graeme, Kerry-Jayne, and Eleanor have all worked in the Antarctic before and agreed to remain on board for the second leg, helping us to link the research on the subantarctics with Cape Denison. To replace Emma for the work on the seabed, smiling Argentinian Ziggy Marzinelli has stepped up, a giant of a man with one of the bushiest beards I’ve ever seen. And for working on penguins and seals, marine biologist Tracey Rogers is joining us with two Ph.D. students Naysa Balcazar-Carbrera and Alicia Guerrero, Chileans with a burning passion for the Antarctic. Dark haired, with an easy-going manner, Tracey is a world expert on how mammals cope in changing environments, having researched the Antarctic since the 1990s. We’re extremely lucky to have Tracey on the team.
In a previous life, Chris was an oceanographer but, with all his responsibilities on the expedition, knew he wouldn’t have the time to take on what would be a large part of the research program. We want to make best use of our time at sea and needed someone to take on this role; ideally a rising star in the field, keen to communicate the excitement of what we were doing. With blond curly hair, an irrepressible sense of humor and an exceptional career for someone in his early thirties, Erik van Sebille agreed in his clipped Dutch accent even before I’d finished making the offer in Sydney: “I’ll do it, Chris. That sounds so cool.”
Others have joined us to complement the science work. As recommended by Greg, I invited Andrew Peacock to be the expedition’s chief medical officer. Tall, athletic, and square-jawed, Andrew’s been around the world as an expedition doctor and award-winning photographer, and his no-nonsense attitude immediately instils confidence. To support Andrew, we have Mandarin-speaking Ph.D. student and St John’s medic Colin Tan, who dazzled us with his YouTube application, and we’ve also managed to convince Ben Fisk to stay. Ben was only supposed to be on the first leg, but Chris and I were so impressed by his enthusiasm and professionalism we asked him to remain with us for the second. Crucially, the three medics give us plenty of flexibility when we’re operating off and around the ship; no one will ever be far from medical support if needed. Alongside these, Australian expeditioner and history lecturer Ben Maddison is joining us. Ben has decades of Antarctic experience, making him a natural choice for supporting the logistics on and about the ice, while his boyish charm will be a great help organizing the lecture program for the volunteers on the voyage.
Last night we held the expedition briefing for the second leg in a room at the front of the Kelvin Hotel in central Invercargill. Forty-eight scientists, volunteers, and media crammed into a space meant for half that number. It was a surprisingly warm summer evening, and with almost no ventilation the room was stifling. I started the evening with an introduction to the expedition: what we hoped to achieve, who the science team were, the roles of everyone on board, and how things had gone so far. Greg followed. Softly spoken, he described the logistics for departure: where everyone would be picked up and when, and how the baggage would get to the Shokalskiy. As Greg spoke, I scanned the room and put names to faces. The selection of volunteers was the part of the preparations I had least control over.
Antarctic expeditioners can be an even crazier bunch than scientists. You meet all sorts, from inspirational individuals who have achieved remarkable personal feats of physical and mental endurance—triumphs I can never hope to emulate—to those desperate to return home with frostbite scars as some weird, screwed-up way of showing how macho they are. When Greg advertised berths for sale on the expedition, Chris and I weren’t sure who we’d get. We wanted enthusiastic volunteers who would work alongside the scientists on board—people willing to get up at any hour to help drop equipment off a rolling deck into the Southern Ocean, people who wouldn’t think twice about taking ocean measurements from a couple of feet of sea ice. Perhaps because we were up-front about it being a science expedition, we didn’t get anyone who was a testosterone-pumped psycho. Instead we were oversubscribed with educators, IT experts, wine-makers, and psychiatrists.
There’s a full mix of ages and life experiences in the room. Cara and Robert are the youngest on the team. Elizabeth, a retired teacher, may be the oldest at seventy-six, but she has an extraordinary amount of energy and is feisty with it. We have Janet, a Green senator-elect for the Australian federal parliament, making copious notes. Kerry-Lee, a Chinese banker, is seated in the front row concentrating on all that’s being said. I met Terry and Rob in Adelaide during one of the many talks I’ve given around Australia and New Zealand; with day jobs in advertising and computer management, both have broad grins on their faces in anticipation of the trip. None of them have been to the East Antarctic before.
We also have three journalists. Over the years, I’ve been interviewed by The Guardian on its weekly science podcast. The success of this series is in no small part thanks to its host Alok Jha, a personable and witty man with the most extraordinary mop of dark hair, which seemingly has a life of its own, including a cult following on Twitter as @AloksHair. Regardless of the topic, Alok has a remarkable ability to distil the most complex ideas into beautiful prose that makes you care about science, which is something I’m deeply envious of. Last year Alok mentioned he’d love to go to Antarctica, and I couldn’t resist asking if he’d like to join the expedition. With offices in London, New York and Sydney, The Guardian were supportive and, after several calls and meetings, offered international coverage in both print and online, with a dedicated web page “Antarctica live” to follow the progress of the expedition. In fact, they were so enthusiastic they asked if cameraman Laurence Topsham could come along as well. A gentle giant of a man—he towers above me, and I’m 6′ 2”—Laurence had recently returned from the Arctic and was keen to get south. During our planning, Alok also introduced me to Andrew Luck-Baker, a radio producer, sound man, and interviewer with the BBC. Andrew offered to do four radio shows for the World Service, broadcasting while we’re in the Antarctic. It was a complete no-brainer. I offered all three of them berths on the Shokalskiy with internet access for filing their reports home. If we wanted to show science in action and tell the world about our discoveries, we couldn’t have hoped for better.
* * *
We ride out into the Southern Ocean on the back of a high-pressure system, the wind a steady ten knots from the southwest. The conditions don’t bode well. Our sea crossing looks like it’s going to be rougher than the first leg and a lot more unpleasant. We’re sailing along the edge of the Campbell Plateau, a vast submarine tableland extending off New Zealand. When we visited the Auckland and Campbell islands we were lucky. Sailors speak with the greatest respect of these waters, and rightly so. The Campbell Plateau is notorious for its wild, stormy seas, caused by the exceptionally steep relief of the seabed near our position. The easterly flowing currents in these parts have traveled thousands of miles, uninterrupted by any landmass, and with an average depth of nearly three miles, across some of the deepest oceans on the planet. When these waters meet the start of the Campbell Plateau, the effect can be devastating on the surface. Over a mere forty miles, this huge body of water suddenly finds itself forced up and over a sheer cliff of rock and mud into shallows only a third of a mile deep. The upshot is that even a moderate breeze can create a scene from The Tempest. By the time we’re out in open water we have a twenty-knot wind, and the Shokalskiy is swaying . . . a lot. What was a gentle pitch leaving Bluff has turned into a roller-coaster, with a ten-foot swell swinging the vessel 20 degrees from one side to the other; it’s the hangover of a storm that recently passed away to the south.
We have three days before our first stop at subantarctic Macquarie Island. Three precious days at sea to settle in,
catch our breath and find our sea legs. Inside the Shokalskiy, I’m learning to anticipate the ever-changing angles. For the unwary, one moment you’re walking along the corridor, the next you’re being unceremoniously slammed into the wall. The rails along the walls have become my best friend as I hang on tight, carefully choosing when to commit to the next big stride down the corridor. I’m one
of the lucky few; the constant rolling has had a more immediate effect on others. Within a day of departing Bluff, all but the strongest of stomachs are in bed. Greg warned the team of this, with the promise that for all but the worst cases, everyone would have their sea legs in a couple of days. It’s providing little comfort.
Within a few hours of leaving Bluff, Alok catches me in the corridor outside the dining room. He looks in pain. “You never said it would be this bad.”
Before I can respond to Alok’s complaint, he dashes to his cabin, the door slamming behind him, and I don’t see him or many of the others again for the first day.
Annette and Cara are two of the worst sufferers. I never anticipated just how ill they might be.
“Why didn’t you tell me you suffered so much from sea-sickness?” I ask Annette as she lies in our bunk, trying to remain as still as possible. Although our cabin is relatively spacious, its position at the top of the Shokalskiy means it’s lurching more than most.
“I didn’t think it would be this bad,” she replies. That’s just like Annette, never wanting to make a fuss. Cara feels terrible and a little teary. She and Robert are in their own cabin on the main deck. The room may be two floors down, but it’s not making much difference. Cara hasn’t the strength to get out of bed, so I go and find her a bucket, then stroke her hair to try to comfort her. It’s rotten being sea-sick. You feel ill, tired, thirsty, and heady, all at the same time. There’s little relief apart from drugs, rest, lots of rest and more drugs. Sea-sickness feels like it will never end. You just want to curl up and die, anything to stop the pain.
