by Chris Turney
I go to the medical room on the upper deck and find Andrew at his desk, surrounded by cabinets filled with dressings and ointments. Like all medical areas, the place smells of bleach. True to form, Andrew is completely untouched by the constant rolling and has spent most of the day dispensing sea-sickness pills like they’re going out of fashion. It’s not the most riveting of jobs, but it does mean he, Ben, and Colin have managed to meet almost everyone on the team within the first twenty-four hours. I ask Andrew whether he can check on Cara and Annette.
“Sure, mate,” he says happily in his broad Australian accent. Within half an hour, the patients have been reassured, plied with drugs and are passed out asleep.
“Thanks, Andrew, it’s crap seeing them like this.”
“No worries, Chris. They’ll be right in a couple of days,” he says, and heads off to finish his rounds.
Robert is far more buoyant. “Dad, I’m feeling all right,” he tells me proudly. “It’s just Mum and Cara, isn’t it?”
Minutes later, though, he feels queasy and runs down to his cabin to hide for the rest of the day.
Bless him.
We’ll be off the Campbell Plateau soon. It will be a lot calmer then.
* * *
The following day, I wake to find the winds have eased off and we’ve reached deeper water. I can tell this even before I get upstairs—the steps to the bridge don’t feel like a bucking bronco. The effect on everyone is instantaneous; it’s as if they’ve been wakened from a long sleep. Suddenly the lounge and corridors are filled with life. People are moving around, chatting good-naturedly and getting to know one another, familiarizing themselves with the layout of their new surroundings. Annette and Cara aren’t at their brightest, but at least they’re up. Robert has made a full recovery and is bouncing around, full of the joys of spring, no doubt helped a little by knowing his poor sister is still suffering.
Other smiling faces appear. Names become personalities. There’s nineteen-year-old Taylor studying media at university; Sean, who wants to be a professional expeditioner; Pat, who’s just graduated with a degree in science and commerce. Kerry, a smiling bundle of energy, is an expeditioner in her own right; she was part of the first Australian 2007 kayaking team—and one of the first two women—to make the pioneering 1,200-mile crossing between New Zealand and Australia. Mary is a bubbly woman who is a human resources coach in her day job; Joanne, a smiling, generous educator who works for the New South Wales government. Psychiatrist and keen wildlife photographer Muru and his pharmacist son Vik are taking their first Antarctic voyage together. “I promise I won’t be analysing anyone, Chris,” Muru assures me. And out on deck, I find Estelle walking the ship; quiet and athletic, keen to keep fit when she’s not working with the scientists on board.
Our first destination is Macquarie Island, 2 degrees south of Campbell. “Macca,” as it’s popularly known, is a World Heritage site and famed for its stunning natural environment. Sitting on the boundary of the Indo-Australian and Pacific tectonic plates, it’s a magnet for scientists and tourists. When Mawson’s captain, John King Davis—affectionately known to his crew as “Gloomy Davis”—first surveyed the shallow waters around Macquarie with the Aurora, he speculated he might have found a long-hoped-for drowned land bridge between Australia and Antarctica. This bridge was widely thought at the time to be the explanation for the similar wildlife observed across the southern continents. With the discovery of plate tectonics, we now know that by a geological quirk, a section of the sea floor was squeezed to the surface 700,000 years ago, creating the narrow twenty-one-mile island. The result is that Macca is the only place in the world where you can study what’s happening three miles below your feet without having to compete with temperatures over 350F and pressure a thousand times that of the surface. While the geology is unique, the big attraction is undoubtedly its stunning wildlife. The island is just north of where polar and subtropical ocean waters meet, making the offshore waters incredibly rich in nutrients and capable of supporting vast colonies of king penguins—second only to emperors in size. Throw in rockhopper penguins, elephant seals and albatrosses, and you have a nature-lover’s dream.
Arranging our visit to Macquarie wasn’t easy. Putting aside the fact that the island is battered by westerly winds and surrounded by one of the most inhospitable seas in the world, its Tasmanian administrators are fiercely protective of their charge. With an Australian Antarctic Division research station at the northern end of the island, the approval process can be most charitably described as protracted. A visit demands negotiating a minefield of departments, committees, and never-ending requests for details that threaten to suck the life out of any research program. After months of emails and phone calls, all we have to show for our efforts is a permit to visit the tourist areas—under strict supervision—and approval for a very limited amount of scientific work. And to top it all, permission arrived just five days before we departed. In some ways, it’s strangely reassuring. Mawson only received his approval six days before leaving Hobart. Some things never change.
The problem is, I’m not sure we’re even going to get to Macquarie. There’s a beautiful clear sky overhead, but clouds are forming in the distance, and the sea surface is looking decidedly messy. White-crested waves are breaking around me, stark against the granite-gray sea. I search the horizon with my binoculars and can just make out the island. We’re getting close, maybe within ten miles or so. An hour, perhaps?
A large wave crashes over the bow.
Maybe longer. This isn’t a good scenario for landing at an island with no natural harbor.
I head to the bridge to find out what’s happening. Compared to the windy deck, it feels wonderfully warm. Down below I find Kerry-Jayne at her post, up front on the port side. Since we left Bluff, Kerry-Jayne has been taking seabird observations every hour. She’s also been patiently training some of the volunteers to help her identify key species as they sweep across the bow of the Shokalskiy. Volunteers stand by, binoculars at the ready for anything that Kerry-Jayne might miss. It’s just one of the many tasks they’re helping the science team with. When the ten minutes are up, Kerry-Jayne will head outside to the stern of the ship and check the numbers tally with the previous observations; she’s only stopping for meals and sleep, all the way to Commonwealth Bay.
There’s a cry of delight from everyone on the bridge when Macquarie looms from the clouds on the horizon.
“We’re nearly there, Chris!” Mary calls from the window. “I can’t believe we’re nearly there.”
It’s reassuring to see land. Whether we make it onto shore or not is another matter.
“It’s a sight for sore eyes, isn’t it, Mary? All that vacuuming will be worth it.”
Just like when we went to the New Zealand subantarctic islands, our visit has to be carefully prepared for. Most of last night was spent in the lounge and on deck emptying pockets, scrubbing boots and vacuum-cleaning jackets and bags, inside and out. It was all done with good humor, but the fear of introducing a pest meant everyone had to be checked and double-checked. Velcro straps proved to be particularly bad; grass seeds have a knack for refusing to budge.
Igor is busy giving instructions to third mate Dmitri as he brings the Shokalskiy in toward the island. I don’t disturb him. On the ship, we’ve split the responsibilities for the expedition in three. I handle the science program and give the briefings. Chris is in charge of the logistics and making sure all the equipment is ready for the day’s work. Greg, our point of contact with the Shokalskiy’s captain and crew, coordinates with the Heritage staff on board; when we get to the ice, he’ll be in charge of operations. This division of work helps reduce confusion with the ship’s crew and minimizes any duplication of effort. There’s inevitably some overlap, but it builds on everyone’s strengths and seems to be working well.
“How’s it looking, Greg?” I ask.
“Not good, Chris. It’s pretty choppy out there. We can’t get the Zodiacs off the ship a
nd land them safely on the beach. The wind’s just too strong at the moment. Over the past twenty-four hours, it’s been coming in from the north. It’s edging round to the northwest, but not nearly enough to calm things down.”
We’re drawing up alongside the eastern side of the island now. It’s a beautiful view. Even though we’ve only been at sea for three days, the vibrant green slopes are a welcome sight. There’s so much life. Albatrosses, petrels, and shearwaters sweep around our ship, weaving between the waves, skimming just above the surface. King penguins play in the water, diving one moment, looking up at us the next. A couple of orcas—more popularly known by their less politically correct name “killer whales”—swim by, their distinctive narrow fins breaking the surface. Picking up one of the binoculars on the bridge, I look out to the long, low isthmus at the northern end of the island and make out the Australian Antarctic Division research station. The buildings, power generators and a satellite communication dome sit just below Wireless Hill, where Mawson’s relay station sent expedition messages and weather observations back to Australia a century ago. I can even discern the dark line of fuel tanks with “Macquarie Island” spelled out on them in white paint. It’s frustratingly close. Unfortunately, the cliffs and beaches are obscured by crashing waves. Even if we could get a team into the Zodiacs, landing on the coast isn’t going to be safe. We don’t want to end up smashed on the beach.
We’ve planned for two days at Macquarie, and if we need to stay longer we will lose precious time at Cape Denison. The weekly Australian Antarctic Division sea ice reports and other imagery we’ve been receiving via our satellite hook-up shows a route through to the northern edge of Commonwealth Bay, but we can’t assume it will remain open. We’ll need to be flexible when we’re in the ice, and I’m loath to fall behind our schedule before we’ve really started.
Suddenly, the radio on the bridge comes to life. “You’re bobbing around like a cork, over,” calls the Macquarie Base Commander cheerily.
“Thanks, Macquarie,” Greg replied. “It feels like it.”
The Shokalskiy is rocking almost as much as when we were on the Campbell Plateau, and it’s threatening to get worse. We look at the weather forecast with Igor. The winds don’t seem likely to change enough for at least another twenty-four hours. I make the call. “Let’s leave it, Greg. We’ll do Macquarie on the way back.”
He nods in agreement. Macca will have to wait for our return. The weather isn’t looking good for the next few days, and we could be waiting around a long time before getting onshore. Persevering could have a big knock-on effect farther south.
“On your way back, feel free to pop in,” the Base Commander says breezily as we bring up the anchor to leave.
* * *
I walk out on the main deck and look over the starboard side. It’s ten o’clock at night, a day since we left Macquarie Island. We’re at 58 degrees south. The temperature may have dropped to a chilly 40F but it’s a beautiful evening: the clouds have lifted, the sun is shining, and the ocean is almost gentle. We’re getting close to the Antarctic as defined by the Treaty. The air temperature certainly feels like it.
The disappointment of bypassing Macquarie yesterday has quickly passed, helped in no small part by the energy of Erik and Chris. As soon as we reached open water, they set about getting an ambitious thirty-six-hour oceanographic experiment underway. During the last few days, Erik has been busy emailing the land-based team members, interrogating the latest satellite imagery, to find out where the cold, nutrient-rich polar waters of the Antarctic clash and mix with the warmer northern waters, a crucial driver of the ocean conveyor belt that helps maintain the world’s climate. This convergence of different waters should be close to Macquarie Island, but it rarely stays in any one place for long, as it meanders across the Southern Ocean. Although the ocean surface might look the same, somewhere up ahead there’s a sharp temperature difference of several degrees over just a few miles, a phenomenon the satellites can pick up and guide us to.
The problem is that no one really knows just how much mixing takes place across the Antarctic Convergence. To try to answer this question, we’ve brought all manner of gear for dropping a hundred miles either side of this important ocean front, some of which bears a strong resemblance to children’s toys. A key piece of kit is the Argo floats, confusingly bearing the same name as our all-terrain vehicles. These torpedo-shaped devices are designed to drift freely between the surface and a depth of 1.5 miles, measuring temperature and salinity as they go. Every few days for four years or so, they’ll return to the surface and transmit their collected data to a satellite as part of an international program to monitor the world’s oceans. Alongside the Argos we’ll be deploying drifter buoys, made up of a plastic float tethered to what’s lovingly known as a “holey-sock,” a forty-five-foot column of fabric similar in appearance to a kid’s play tunnel but with holes in the sides to minimize turbulence in the water. The holey-sock hangs below the surface to act as a sail in the ocean currents, giving an accurate measure of surface water drift and relaying its position home via satellite. We’ll download this precious data on our return home over the coming months. To complement all this, we’ll also be using temperature probes known as Expendable Bathythermographs (or XBTs for short) that will be fired into the ocean from a launcher that looks like a toy gun. As the probe drops to the sea floor, it relays the temperature back along a spool of uncoiling copper wire connected to a computer on board.
All this doesn’t come cheap. The Argos alone cost somewhere around US$15,000 each, and the drifters US$1,800. Fortunately, the American National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration have helped out. If all goes well, we should get the first accurate picture of mixing across the Convergence, a real coup for the expedition. I briefly considered doing the experiment on our return, but Erik is keen to get on with the work.
“Let’s get it done, Chris. We know where the front is, and the weather’s good for dropping the gear off the rear deck. We might not be so lucky on the way back.”
I couldn’t really argue with that.
There’s a strict schedule for when and where the deployments have to take place if we’re to get the information Erik wants. We only have one shot at getting it right, and to do so we need bodies. Erik has given a lecture about the planned work that has fired up the whole ship, taking people’s minds off Macquarie. Almost everyone has signed up to the various time slots posted on the noticeboard.
As I walk toward the rear lower deck to start my shift, Erik is busy finishing off with the previous group completing their four-hour shift. Chris has been coordinating the deployments during the day and is now having a well-earned sleep.
Erik cheerily calls out a welcome to me. He’s excited. I peer into the lab and look down the list of deployments. Over the thirty hours that have run so far, something has been put over the side every fifteen minutes. We’ve dropped around $80,000 of kit into the Southern Ocean.
“Great effort, guys,” I say, impressed at how much has been done. Smiling but weary, people stagger off to bed.
Joined by Tracey, Colin, and Janet, we work under Erik’s careful direction over the next four hours. In the lab off the rear deck, Erik checks the coordinates on the computer and estimates the time we’ll be on station. The VHF is turned to Channel 73 and a quick call up to the bridge confirms the location. Ten minutes later we drop our first Argo float over the side. A quarter of an hour later, Erik is counting down for us to drop a pair of floats off the back of the Shokalskiy: ten, nine, eight . . . three, two, one. Go! Timing is key. To work out just how much mixing is going on in the surface waters, the drifters have to hit the surface at precisely the same time. Another fifteen minutes pass, and we take it in turns to fire the XBTs into the surging water below. On the hour, we drag a long funnel net behind the back of the ship and trawl for plankton and other living organisms in the ocean surface. And then fifteen minutes after that we do it all again. It’s long, hard work and we have to ke
ep our wits about us. By one in the morning, the sun has finally set and we turn on the deck’s halogen lights, piercing the darkness. An albatross briefly sweeps into view, its ten-foot wingspan lit up against the gray mass beyond, and then it’s gone. We work in silence apart from the hum of the ship’s engine and the breaking waves, concentrating on the job at hand. I can see my breath in the air. It really is getting cold. Large swells roll past, sometimes breaking over the deck. We’re wearing life vests, but our wet feet are a reminder that we’re only inches from near-freezing waters. If anyone fell in they would only have minutes before succumbing to the cold; it’s highly unlikely we’d be able to get them out in time.
“We’ve just finished a trawl,” I call out to Erik. “How about I go and get hot drinks for everyone?”
There’s an enthusiastic murmur of agreement, and I dash up to the lounge. Shortly after, I’m precariously balancing a tray of steaming mugs of tea and coffee down the steps to the waiting team. It’s not a complete success, but most of the contents are delivered. The effect is almost instantaneous. Within moments the team are cupping their drinks contentedly, chatting and laughing, sharing stories from the increasingly distant lives we had before the Shokalskiy.
Erik is smiling. “Chris, come and check this out.”
He leads me through the open door of the lab into the wet room at the back, its bright lights almost blinding me. A laptop is set up on the side table, reds, greens, and blues filling the screen. It’s a plot of the temperatures we’ve measured. When the first teams started over thirty hours ago, the surface was a relatively warm 41 F. We’re now in the blue. The sea surface is down to 34F.
