Iced In

by Chris Turney

  There’s no way I’m showing any of their comments to the family or the rest of the team. I close up the laptop. We have enough on our plate.

  * * *

  Although the attempt to reach Paulet Island had failed, the men of the Endurance were still confident they would get home. Yes, it would take longer than planned but all was not lost. After they had abandoned ship, Worsley, the very captain who had been in tears on the order to abandon ship, wrote, “I don’t think we have a genuine pessimist amongst us all. Certainly a good deal of our cheerfulness is due to the order and routine which Sir E. establishes wherever he settles down.”

  Routine was something the men desperately needed. Structure to the day helped keep doubts at bay. Shackleton reasoned:

  The task now was to secure the safety of the party, and to that I must bend my energies and mental power and apply every bit of knowledge that experience of the Antarctic had given me. The task was likely to be long and strenuous, and an ordered mind and a clear program were essential if we were to come through without loss of life.

  As a result, camp call was at eight o’clock in the morning, breakfast half an hour later. The schedule for the morning included hunting for seals, exercising the remaining dogs, taking weather observations, and tidying up the camp. Emergency drills were regularly held in case the ice suddenly broke up. Lunch was at one o’clock, and the afternoon was spent as personal time to allow reading, walking, and writing up diaries. A thick seal or penguin soup known as hoosh was served at five-thirty in the afternoon, followed soon after by sleep.

  Now they were staying, gear and supplies were salvaged from the remains of the nearby wreck. A wooden observational tower was built on the edge of camp, and a clothesline put up. The food taken off the Endurance would only last so long. So, to supplement their meagre rations, hundreds of penguins were killed: “the skins reserved for fuel, the legs for hooch, the breasts for steaks, and the livers and hearts for delicacies,” as Hurley macabrely described their diet after the ordeal. Hurley even managed to improvise a stove from salvaged oil drums that used seal blubber and penguin skins for fuel.

  The men were divided between the five tents, each individual chosen by Shackleton to complement the others. Against every natural instinct, he shared a tent with those who might cause trouble or were struggling with their situation. With his big ego and combative style, Hurley joined the tent along with anxious scientist Reginald James and an argumentative navigator, Hubert Hudson. In the tent, Shackleton confided in Hurley and soon the Australian was waxing lyrical about the expedition leader in his diary; any immediate threat to the Anglo-Irishman’s leadership had been averted. Meanwhile, the men were encouraged to talk, to keep their minds off their predicament. After a year together, there were still new topics to explore that would help pass the time. The progress of the war was a popular point of discussion, but conversations also went to weird and wonderful places. Hurley described the talks they had on

  the arts and crafts of Ancient Egypt, comparisons of the social life of London, New York and Paris, etc. Then we had debates on such varied subjects as the birth rate, the liquor question, the mysteries of lighthouse optics, ship construction . . . disputations were referred to the arbitration of the Encyclopaedia Britannica.

  In a later interview, James remarked upon Shackleton’s lack of formality in the tent:

  We had great discussion about all manner of things. One of his great arguments was in favour of “practical” scientific research as against pure. He had, or said he had, little use for pure science and thought our efforts should be directed to practical lines. I used to take the other view and we would argue at length but never get anywhere.

  To avoid any accusations of favoritism and ill-feeling, Shackleton very publicly shared everything. He couldn’t risk any dissent or bad feeling; if anyone was given special treatment, the rest would soon learn of it. There were few secrets among the men. All decisions were made in full public view to stop whispering and future dissent. Lots were drawn for the extra-warm sleeping-bags. Everyone took a one-hour watch every other night. Shackleton used a tried-and-tested method for meals: “Whose-ing.” A member of the team would ask another to turn their back and give a name for each serving of seal or penguin steak. No one could claim they were badly treated. Any difference in size of portion was just down to luck.

  The photographs taken by Hurley remained on the wreck, left on board when they evacuated. With the march to Paulet Island temporarily halted, he returned to retrieve what he could. Most of the vessel was now submerged, barely on the surface. Stripping to his waist, Hurley hacked through the walls and recovered his photographic glass plate negatives soldered in boxes under “four feet of mushy ice.” They were far too heavy to take on any future march, so a few days later he sat down with Shackleton and chose the best 120 images, destroying the remaining 400 to stop the temptation of going back. He kept a small Kodak camera and two rolls of film for the rest of the journey.

  Entertainment remained an important focus for the men. Hussey later recalled Shackleton retrieved his banjo from the wardroom in the near-destroyed Endurance, leaving the gramophone and its perceived bad luck behind. Hussey was concerned about its weight and asked Shackleton whether they should take it. “Yes, certainly,” Shackleton replied. “It’s vital mental medicine, and we shall need it.” After this, Hussey went from tent to tent most nights, where the men sang, smoked, and laughed. When it was warm enough, the gloves could be taken off and cards played; bridge and poker became hugely popular for a time, and generous winnings were promised on return to civilization.

  It seemed to work. Shackleton reassured himself, regularly noting the words “everyone cheerful” in his diary entries, but the men do appear to have been genuinely happy. The expedition doctor Macklin expressed a common view: “I feel just as happy here as I did when I was in hospital with all the comforts . . . If we come through alive and safe it will be a great experience to look on.” And yet observations by Worsley showed their camp was drifting north, but only very slowly. They were in a precarious situation. “It is beyond conception, even to us,” wrote Hurley, “that we are dwelling on a colossal ice raft, with but five feet of ice separating us from 2000 fathoms of ocean and drifting along under the caprices of wind and tides, to heaven knows where.”

  * * *

  The sun has come out this afternoon, and there’s not a breath of wind. The temperature is above freezing. It’s actually warm.

  It’s too good an opportunity to pass and we reopen the large ice floe alongside the ship. Most of the team have taken the opportunity to stretch their legs on something that’s not a metal floor, turning their name tags and going out on the ice with life vests. Half a dozen of the team are acting as lookouts for any problems. It’s a perfect day for a walk.

  With the improvement in the conditions, some dark-gray clouds have appeared to the southeast. It’s the first water sky we’ve seen since Christmas Day. Igor immediately calls up Captain Wang on the Xue Long and asks whether the Chinese helicopter would explore the area to see how distant the sea-ice edge is. It’s possible it might be breaking up.

  “No problem,” comes the reply.

  Might we still get out of here? I don’t dare to hope.

  Leaving the bridge, I go out onto the floe, where around thirty of the team are milling about. Down on the ice, I’m immediately struck by just how large the surrounding pressure ridges actually are. They seem big from the ship, but down here they really are enormous, with many of the blocks towering above. I feel a pang of pity for Shackleton and his men trying to drag sledges and boats through this stuff. How on earth did they cut a path through miles and miles of sea ice? I’m just grateful we haven’t had to make an attempt to reach the continent. It looks completely impassable. I shiver at what we were forced to consider just a few days ago.

  And we’re only seeing the 10 to 20 percent on the surface.

  No wonder the poor Xue Long hasn’t made any further progr
ess.

  At the bottom of the gangway stairs, I step around a large block of ice toward the floe when I suddenly hear Robert. “Hi, Dad.”

  I turn to see the little man dressed in full outdoor gear. He’s hard at work with Sean and Kerry, digging out and carving the ice to make a slide. He’s hot and sweaty but having a great time. Climbing a few steps he’s cut, he says: “Check this out!”

  He promptly slides down to my feet, laughing.

  “That’s awesome, mate. You’ve done that quickly.”

  “Oh, we’ve been put to work,” Kerry says meaningfully.

  They have grand plans to make a theme park, and I leave them discussing the next stage of the works. Nearby I can see Annette and Cara taking photos of a curious Adélie penguin that’s come over to find out what all the fuss is about. No matter where we are, Adélies always seem to pop up.

  I suddenly hear an unusual noise in the distance and make out a large red helicopter approaching. There are cries of excitement as people point out the aircraft. The helicopter circles the floe and ship, the sound of the blades cutting the air with a deep throbbing. It’s a double rotor Kamov Ka-32. Normally a threatening-looking machine, today it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. It’s our first tangible contact with other human beings since Macquarie Island. It hovers only a couple of hundred feet above us. Everyone stops and waves excitedly. It seems so close.

  Surely, we’re going to get out of here soon?

  Our would-be saviors don’t stay long, however. A bank of fog rolls in from the southeast, and the captain calls the helicopter back to the Xue Long. The search to the southeast will have to wait.

  Maybe tomorrow.

  Silence returns. We’re on our own again.

  I inspect the surface. The warmer conditions are turning the snow to slush. It’s getting so soft around the Shokalskiy that the ship has tilted 4 degrees back the other way; Igor is going to have to readjust the ballast to level the ship up. I’m sinking up to my knees in places. I find Chris and we decide to send everyone back on board. It would be safer. The call is made on the VHF and slowly people head back to the ship.

  We linger behind to speak. I enjoy the brief moment of freedom to talk about anything but our predicament as we grab the last of the gear left on the floe. After a few minutes, we have everything and stumble through the slush back toward the Shokalskiy.

  I suddenly hear a howl of laughter from the ship. I can’t make out whose it is, but stepping forward I see Ziggy on the rear deck, his head thrown back in laughter, pointing toward Robert’s ice slide. The only clue to what’s going on is Ben Fisk looking aghast on the other side.

  There’s a high-pitched shriek of mock indignation.

  “What’s going on?” I ask Chris, who appears equally perplexed.

  Suddenly I make out a white bikini-clad figure struggling to cover herself in front of a camera tripod.

  It’s Kerry-Lee taking a selfie on the ice.

  Why not?

  * * *

  It’s been a roller-coaster of a day. We’ve gone from narrowly averting a major breakdown in team morale to a bikini shoot. Bloody Antarctica. Nothing is ever straightforward.

  I’m up on the top deck finishing off the last of the interviews Alvin has arranged for today. I need some sleep but hear steps behind me. Turning, I see Igor walking over, wearing a remarkably dark pair of glasses.

  “Chris, I want to speak to Russia TV.”

  The Russian press has been some of the most fiercely interested in the expedition. After all, we are on a Russian ship with Russian crew. So far, however, the team on board have been reticent about doing interviews. Vlad has asked me to send a message to his wife, but no one has wanted to do anything public. It struck me as odd, given some of the media over there started reporting our predicament with a loss of life. The panicked calls from Russian families was a major factor in our decision to report what’s happening. Igor now wants to speak to Russians to reassure anyone left in doubt.

  Two Russian television networks have been particularly keen to speak to Igor. I call them up on Skype and they jump at the chance. It’s getting late, and the sun is dipping in the sky. Igor seems completely oblivious to the falling temperature and speaks calmly in Russian, almost matter-of-factly, taking each interview in turn, evidently describing all that’s happened. It’s a remarkably calm performance.

  I can’t help but be impressed. Here’s a man at whom Nature has lobbed a massive grenade. He’s under immense personal pressure, but carries on with courage and fortitude, completely composed.

  Finished, Igor passes me the microphone. “Done, Chris. Good.”

  Satisfied, he nods at me, turns and heads back to his bridge, his ship.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Keeping It Together

  Through a fog of sleep, I can hear the heavy strike of snow on the cabin porthole. A snowstorm must be blowing outside. I know it’s time to get up and find out what’s happening, but after only a few hours’ rest, I’m struggling to open my eyes.

  It’s 30 December. We’ve been trapped for a week.

  Annette stirs as I’m dressing.

  “I don’t want you to stay on the Shokalskiy,” she says abruptly.

  Last night, Annette was deep in conversation with Tracey. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time.

  Tracey has spent many seasons in the Antarctic. She’s been on the Aurora Australis trapped in sea ice. She’s seen it all before, and she’s worried. I don’t blame her one bit. I’ve tried to allay Tracey’s fears during and after briefings, but you can’t brush off years of experience; you have to respect people’s concerns. It’s a fine line, especially when you don’t want fear spreading through the wider group.

  “I know you want to stay, but Tracey says those icebergs could start moving any time. If something happens, no one will be able to help you.”

  Annette’s almost in tears. I go to hug her, but she backs away.

  I’ve lost sight of how distressed my wife is. I don’t quite know what to say.

  Over the last couple of days, I’ve started thinking about remaining with the ship and continuing the science if the others are helicoptered out. Chris and a few other team members are keen. We might be stuck for weeks or even months, but if the Shokalskiy dodges the bergs and is released from the ice, we could finish the work we set out to do. Annette is terrified at the prospect and reminds me of my obligation to the volunteers.

  “They came here because of you. You can’t send them off alone. You have to make sure everyone gets home safe. And that includes you. If an iceberg comes through after we leave . . .”

  She leaves the sentence unfinished, hanging in the air.

  My mind is in turmoil. On one hand, I’m desperate to continue the science program and return home in the ship I’ve brought south. On the other, I’ll be putting the team in someone else’s care, on a ship I don’t know, and taking a terrible risk staying.

  Annette is absolutely right. I’m letting my desire to carry out science muddy my first priority. Everyone needs to get home safely, together. Just as Shackleton would have done. Nothing else matters.

  “You’re right, love. I’ll leave with everyone.” I feel a complete tit for even considering it.

  “Thank you, darling,” she says quietly.

  We hug. I’m so glad Annette’s here, always supportive but challenging me when it’s necessary. Remaining behind would have been a terrible call.

  I go up to the bridge in a somber mood. Nikolai is alone.

  “Morning, Nikolai. How are things?”

  He shrugs and shakes a downward-facing palm. “Not so bad, not so good.”

  Looking outside I can see what he means.

  The weather has lurched to another extreme. The wind has picked up, and the fog has returned. A steady thirty knots is blowing snow around the ship in visibility no more than a couple of hundred yards.

  Flicking through the logbook, I see the entry at two o’clock in the
morning: the Aurora Australis was just forty miles away.

  They’re making steady progress at six knots and heading east. Only twenty-four miles to go.

  Getting closer.

  Up on top, the wind, snow, and now rain are making the top deck treacherous. It’s absolutely miserable. We’re in the Antarctic, and it’s actually bloody raining. Mawson was at Cape Denison for two years and never saw a drop of rain. It wasn’t something we expected. I am really starting to loathe the A-factor.

  I check the weathervane. The wind has edged round to the northeast, bringing with it warmer air and this thick fog.

  The higher temperatures and change in winds don’t seem to be having any tangible effect on the sea ice. It may be over 30F but we’re still locked solid.

  Chris joins me up on the top deck.

  “Morning, mate,” I call as he comes over.

  “Morning,” he replies. “Lovely day.”

  I’m trying to shield the computer from the elements while I download the latest forecast and sea-ice images. I need a clear line of sight for the satellites, but the electronic gear is at risk from all the water blowing around. Chris quietly stands over my shoulder, sheltering me from the worst of it as I finish off.

  The top deck is one of the few places we can speak freely. The Shokalskiy’s engine stack offers some shelter from the wind. I look at my friend more closely. Heavy eyes stare back. It’s not just me. We’re both exhausted. Chris has been extraordinary, working behind the scenes with Greg, keeping everything together. It’s come at a price. This expedition is ageing us both terribly.

  We speak about Annette’s concerns, and Chris nods his head sympathetically. “I think she’s right. I’m not so sure about staying either.”

  I’m relieved. It’s good to know Chris is thinking the same. The different scenarios for getting out of here are paralyzing. I’m still clutching to the vain hope the Shokalskiy will be able to break out on its own, but even if today’s temperatures persist, I can’t see us getting out of here anytime soon. We’ll almost certainly have to be evacuated, and if so, we all need to go. We can’t risk anything happening to someone on the team. The science has to come second.