Safari

by Geoffrey Kent

  At the North Pole, the sun is seen to circle the horizon without setting for six months a year—then twilight descends and six months of night begins. That evening at dinner at the captain’s table, we learn that there is actually more than one North Pole! The geographical North Pole, at 90º north, is the place where in any one day the heavenly bodies circle at nearly the same height above the horizon. However, the magnetic North Pole is the place where the horizontal pull on a magnetic compass needle is almost nil and the needle will swing around trying to point downward. At this location, the earth’s invisible magnetic rays all come together. The exact geographical position of the magnetic North Pole moves from year to year around the Canadian Arctic. “Right now, it’s seven hundred fifty miles from the geographical North Pole,” the captain says. “But in another fifteen years, it will be about six hundred miles from where Sir James Clark Ross located it in 1831.”

  This place may be freezing, but it’s thoroughly fascinating. We spend the next two days trekking outdoors, wandering among the pressure ridges and spotting wildlife with binoculars. I’m taken with the great pillars of ice, with their cracks and chasms, the huge holes in them that lead down into the blue.

  The blue. There are so many shades of blue, the way the light pours into the ice and the ice pushes the light right back out. There’s a range of hues from aquamarine to sapphire, dazzling and rich like none I’ve ever seen.

  Back on board, we get good Russian caviar, cheeses, and soups for lunch and dinner; we also get the choice between Russian lessons, which I skip, and lectures from Arctic explorers and experts. Often I eat with Fred McLaren, the president of the Explorers Club, who tells me that as a naval submariner, he made three Arctic expeditions. On one of them, he was the first person ever to arrange a baseball game at the North Pole. The pitcher stood on the North Pole, and the aim was to hit the ball over the international dateline in the hopes that the ball could be caught yesterday and thrown back into tomorrow!

  Fred’s tone is a little more somber when he discusses how climate change is affecting the European Arctic seas. The oceans play a crucial part in absorbing carbon dioxide and redistributing heat, and the European Arctic is one of the world’s most important areas for deep cold water formation, a fundamental component of global oceanic circulation, and of global and regional climate regulation processes. Very sadly, current models predict that climate change will cause the temperature in the Arctic to rise to approximately twice as fast as the global average, which will affect land systems. If such warming reduces the snow and ice cover in the Arctic, the high level of solar energy reflected back into space from this region would in turn be reduced, and more solar energy would be absorbed by earth. Plus, deep water formation might also be reduced, and the ocean’s capacity to store carbon dioxide would lessen.

  This scientific understanding—albeit, still somewhat limited—does hit home with me. Fred tells me that the oceans have already risen a foot in the last one hundred years, and studies indicate they will rise between two and a half and six and a half feet by the year 2100. The effect is picking up frightening speed. He also says it is a fact that the ozone layer as a whole is getting thinner all the time, and it is only because of this very ozone layer that humans are able to exist on Earth. The disappearance of the ozone layer in itself is incredibly serious. I make note to research the topic some more when I return home and somehow get efforts in place to reduce A&K’s contribution to the problem.

  As we spend our very last day at the North Pole, members of the crew are playful, stepping onto the ice, hollering and sliding around like children. “You’re the adventurer, Mr. Kent,” says the captain. “Why aren’t you out there?”

  {A&K staff}

  Spotting polar bears from a helicopter.

  “Actually, I was thinking about a swim.”

  “A swim!” he says. “Fancy jumping in that ice cold water!”

  “How cold is it?”

  “Point-five degrees Celsius,” he says.

  Quickly I work it out: It’s close to thirty-three degrees—one degree Fahrenheit above freezing. “You know what?” I ask him. “I’m so happy we made it here, I’m going in.”

  “I’ll make you a bet.”

  “Go on.”

  “You’ll have vodka with me, and then you’ll dive in.”

  “Done.”

  “I haven’t finished yet, Mr. Kent,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “No wet suit.”

  “No wet suit!” It’s a schoolboys’ dare, pure male foolishness. “And if I freeze to death?”

  “An icebreaker maneuvers better than any boat in the world!” he says. “If you go under, we’ll come and get you.”

  I weigh a doubt for half a second. “Fine. I’m going in.”

  “Remember, Mr. Kent, I said only your swimsuit! Nothing else.”

  I look out at the hole of liquid ocean that the ship created when it cracked through the ice. Behind me, the captain has already gone inside for the bar. He’s pointing at me in jest, and in his proximity, Jorie’s looking at me with helplessness in her expression. I know what she’s thinking: the polo accident, my health . . . our future.

  By now she knows me too well.

  I step inside and head for my cabin. Standing over my drawer, I’m befuddled at what one puts on in preparation for a swim in the Arctic Ocean. Finally I dig out my swimming trunks, grab my robe and green Wellingtons, and head out the door.

  Back at the bar, the vodka is harsh and it catches in the back of my throat. Before I can grimace, I brush past the captain and head out the deck. “Kent’s going in!” he yells. As I peel off my robe, the crew gathers in the doorway.

  I don’t dare stick even a toe in—I jump in full-throttle, shocked almost to death. It’s bloody freezing! I think, which is positive because it means I haven’t had a heart attack. Quickly I build up and transition from treading water into a full freestyle stroke toward the boat’s stern. For the first few seconds, the water is so cold it literally takes my breath away.

  I propel myself forward with every rotation of my arms, and then, somehow, my body adapts to the temperature. I swim fifty yards and then turn around to the boat. The men aren’t calling out to taunt me; in fact, they’re looking on in silence, clearly watching to make sure I stay alive. “I’m fine!” I call out. Their laughs of relief echo across the water, the steam of their breath rising in the sunlight.

  I concentrate on the determination of my own breath, the occasional reach in my voice, as I push through the water. It’s a perfect liquid body—no slush, no ice—and the sun is shining down closer than I’ve ever seen it in proximity to earth. No way would I have died out here, I tell myself, following the fog of my breath to chase the boat. I’ve survived near death in my polo career and desperate measures in my business. It would have required more than cold water to take me down.

  {Richard Harker}

  Incredible ice sculptures in Antarctica.

  Finally I reach the ship and climb the ladder as Jorie and the crowd of men gather around to see me back on board. One gives me a towel and urges me into my robe; another hands me my wellies. “I’m going to take a stroll,” I tell them, bundling up and tying my bathrobe belt tight.

  A few of them look at each other, puzzled. “Geoff—” Jorie starts.

  “I’m fine,” I assure her. “I just want to have a walk on the ice.”

  Shrugging, they all turn and trickle back on board. This is my opportunity. I run behind a pressure ridge, where I hide out for a moment until I hear: “Mr. Kent! Mr. Kent? Where are you?”

  It’s the captain’s voice.

  “Geoffreeeey!” he cries out. “Geoffrey! Are you alive out there? Everyone’s boarded, Mr. Kent!”

  “Oh!” I call out. “Here I am, sorry, I must have got a bit turned around.”

  “Mr. Kent!” he calls. “Get on board, we’ve got to move on!”

  “Right!” I make my way back up the gangplank and onto the ship. Inside I’m met with blanket
s, hot tea, and Glühwein, a mulled German wine, in abundance.

  And, I’m satisfied: I’m officially the last person in the twentieth century to stand on the North Pole.

  This makes the entire trip worth telling about.

  Our first day back at sea, the icebreaker powers back up:

  Baaaahhhhhrrrrrm

  PKOW!

  Crunch-crunch-crunch-crunch-crunch.

  The smashing and bashing is more intense than before. I know that if there were a serious problem, the captain wouldn’t announce it publicly. I head up toward the wheelhouse and run into the first mate on the staircase. “What’s going on?” I ask him.

  “We’ve hit multi-ice. It’s the thickest on record—no normal icebreaker can even attempt to go through.” The scruff on my chin is rough in my hand when I try to conjure some way I can help. Aware of my concern, the first mate says, “Go to your room, Mr. Kent. Right now I have to make sure there’s no one on the deck.”

  Thirty minutes later we seem to be moving smoothly when suddenly I feel:

  Baaaahhhhhrrrrrm

  CLUNK.

  What was that?

  In the corridor are shouts and jostling. I slide past crewmembers who are racing down toward the engine room and make my way up to the main deck. There, three divers are suiting up in Russian diving costumes—old-fashioned, dome-shaped bell helmets, as if we’re living in a Jules Verne novel. “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “There’s a problem with one of the propeller blades,” answers one of the crew.

  “What on earth are the divers going to do?”

  “They’re going to try and fix it.”

  I head for the wheelhouse, where I find the captain staring at a satellite image of an ice chart. With his eyes fixed in front of him, he senses my presence. “Mr. Kent.” He sighs. “It’s the propeller.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’ve lost my steering mechanism, and we have no power. If the divers spend more than a day or two trying to fix it, then we’ll run out of food and we’ll have to use the desalination system for water.” I remember my skeptical half joke with the crewman who showed me around the engine room. Deep down, something was telling me this trip would get twisted somehow. “What’s worse,” he says, “is the temperature is negative thirty Celsius, and I’m working with zero visibility at the moment.”

  I join him in front of the chart. “If it’s broken, how can we get rescued?”

  “We can’t!” he says. “There’s nowhere to land a plane here, and this is much too far for a helicopter to travel.”

  My panic is gaining. “What can we do then?”

  He turns back to the chart. “We have to find the path we cleared on the way here . . . but in order to locate our original path, we’ll have to sail all the way to it.”

  “Can we make it?”

  “It could work . . . but the ice has moved quite far in the last week.”

  “How long do you think it would take us to reach our original path?”

  “Another day or more . . . but even so, that’s less time than the divers would need to fix the propeller. It may be the only way, apart from dogs and sleds.”

  With wide eyes I turn and glance at him. “I’m joking, Mr. Kent!”

  I walk to the rail on the bridge and look down to the deck where the divers are suiting up. The captain sends out an order on his walkie-talkie. “Tell them not to get in the water,” he says. “Don’t let anyone off the boat. We’re going back to Russia.”

  It takes us another two days to locate the path we traveled in on, and then we have to make our way from near Greenland—named “green” by the Viking Erik the Red in 982 AD as a cheeky marketing gimmick, a guide tells me—all the way back over to Russia. We have to miss our tour through the Franz Josef Land, a polar archipelago where the Arctic fox is one of the only existing mammals and the only living plants are grass, moss, lichens and liverworts, and around three dozen species of Arctic flowering plants.

  Arctic fox or no Arctic fox, lichens or no, when we dock five days later than the original itinerary had called for, even Murmansk feels almost as good as home.

  The North Pole trek is quite a voyage, though frankly, I discover an extreme expedition around the same time that’s a slightly more worthwhile trip. The bank calls my chief financial officer to inquire whether we would be interested in taking the Explorer, an expedition ship with a storied past for which we’ve been doing all the marketing and sales. “The German company that owns the ship is in some financial trouble,” the bank explains. “They owe you hundreds of thousands for the clients you’ve sent to them—the ship is yours as collateral, if Mr. Kent wants her.”

  Does Mr. Kent want her?

  I’ve had a somewhat personal history with the Explorer. Known affectionately in the travel industry as the Little Red Ship, the Explorer was designed by one of my earliest and biggest competitors, Lars-Eric Lindblad, specifically for expeditions. My mind raced back to a day in the early 1970s when I’d heard that the brand-new Explorer was docked in Mombasa, preparing to sail to the Seychelles. I travelled to Mombasa from Nairobi to have a peek.

  “Mr. Kent.” A young steward approached me as I stepped onto the gangplank. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Kent, but Mr. Lindblad thought you might show up here. He insisted we ask you to exit the boat and not return.”

  {A&K staff}

  MS Explorer in Antarctica, which guests fondly called the “Little Red Ship.”

  I looked at him, shocked but well aware of my growing rivalry with Lindblad. “I’ll exit now,” I told the steward, “but tell Mr. Lindblad that one day, I’ll own this ship.”

  According to our bank, that day has come.

  The Little Red Ship has never been known as a luxury ship, to say the least, and having been built in 1969, she’s nearing thirty years old when we acquire her. For us to take her, we’ll have to create a trip so outstanding that clients will be content with her imperfections, and even perhaps find some of them charming. I think to myself that if we can use her while protecting the wildlife and the environment wherever she goes, without leaving a footprint, then it’s worth a try.

  And this is when we introduce our first-ever itinerary to Antarctica: a journey taken not for a rich vacation’s sake, but for a rich education’s sake. Species of the world’s rarest and largest seabirds and seals live there, and if Abercrombie & Kent can bring in some of the world’s most renowned experts on marine life, polar biology, and climate, then we can offer the most leading-edge Antarctica expedition offered by any travel company in the world.

  The first few expeditions fill up with reservations, and so we plan back-to-back trips. Clients travel to Argentina or Chile, then take a charter flight to embark from the world’s southernmost city, Ushuaia. The Antarctic travel season is short, the area is travelable only between November and February, and the number of ships that are allowed to enter each year is tightly regulated. We book half a dozen trips each season and consistently sell out each one.

  At the end of each travel season we reinforce her steel, but despite our loving care, at the start of the twenty-first century the Explorer is well ready to retire. We sell her to a smaller company that plans to take her out only a couple of times a year—and then, a few years later, we get word within the industry that she’s been sold off yet again. I wish they’d let her rest in peace, but I know the trouble: when she’s not hosting passengers to generate profit for someone, she’s fiercely expensive to lay up or dry-dock. The Explorer is an orphan, in a sense. The only place she’s really ever belonged is Antarctica.

  On Thanksgiving Day in 2007, I’m with Jeffrey Katzenberg, the CEO of Hollywood’s DreamWorks Animation SKG, waiting for a meeting with the Prime Minister of Israel when I look up at the television screen in the waiting room and catch the sight of her: the Little Red Ship, making international news. “Go on in without me,” I tell Jeffrey, somewhat alarmed. “I’ll join you in a minute.” The news ticker reads that the c
aptain of the ship heard a loud bang, and then a passenger reported seeing red paint on a nearby wall of ice. The Explorer had hit a glacier, which put a hole in her old, weathered hull. Then she sank.

  By now, Jorie and I had determined that our visions for our marriage and for our company were too different for us to stay together. We divorced in the early 2000s, but the Explorer wreck stirred my nostalgia. This ship had carved out new oceans; she’d been one of the first ever to sail around the Seychelles; we’d been the first to do the upper Amazon; and she’d even done the Northwest Passage—and in all that time, she’d never gotten world headlines. Now here she is, on her side in Antarctica about to meet a tragic end, and the whole world suddenly knows of her. It’s a devastating fate for a boat that provided so much learning and so many memories to so many people: she was made to sail to Antarctica, and today she lies at the bottom of its waters. The good news is that all the people aboard make it off safely.

  Not long after this, there comes a new security in my life, as well. One night in the summer of 2007, I’m dining at Chuflay Restaurant in the harbor of Portofino on the Italian Riviera when in walks the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She’s poised and elegant with eyes and cheekbones that remind me of Sophia Loren, and there’s an energy about her that has stolen my attention.

  When it comes time for me to leave, I approach this beautiful girl surrounded by her friends. “Excuse me,” I ask her. “Might I buy you a drink?”

  “No, thank you,” she nods at the man sitting next to her and says “I’m with him.”

  “I’m terribly sorry,” I tell them both, and wish them a nice evening.

  Seven months later, I am in my very sophisticated gym in Belgravia, which has a dining room downstairs where I can take phone calls and have an espresso. During one of these calls, as I am walking past a private booth, I notice a stunning woman and I think to myself that I’ve seen her before somewhere. I finish my phone call, and then I suddenly realize that she could be the woman from Portofino.