My Last Continent

by Midge Raymond

  I race up to the lounge, searching frantically for Richard. I don’t see him, but Kate is there. We instantly make eye contact, and as I rush across the lounge, she meets me halfway.

  “Richard—where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” she says, looking surprised, as if just realizing she hasn’t seen him for a while. “I’ve gotten our room ready for passengers, so I don’t think he’s—”

  “Find him,” I tell her. “Tell him we need his binoculars. Give them to a crew member to pass on to me. Okay?”

  “Okay.” I see her nod her head before I’m off again.

  Down below, at the open loading hatch, I look up at Captain Wylander, standing at the controls just outside the bridge, struggling to find an ice sheet large enough and thick enough to hold hundreds of stranded passengers. We need a pathway—a bridge of ice, or even a river of seawater—that we can follow to the Australis and its victims. Yet right now I see only large floes and patches of slush lurking everywhere, conditions that are impossible to traverse easily either by foot or by Zodiac. We’ll have to manage it somehow.

  I think of our ice landing, only days ago—that one had been challenge enough, but at least we’d been able to choose the field of ice; we’d been in control. And the Cormorant is by no means an icebreaker—in unstable waters, at the wrong speed or angle, a large berg could pierce even a reinforced hull, and then we’d be in no better shape than the Australis. The stabilizing fins that soften our ride through waters like the Drake are vulnerable to the ice, and the Cormorant has no defense in place to safeguard the propellers. Our ship is prepared to rub shoulders with icebergs, but she’s in no position to push them around.

  And I know that if the ice gets too thick or the winds too extreme, our captain will not risk damage to the ship; we’ll have to retreat. With the temperature dropping and the winds shoving ice floes roughly into one another, I need to find Keller as quickly as possible. We might have only one chance.

  I’m sure Keller is still on board. He’ll put the passengers first, even if it means going down with the ship. And, given the options, on board may well be the safest place—though it’s clear that no one ended up in the water, on the ice, by choice. It already looks as though things are a lot worse than we’ve prepared for.

  Wylander is now maneuvering the Cormorant into a large expanse of white, stretching unbroken for at least a hundred yards, and as the cracking of ice stops and the ship comes to a halt, I look up to see his signal. It’s time.

  We lower the gangplank, and I step down to a relatively stable section of ice; as one of the lighter crew members, I’d volunteered to be first, though I’m sure everyone knows I have other reasons. About fifty yards in the distance, a dozen passengers are gathered together on the ice, but the Australis herself is still only a dim glow of lights in the fog beyond. Those who are on this patch of ice should be able to make their way over. Some are already hurrying toward us. I hear Glenn’s voice on the PA system, telling the Australis passengers who we are, urging calm, exhorting them to follow our instructions.

  But they are exhausted and panicked, and still coming forward—to keep them safe, we need to slow them down, spread them out. As I step forward carefully on the ice—poking it with a sharp trekking pole, hoping the pole won’t meet with slush or weak ice, keeping my ears on alert for that dreadful splintering noise—I wonder whether the other naturalists are as calm as they look. Despite our training, and despite the knowledge, in the deepest parts of our minds, that something like this could happen, I don’t think we ever really believed it would.

  The ice under my feet holds up well, and I signal to the others behind me to follow; at the same time, I hold up a hand to stop the passengers coming toward us. As distressed as they must be, they obey.

  I turn around and see Thom heading down the gangway. The plan, hastily assembled once Glenn and Wylander assessed the ice and weather conditions, is for Thom and me to scout out a trail for the passengers to follow to the Cormorant, and once we find a safe passage, we’ll leave marker flags along the way. Nigel and Amy will then lead the rest of the expedition team along the trail to make sure the passengers remain spaced evenly apart, so they don’t create more pressure than the ice can bear. It’s obvious, from the bodies floating past, that some have made that fatal mistake already—and our plan is only as good as the weather allows.

  I try not to look down, not wanting to see an orange naturalist’s jacket floating past, or Keller’s signature bandanna.

  Focus, I tell myself. I need to take one moment at a time, one tenuous step at a time. As I begin to make my way across the ice, I realize that we’ll have to revise our plan sooner than we expected. The group of passengers ahead is stranded on a forty-foot-wide patch of ice with about thirty feet of slush between them and us. They hadn’t stopped in response to Glenn’s or my signal; they stopped because they had nowhere else to go.

  “Ease up,” I call over my shoulder. As Thom joins me near the edge of the ice floe, the passengers on the other side advance to the edge of theirs.

  “Move back!” Thom shouts. “Spread yourselves out!” He splays his arms wide. “Stay near the middle of the ice, as far apart as you can,” he calls to them. “We’ll get you. Just hold on.”

  “We’ll need a Zodiac,” I say, and Thom nods. We’ll have to carry the Zodiac over the ice to this small stretch of water, then use it as a ferry. Despite their rubber construction, these Zodiacs aren’t exactly lightweight; they’re nineteen feet long, and transporting them over land requires at least two or three strong crew members. Even if the ice holds, once we get the boat in the water, boarding anxious passengers safely from a fragile rim of ice is yet another challenge.

  Another flare bursts above, and as it fizzles in the sky, Thom turns to me. “If you want to keep going,” he says, “I’ll take care of these folks.”

  “You’ll need help with the Zodiac,” I say.

  “I’ll get Nigel. Go on. Be careful.”

  I turn toward the flickering light of the flare and begin walking gingerly in its direction, the ice here still sturdy and unbroken for as far as I can see. Yet appearances are often deceiving—the pack ice that surrounds us, formerly attached to the continent, has been blown around the sea all winter by ocean currents and winds, broken apart and thrust together again, and now that it’s covered with a layer of snow, it’s impossible to tell where weak spots are until you’re right on top of them. Worse, the winds are picking up again, which means that, no matter how stable the ice may look, conditions could change in an instant.

  Up ahead I see another group of passengers moving toward me in a blur of blue. “Stop!” I shout at them. “Stay where you are!”

  But they can’t hear me; I need to get closer, to tell them to wait for Thom. I stab at the ice as I move forward. Then I hear a sharp, cleaving echo and freeze.

  The sound is not beneath me but up ahead, and I look up in time to see one of the blue jackets disappear. The other tourists stop in their tracks, one of them screaming. I force myself to proceed slowly, testing the ice as I move forward. After a few more steps, the tip of my trekking pole sinks into slush.

  It’s not much of a hole, but it’s wide enough for a human body. I back up, then flatten myself on the ice and shove my right arm into the water. Most of the passengers are wearing life jackets, so I extend my arm laterally across the ice ceiling, less than two feet below, hoping that underneath the current isn’t as strong as the wind indicates.

  My hand makes contact with something, and though my arm is quickly growing numb, I grab on and pull, seeing a flash of blue as I drag the body toward me. When it’s closer, I plunge both arms into the water and pull as hard as I can, using my legs to propel myself backward, away from the hole. I’m gripping an arm, and I quickly find my way to the jacket’s collar so I can pull the body out facefirst. I catch a glimpse of the man’s face, gray and frozen in shock,
and I continue to pull, heaving the body up as I inch backward, the ice chipping away at the edge of the hole.

  I get the man’s shoulders above water, but I can’t get him out. I turn and call out for Thom, for Nigel, for Amy, hoping one of them will hear me. Then I hang on, waiting. The man seems to have stopped breathing, but between the current and the violent shaking of my arms, it’s hard to tell.

  At first I think no one’s going to come, but then I feel a body edging close to mine. “I’ve got him.”

  It’s Nigel. I slip backward and let him pull the man farther out of the water. When the torso emerges, Nigel gets to his knees and drags the man all the way out. He turns the man onto his back and kneels over him, feeling for a pulse as he simultaneously pinches the man’s nostrils shut and bends down to force air into his lungs. With a sputtering cough, the man’s lungs empty of seawater, and his eyes flutter open.

  The man is shivering uncontrollably, and just because he’s now breathing doesn’t mean he’s out of danger. Nigel radios for help.

  I myself am shaking, and I wrap my arms around my body to steady myself. The other passengers are still huddled close together on the ice, very near to where the man had fallen in. “Back away,” I call to them, though I know their instincts and fear and the cold are drawing them together. “You’ll have to stand apart from one another—three feet, at least.”

  I watch them separate—slowly, reluctantly, dubiously.

  Nigel’s talking to the man who’d fallen in, asking him his name, age, where he’s from, anything to keep him conscious. But it’s not looking good; the man is incoherent, sputtering fragmented words, his teeth drumming violently together.

  In my mind I’m assembling a chain of events: the Australis trapped in ice, desperate efforts to push its way out, ripped hull, ice floes crashing together, people jumping, fog, chaos, death.

  Amy arrives, responding to Nigel’s call, and the two quickly strip off the man’s jacket, sweater, and shirt and wrap him in a fleece blanket, which will have to do until someone else arrives to help Amy take him back to the ship. Already we are too few rescuers, with too few resources, too late to the scene.

  I turn to Nigel, who waves me ahead, and for a moment I hesitate. The sleeves of my jacket are soaked through. My arms are still numb, and water courses from my sleeves down the front of my chest. The fabric against my skin is wet and cold. Yet I start out again, clenching my jaw tightly shut to keep my teeth from chattering—as much from nerves as from cold—and I move my arms up and down as I walk, to keep the blood flowing.

  A shadowy ridge of icebergs rises like giant incisors in the distance. I continue slowly, cautiously, watching for signs of movement in case any of them, like ancient trees, decide to tip over and crack the ice I’m standing on. Despite the thickening fog, I can tell I’m getting closer to the Australis; I hear the sounds of tortured, twisting steel and muffled human voices. As I navigate the ice, I place flags marking my route, the places that are safe to walk—for now, anyhow.

  And then I see her.

  Still shrouded in mist, about a hundred yards straight ahead, is the Australis, listing heavily to port. I pick up my pace.

  Everywhere I look, I see lifeboats and passengers in the cruise company’s bright blue jackets: some in Zodiacs, some on the ice. I scan the jackets for a glimpse of orange, a flash of red.

  My throat swells with despair, and I swallow it away and try to breathe. As I study the scene in front of me, I do a rapid triage in my head. The Australis’s lifeboats may be able to navigate out of this maze of ice with the wind thrashing the floes together, assuming they’re manned by crew members; at any rate, those inside are safe for now. Zodiacs are more maneuverable and easier to pilot, though they’re also smaller and more prone to tipping; passengers might be able to get to safety as long as they don’t get stuck in pack ice, which is becoming increasingly likely.

  Those who are stranded on the ice need help, and fast—but there are so many of them, and though I know Nigel and the other naturalists and crew members will be following close behind, for now I’m the only one here. I look at the groups of passengers, clustered together like penguins at a nesting site, and realize the agony of the choices ahead, weighing lives against the thickness of ice, weighing my safety against theirs, weighing the fact that there is only one of these victims who really matters to me and I don’t know where he is, and, as much as I’d rather look for him, these people in immediate danger can’t be ignored.

  The Cormorant is now at least a quarter mile behind me, and I radio Glenn and give him my position, tell him what the situation is. I don’t see anyone I recognize as Australis crew; they’re likely still on board, trying to get more passengers to safety, and this gives me hope.

  As I get closer to the ship, pockets of water widen, opened up by her shifting and sinking, causing ice floes to split and drift. As the water continues to separate the floes—some the size of a dining room table, others the length of a city block—I have to slow down more and more to stay on the same sheet of ice.

  Then I find myself at a dead end. Between me and the ship, a mix of brash and bergy bits stretches for twenty, thirty feet. Beyond that is a stretch of ice about the size of ten parking spaces; standing on it are twelve passengers, and there is no direct path to them. My only option is to retrace my steps and take a wide route to the left or right, devouring vital moments while I may or may not get myself any closer. But I have no choice.

  I motion with my hands for everyone to stay put, to spread out. And they understand, doing as I instruct while I make my way around. I find a path, but the wind is growing relentlessly, and when I finally reach them, I look back at the trail I’ve marked.

  Already the ice has begun to break up in the wind, and through the rolling fog I see that my markers are now in different places than where I’d left them—which means I’ve lost the only way to get these survivors to safety. The ice is too broken to traverse on foot, too tight to come in by Zodiac. The frightened passengers have begun to bombard me with questions, and I hold up my hand to silence them as I grab my radio to call Glenn again.

  “We can’t come in any farther,” he says. “The winds are gusting to thirty knots and the ice is at eight-tenths. We’ll need to push back—soon.”

  “I’ve got a dozen people here,” I say, “and I don’t have a solid path back.”

  “Just hold on. We’ll get a couple of Zodiacs over there.”

  But I don’t see how Glenn will spare two more crew members to haul even one Zodiac over the quarter mile I’ve just traversed. We may be stuck here for hours—if the ice holds out that long.

  I try to take in a breath, but my lungs freeze, refusing the intake of air, and then my head begins swimming through waves of black. I lean over, hands on my knees, and take short, hiccuping breaths until I feel my chest expand at last.

  Finally I straighten up, trying to put on a mask of composure. The wind drives sleet into my face as I look around me. I’m hoping for a glimpse of Keller, but all I see are scared, unfamiliar faces.

  There’s a movement to my left, and I turn in time to see a towering iceberg in the distance swaying in the rough surf.

  As I watch, it begins to tip.

  All unstable icebergs will flip eventually, and when bergs of this size tip and roll, the waves they spawn can be monumental: large enough to wreak havoc on ships, and certainly large enough to be fatal to anyone standing on nearby ice.

  “Lie down, lie down!” I yell at the passengers; then I collapse, spread-eagle, on the ice. “Like this,” I shout, raising my head, straining to make myself heard over the cracking ice. “Spread out your arms and legs!”

  The passengers follow my lead. I turn my head, my cheek against the ice, to watch the iceberg as it rolls—gracefully, gently, though I know what’s about to come will be anything but.

  A moment later comes the rise of the wa
ter, the wave moving toward us as if in slow motion. I shut my eyes, digging my fingers into the ice sheet under me, whispering please hold, please hold, my breath warm against the ice—and when I feel the floe lift and sway, rolling us as if we’re on a giant water bed, I visualize us all moving with it, as one, staying put, staying together.

  Then I hear the screams of passengers, and I open my eyes. We’re still moving, the ice curving and bending below us, but so far we’re okay. A few people keep screaming, panicking, but we’re all still here. We’re going to make it.

  Then, a tremendous crack—the ice begins to split and crumble. I feel a splintering, and, my body acting faster than my mind, I roll away just as a fissure opens up beneath me, a yawning mouth of water where I lay just a moment before. When I hear a shriek, I look over to see a woman slipping into another cleft in the ice. A passenger grabs her arms and manages to hold her there, in the water up to her thighs, until two more passengers crawl over and help pull her out.

  As the waves reverberate under the tender ice, we all lie still. I close my eyes for a moment, not sure I ever want to move again. I’m safe here, for now. The baby is safe. And, until I learn otherwise, Keller is safe. The minute I open my eyes, I’ll need to stand up, to pretend I know what I’m doing, and to keep moving ahead, toward what I’m more and more certain I don’t want to see.

  I hear a few more creaks, normal sounds given the weight and motion of the ice, and when I’m sure that nothing else is splitting apart, I stand up, looking first toward the Australis. She’s nearly shrouded in fog again, the wave having pushed us farther away. Near the hull, lifeless bodies drift in the water.

  I turn away, and in front of me is the first bit of good news: The wave has pushed us hard against a large ice field, which means we might have a temporary bridge to the Cormorant. And there’s no time to waste.

  I try to shake off the mounting stress and quickly move forward, testing the ice. Within moments, I’m radioing Glenn, barking instructions to the stranded passengers, and leading them to sturdier ice, step by excruciating step. I find my first marker flag, and then I find another. The ice is still shifting, and making our way back will be a slow and dangerous process, taking time I don’t want to spare without knowing where Keller is. I look back over my shoulder, at the fading ship, at the wide-eyed passengers who are trusting me to save them.