by Tim Jarvis
“Going home” for me meant selling the concept of an expedition no longer supported by an Endurance lookalike. And not just to Raw TV and our broadcast partners, Discovery Channel in Europe and PBS in the US, but also to our four sponsors. In the meantime, Ben needed to know immediately if I was going to proceed with Australis, given the tightness of the deadline with which we were now working. On the positive side, the change to a smaller support vessel meant no need for fuel placement or selling berths, which was a great relief for all concerned. Sharing a small apartment in Singapore with two restless boys wasn’t the most conducive environment in which to make some tough calls. Plus we were meant to be enjoying some well-earned R&R and celebrating Elizabeth’s birthday. Fortunately, as always, she took things in her stride. I am so lucky to have her.
As far as Raw and our broadcast partners went, Australis was a better, more maneuverable vessel, which allowed closer access to us in the Alexandra Shackleton. Fewer people on board meant fewer things could compromise the film, plus it made things safer—all issues at the top of their list. There was always a risk that taking along paying guests to defray the cost of hiring a big vessel could end with a passenger becoming seriously injured or ill. And that could mean having to return to civilization, which would be disastrous for the film. Two long conference calls in the same number of days later, still slightly shell-shocked, they said yes.
Finally, we have a team: clockwise from top left, Baz, Larso, Nick, and Ed.
Courtesy of Ed Wardle
Peter Bailey, Arup’s chair in Australasia; Robyn Nixon at Intrepid; and Andy Fell at St. George Bank were all kindred spirits who understood the predicament and placed safety above all else. But they still wanted to ensure that the sponsor team got a wonderful Antarctic experience, some face time with the expedition crew, and some Shackleton leadership training. I assured them that all of these could be better delivered on Australis without the distractions of their having to help sail the larger vessel. They would get more training time and a more bespoke Antarctic experience, not to mention the need for their employees to take less time off work. Their final decision pending, Howard and I got to work planning a new itinerary for the sponsor team. Australis could take a total of fifteen on board—three permanent crew plus the four people from Raw TV meant there was room for eight sponsor guests. That would be five for Arup, one for St. George, one for Intrepid Travel, and one for the winner of a Virgin Media/Discovery Channel competition that had continued to run despite the loss of our larger support vessel. Okay so far. The problem was that six berths had to be set aside for the crew of the Alexandra Shackleton just in case we sank—a distinct possibility. To my mind, the logical solution was to give our sponsor guests their Antarctic experience before the expedition began. This could work if we could fly them into Frei on a commercial flight while the Alexandra Shackleton and Raw TV folks remained at Arctowski, having sailed there on Australis. We could then do the sea trialing that Nick and Larso wanted while our sponsors went on a ten-day tour of the Antarctic Peninsula. In principle the plan looked good as the main drivers for the sponsor team were meeting us, seeing the Alexandra Shackleton, visiting Antarctica, and doing all this as safely as possible, all of which I argued could be better achieved under the new arrangement. Three problems, however, now presented themselves. First, there was only one commercial flight operator—DAP Airlines—and seats were scarce as hens’ teeth. Second, ten days touring the peninsula was understandably not seen to be of the same value as the original eight weeks shadowing the expedition. Third, we hadn’t asked Arctowski if it would be able to put up the ten-man Alexandra Shackleton and Raw teams. I had forty-eight hours to get it all approved.
The military dry suits we used during the sea trialing.
(left) Courtesy of Graham Neilson
(right) Courtesy of Seb Coulthard
Ed fine-tuning cameras for the challenge ahead.
Courtesy of Si Wagen
All in: clockwise from top left: Nick, Seb, Larso, Baz, Ed, and me.
Courtesy of Paul Larsen
Arctowski, in typical fashion, said yes immediately and honored the rate it might charge another country’s visiting scientists—an extremely generous gesture. The eight sponsor guests were disappointed to be changing support vessel but were very supportive and wanted to remain involved. We salvaged the situation of the new proposition not being the same value as the original with the help of Robyn at Intrepid. She came up with a wonderful itinerary to Patagonia at cost price with the result that people were prepared to keep most of their money in the game. It was a good outcome given the circumstances.
Getting flights aboard DAP was not so easy. Two types of aircraft operated: a ninety-seater that individuals could not buy seats on and a six-seater Kingair that had to be chartered as a whole. We would need two people on the bigger plane and six on a chartered Kingair in order for all to arrive at the same time at Frei. The different sizes of the planes, however, meant they traveled at different speeds and the smaller plane needed better weather than the larger one in which to fly. The worry of getting both to arrive at and leave Frei on the same day and at roughly the same time kept me awake at night. I was replacing one set of complex logistics with another. The movement of the Alexandra Shackleton herself, with her lack of keel, seemed to be a metaphor for the planning of the expedition. Forward momentum seemed to be an illusion as the yaw of the boat sent us backward or, at best, sideways.
5
PROCEED
In Arctowski, the Alexandra Shackleton is lifted onto an amphibious vehicle for her short journey to the sea.
“Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.”
Winston Churchill
Moored at Arctowski, our small boat is as ready as she’s going to be for the journey ahead.
Courtesy of Paul Larsen
I stared blankly at the ceiling, amazed at the hurdles I’d overcome to get this far and contemplating the challenges that lay ahead. At least I was about to have a few days off with the family, spending Christmas with my brother-in-law, Patrick, and sister-in-law, Gigi, in Santiago. But the challenge of getting expedition gear through Chilean and then Argentinian customs also loomed. The first issue on arrival would be collecting $12,000 of satellite broadband equipment purchased ten days earlier from the US and delivered directly to Santiago airport. It was needed to upgrade Australis’s onboard system to enable us to feed blogs and images to the media beast. Somehow I had to get this through both borders without having it confiscated and, because the funds cupboard was bare, without having to pay duty. It wouldn’t be easy, especially since my bag’s contents were exclusively new electronics, including an SLR waterproof camera, digital voice recorder, and two Iridium satellite phones, plus assorted Christmas presents for the kids.
At the beginning of December, as I battled boat logistics and bank balance sheets from Australia, Baz put the guys through a crash course in mountain survival and climbing techniques in Glencoe, Scotland. The goal was to build skill and confidence, particularly among the sailors on the team. A grossly oversimplified description of part of Baz’s day job is taking 200 raw Royal Marine candidates out into the coldest places and putting them through their paces. Those who can handle it might get to join the Marines. Those who can’t have no chance. I gave Baz free rein to do what he wanted, simply asking that he bring the team back alive. Crampon and ice-ax technique, rappelling skills, rope ascension, crevasse rescue, and knots were all taught over a five-day period, with several of the exercises conducted at night and without the aid of lights. Ed and Baz even elected to spend the night in subzero temperatures with no shelter, wearing the vintage gear. In Baz’s words, “Everyone except Ed and I went to sleep in the comfort of their sleeping bags while we spent all night shivering, running round, shivering, running round, then we shivered and ran around some more. Morning came eventually. We had survived, with the clothing actually proving to b
e quite good. Except the boots—it was clear they would never be any good.” Baz left Scotland “with a new confidence in the team and its ability to pull off the crossing of South Georgia.”
Having thawed out after Glencoe, Nick, Ed, and Seb manfully took another one for the team, putting themselves through grueling cold-water immersion tests with leading authority Professor Mike Tipton in Portsmouth. Essentially the tests were to see how they’d cope in 2˚C (35.6˚F) water. Depending on body shape and size, they could remain in the water for just five to ten minutes. The first minute of submersion is the worst and we were advised, if we fell overboard, to avoid immediate overexertion so as to reduce the very real threat of cardiac arrest. (The heart is already working hard with cold shock and adrenaline.) Reassuringly, once you survive this initial shock and your temperature adjusts, then it’s fine to work as fast as possible to save yourself, although ironically you lose body heat faster when you’re moving than when keeping still. It was good advice but I challenge anyone who has fallen overboard in the Southern Ocean to calmly wait for his or her body to “acclimatize” before swimming like crazy to get back to the boat. That lost minute curled up in a ball and the risk of cardiac arrest would be the least of your problems. Interestingly, thermal-imaging cameras showed that such a restriction of blood flow to the extremities made frostbite and/or trench foot a real possibility during the expedition. How right that would turn out to be.
Refreshed after my Christmas break and armed with three new pairs of Christmas underpants, I headed back to Santiago airport. I was about to meet the team in Buenos Aires for the first time. Courtesy of a sterling effort on Gigi’s part and a small fee, customs duty on the satellite system had been avoided and the equipment was now in a bonded warehouse. I had traveled incredibly light to start with, so shedding the kids’ toys now meant my bag was virtually empty save for the contraband electronics and new undergarments. My heart sank as I saw the satellite broadband system for the first time. It was two large boxes and a massive satellite dish. Frantically I removed all its packaging and squeezed the equipment into my rucksack, while a mystified customs official in a Chicago Bulls T-shirt looked on. At least I hope he was an official—I gave him a $250 bond for a quasi-official looking piece of paper and he immediately vanished.
Baz leads the team training in Scotland. I simply asked he bring them back alive.
Ed trying to acclimatize. Survival time at sea in 2°C water: five to ten minutes.
Courtesy of Ed Wardle
While I have experienced nothing but friendliness and hospitality in Argentina, the prospect of passing through the country instilled fear in some. On the advice of a security expert, Raw TV had at the last minute considered rerouting all of its gear and people through Brazil, amid concerns it would be heavily taxed or confiscated in Argentina by some corrupt, cheroot-smoking official. I suggested they “keep calm and carry on.” Secretly, though, I had to admit that a largely British team complete with two serving military personnel going on an expedition to the disputed South Georgia and then the Falklands (aka Las Malvinas) wasn’t ideal. Shackleton had left England on August 8, 1914. Despite war having broken out four days earlier, he’d received a telegram from the Admiralty telling him to “Proceed” so set off on what he termed his “white warfare.” We didn’t have the prospect of war hanging over our heads but the British government’s decision the week before our arrival to rename a part of Antarctica claimed by Argentina Queen Elizabeth II Land wouldn’t help our cause.
The plane touched down at Buenos Aires airport and, having dishonestly ticked “no” in all the boxes asking if I was bringing any new satellite phones, cameras, or other electronics into the country, I headed into the customs hall. I decided to aim for the longest line and the most flustered-looking customs official, who I hoped in the interest of time would wave me through. It was not to be and a senior official who looked like an archetypal baddie from a Tintin comic was summoned to look at the X-ray of my bag and the satellite dish. I had a speech prepared to explain the dish: I was a wildlife photographer and this was part of my equipment. I explained in the vaguest language I could muster that it was an umbrella reflector type thing needed for my photographs and of little value. I certainly didn’t mention it was a brand spanking new $7,000 Iridium satellite dish. “It seems very heavy,” offered the official, staring into my eyes to detect dishonesty. “Yes, there are other items inside the box as well,” I replied as his junior enthusiastically took a scalpel to the multiple layers of plastic security wrap I’d encased it in specifically to deter closer inspection. Pretending to be interested only in not inconveniencing them, I warned the pair to be careful of all the loose items that were about to spill out should the packaging be cut any further. The official looked at me suspiciously and with a hint of irritation but, imagining loose items all over the conveyor belt and the resultant holdup of the two hundred or so passengers behind me, he waved me on.
Tomas Holik from Aurora Expeditions met me at the airport and we went for a steak dinner. It was late and Baz, Seb, Nick, and Larso had gone out on the town. They needed the release and it allowed me time to get to know Jamie Berry, Joe French, and Si Wagen from Raw TV. Just as Shackleton only met his expedition photographer Frank Hurley for the first time in Buenos Aires, this was my first meeting with any of the camera crew. They seemed a decent bunch: Si, a tall, laconic, roll-your-own-smokes Englishman with crazy gray hair, looked like he’d seen a few things and was full of enthusiasm for the project; Joe, young, strong, and fresh-faced, was similarly fascinated and excited by what we were about to do; and Jamie’s youthful countenance belied his role as the show’s on-location producer. I also met Alex Kumar, the Raw doctor, who seemed an eccentric but likable enough final member of the team.
The following morning, nursing hangovers of varying degrees, we appeared looking like a traveling mahjong team, each carrying as we were a small wooden case. Ours, however, each contained an item of breakable period equipment—compass, sextant, chronometer, and period cameras. Our twenty bags and Raw’s staggering sixty-five took up a huge area of the terminal but unbelievably all got through customs unscathed. Doing a head count, we discovered that Seb was nowhere to be seen. Then a booted foot was spotted sticking out from under a pile of rucksacks where he’d fallen asleep and been thoughtfully covered over by Baz, who was presumably worried about him catching a chill.
Flying into Ushuaia, we swept low over the spectacular mountains that ring the world’s most southerly city. The two teams emerged from Ushuaia’s small terminal and headed to their respective accommodations for the four or five days we would be there—the Raw guys to their hotel in town and us to our wonderful home away from home, Posada del Fin del Mundo, run by Ana, a friend introduced to me by Jonathan Shackleton two years earlier.
The support crew, clockwise from top: Jamie Berry (producer) and Si Wagen (cameraman); Joe French, cameraman; Ben Wallis (the skipper of Australis).
Courtesy of Jo Stewart
Courtesy of Joe French
Courtesy of Tim Jarvis
Larso and Nick spent their days in Ushuaia brushing up on astronavigation as the rest of us checked gear and began loading it aboard Australis. Introductions between the vessel’s captain, Ben, his capable crew Skye Marr-Whelan and Magnus O’Grady, and their full complement of eleven guests were now out of the way with the arrival of our blogger extraordinaire, Jo Stewart. I liked the Australis crew—they were professional and multiskilled but relaxed, and nothing was too much trouble for them.
The teams had all arrived safely, Australis was a fine vessel, we had all of our permits, and we’d got through customs unscathed. However, all was not well in paradise. Changing support vessels meant that much of our gear had to be offloaded from our former vessel in Barbados and shipped south to our original launching point in Punta Arenas, Chile, from where it was then meant to travel to Puerto Williams for us to collect in Australis. Puerto Williams had been chosen as it was still in Chile, thus avoidin
g customs, but was on an island due southeast of us in Ushuaia and therefore en route to Antarctica by boat. For some reason the drop-off had not happened. I gave the logistics firm a blast over the phone, but that wasn’t going to get our gear to us, so I set out to find a solution.
Skye at the helm of Australis.
Courtesy of Si Wagen
Magnus: a pair of safe hands.
The missing gear included our expedition food, sails, oars, a generator for charging our batteries, emergency flares, forty liters of 99.9 percent pure methanol for our battery recharging unit, and our medical kit. What one might call “essential items.” Worst-case scenario: we would not be able to make a film and would then starve to death. Best-case scenario: we would be stuck on Elephant Island because without oars or sails the Alexandra Shackleton wasn’t going anywhere. Trying to get on a flight to pick up the gear, much of it flammable, between Christmas and New Year’s Eve and between Catholic countries with a tense relationship, was a challenge I didn’t need. The solution needed to be quick and simple and in the end it was: Seb took off from the local flying club on January 2—as soon as the weather was good enough—in a two-seater plane that looked like it should be crop dusting, not going over the Andes.