Iced In

by Chris Turney

  “It’s so cool, Chris. We’ve crossed the Convergence. We’re in the Antarctic!”

  * * *

  I wake at 6.30. I lie still for a moment and sigh. I’m knackered. I stare at the ceiling tiles and listen. All I can hear is Annette’s soft breathing next to me and the hum of the ship’s engine. There are no voices or movement outside. The last of the deployments should have finished at 4.00 A.M., so everyone must be getting some rest. It’s going to be a lazy day. We’ll need to take it easy after all the hard work everyone’s put in.

  I get out of bed, put on my down jacket and insulated boots, and stagger up the stairs to the bridge. It’s as silent as the Mary Celeste. No one is around except Vladimir, the second mate, who is at the wheel.

  “Morning, Vlad. How are things?”

  “Not good.” He grimaces. “Autopilot broken. Only manual, and in this.” He points disgustedly at the thick fog outside the window.

  The autopilot will be fixed when the crew stir in the morning. In the meantime, Vlad is going to have to stay at the wheel. I leave him muttering and check the expedition weather station display I’ve set up in the bridge. The air temperature has dropped again. It’s only 34F. I’m glad I put on warm clothing.

  It’s eerily quiet on the top deck. I can only see a few hundred feet, and the poor visibility adds to the sense of isolation. We’re making solid progress at a steady ten knots, but there’s not much to see. Using both of the ship’s 1,147-kilowatt diesel engines might speed things up a bit, but the extra fuel used is not always worth it. In rough conditions, it soon becomes a game of diminishing returns. Sometimes it’s better to keep on one engine, save the fuel and keep the course. We’ve estimated the voyage to the edge of Commonwealth Bay should take around ten days, but if we run into thick sea ice, it could be a lot longer finding a way through.

  I open up my heavy-duty plastic case and set up the comms system on one of the benches. I turn the panel antenna north toward the satellite, pointing just above the horizon. Fortunately, we’re not rolling much this morning, and with any luck I should be able to get a stable connection quickly. A moment later, the high-pitched screech tells me I have a connection. I load up the latest science blog and movie onto our social-media accounts, and download the sea-ice images and weather forecast. No real change in sight. The only thing of interest is a low-pressure system out to the west that seems to be drawing warm northerly air down over us, only to be chilled by the cold ocean waters. It certainly explains the terrible visibility. It looks like we’re set to have fog for the next couple of days.

  * * *

  Thud.

  I wake, disoriented. It’s not a noise I’ve heard before.

  Thud.

  I sit up quickly and rub the heavy condensation off the inside of the porthole. The falling snow grabs my attention, but then I notice a slab of white passing by on the starboard side.

  We’ve reached the edge of the sea ice.

  I throw on my clothes and rush downstairs to the main deck. It’s seven in the morning and most of the team are already up, enjoying the view from the bow in awed silence. Thick fog continues to surround us, granting only a few hundred yards of visibility. Through the gloom, floes of white and blue approach and casually drift by. Sitting low in turquoise water, the passing ice comes in fantastic shapes and sizes: many flat, disc-like, others honeycombed fragments, rotten from melt as they drift inexorably north into warmer waters. I look at my GPS. We’re at 63 degrees south, a whole degree of latitude north of where Mawson and his men first sighted sea ice a century ago, almost to the day.

  Traveling at just a few knots between the floes, the motion of the sea is noticeably gentler. The chaotic high seas have been replaced by tranquil, millpond-like conditions. The few waves are shadows of their cousins farther north, and they pass lazily by, leaving little impression on the surface. There’s hardly a breath of wind. Coin-sized flakes of snow drop lightly on the deck. It’s deathly silent, broken only by muted exclamations of excitement as someone sees a solitary emperor penguin standing to attention in the falling snow on a nearby floe, barely giving us a second glance as we pass by. Robert and Cara are wearing their down jackets for the first time on the voyage, making snowballs on the deck and taking photos with Taylor, Sean, and Pat. There’s a shriek of laughter. It’s good to see Cara smiling again.

  After days of rolling on the high seas, we’ve crossed an invisible boundary and entered somewhere otherworldly, almost spiritual; it’s a place I’m struggling to capture in words. Mawson’s meteorologist and expeditioner Cecil Madigan made a valiant effort when he first entered the pack ice: “My poor pen cannot describe it, its quietness, its perfect whiteness with the marvelous cobalt blue in the hollows, and green where it can be seen through the water.” We may be a hundred years apart, but I suddenly find myself standing silently beside Madigan, humbled by the majesty of this world. There’s little else I can do.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Off the Map

  Sailing through sea ice is like living through a bombardment. One moment all is calm; the next, the peace is shattered by a protracted crushing and grinding sound that reverberates throughout the vessel. You can’t predict when it will happen; there’s no warning of the gut-wrenching screech as the ship rams the next floe blocking our path to Cape Denison. At times like this, the Shokalskiy seems almost vulnerable, and it’s a reminder that only a few inches of steel lie between us and the freezing Southern Ocean waters. It’s a nerve-jarring experience.

  Igor and his team are careful, selecting which ice floes to negotiate while keeping an eye on what lies beyond. A nudge here, a diversion there. If the ice refuses to yield, a slight acceleration. For a moment, we seem to hang in the air, and then suddenly we’re falling, accompanied by a whoosh of water as the force of the ship cleaves the floe, opening up a channel for the Shokalskiy to carry on her way. It’s a tried and tested method that’s been used since the times of Mawson and Shackleton. Choosing the right floe, however, is important. The Shokalskiy can comfortably tackle ice several inches above the surface. The rule of thumb is that at least four-fifths of an ice floe or berg is submerged below the surface. So for every foot of ice on the surface another four lie submerged, an important statistic when you’re taking a vessel deep into the pack ice, hundreds of miles from the nearest living soul. It’s a predicament that’s terrified sailors at these latitudes for centuries.

  In 1841, the British naval explorer James Ross was in an international race to reach the magnetic South Pole. Taking a different route from his French and American competitors, Ross chose to direct his two heavily strengthened wooden ships poleward from their stay on the Auckland Islands into a sea filled with ice and the unknown. The thick sea ice conditions threatened to trap a team for whom any help would be too little, too late. The constant “hard thumping” and fear of impending disaster had an impact on Ross’s health, and his thick black hair went white with worry. Against the expectations of most on board, his small flotilla broke through to find open water and the discovery that the magnetic Pole lay inland. Ross’s legacy was enormous: The Ross Sea would prove to be a launch pad for future endeavours, including Shackleton’s very own Nimrod expedition. But after two seasons fighting Antarctic sea ice, Ross swore he would never go south again, not for “any money and a pension to boot.”

  Today, sea ice continues to be a major hazard to Antarctic shipping. Government and commercial ships can still get trapped sailing these waters. In 2003, the Italian Antarctic supply vessel, the Italica, was beset by ice in the Ross Sea and had to be broken out by a privately chartered Russian icebreaker, the Kapitan Khlebnikov. Even this season, ships are struggling to deliver supplies and personnel. A couple of days ago, news reached us that the Australian icebreaker, the Aurora Australis, had been delayed reaching Hobart after being trapped for three weeks off its East Antarctic base at Casey—and this with weekly sea ice reports for the area. No matter where you are, Antarctic waters remain some of the most treache
rous in the world.

  The Shokalskiy may be an ice-strengthened vessel, but she isn’t invincible. No vessel is.

  * * *

  In Igor’s capable hands, the ice we’re meeting is proving little impediment to progress. Over the last twenty-four hours, we’ve averaged four knots and traveled nearly a hundred miles. I’m surprised at how much progress we’ve made. The Shokalskiy may be weaving and bashing its way through, but we continue to maintain a southerly bearing.

  The rolling swell of just a few days ago is already a distant memory. With each floe we strike, each shake of the ship, there is less concern on board, fewer anxious faces at mealtimes and briefings. Our world has now become sea and ice, a world completely divorced from the one we once knew. It’s a world where new skills have to be learned if we are to make the most out of the ten days we plan for these waters.

  Safety is paramount in the south. No matter what the task or urgency, safety always comes first. Yesterday, Greg took advantage of our new environment to familiarize everyone with traveling and working safely around sea ice: to check before you step; to dress warmly and wear a life vest; to follow instructions on the ice; and always—“And I do mean always”—be prepared for a change in the conditions. We’ll only be operating off the Shokalskiy when conditions are suitable and the forecast shows we have a large-enough weather window, but you can’t take anything for granted in the Antarctic. The Zodiacs are going to be our main means of transport along the edge of Commonwealth Bay, so it’s important the whole team feels comfortable using them. This morning we’re fortunate. The sun has burned off what was left of the fog and there’s hardly a breath of wind. The surface is like a millpond. It’s as close to a controlled environment as possible, perfect for a practice run among the floes. We may be in the middle of the Southern Ocean, but for a few hours at least we’ve found ourselves in a sheltered bay of ice islands.

  Igor reverses the thrust of the ship and brings the Shokalskiy to a halt in a stretch of open water.

  On the upper deck, the hum of the engine is almost drowned out by excited chatter. It’s the first time anyone has been off the ship since Bluff, and the deck is a heaving mass of bright down jackets, windproof trousers, gloves, hats, and sunglasses. The sky is deep blue and the water sparkles in the light. In the distance, several brilliantly white table-topped bergs finish off a picture-postcard scene. It’s a glorious day. We couldn’t have hoped for better.

  Off the rear deck, instructions are shouted in Russian as the Zodiacs are lifted one at a time by the crane and dropped gently into the water. Greg and Chris take the first two inflatables, each armed with a VHF radio in case of any problems. Over the ship’s tannoy, Nikki outlines the plans for the afternoon, reminding the team of the key points from Greg’s training yesterday. “And don’t forget to turn your name tag when you leave the ship.”

  The name tag system is critical for operations off the ship. At the top of the stairs on the upper deck there’s a conspicuously large wooden panel covered in lurid green and yellow plastic tags, one for each member of the expedition. When leaving the Shokalskiy, the named side of the tag is meant to be turned over, signifying you’re off the ship—a quick and easy way to find out where everyone is without a precious loss of time searching for individuals.

  Ready to go, Nikki stands at the top of the gangway to check everyone off as they head down to the waiting Zodiacs.

  Warm clothing? Yes.

  Life jacket on and clipped in? Yes.

  Name tag turned? Oh bugger, no.

  Back you go.

  With a sheepish grin, the guilty party walks back past the good-natured queue, followed by howls of laughter and hollering.

  You only forget once on a voyage.

  Today it’s all about getting familiar with ice travel using the Zodiacs, in order to travel confidently from ship to floe. Nikki is driving the inflatable I’ve joined and chats away happily to those on board. In no time at all, everyone is perched happily on the tubes, stepping on and off the snow-covered ice as if they’ve been doing it for years. As soon as we’re on the water it’s clear this doesn’t just have to be a training exercise. The area is positively brimming with life. Every other floe has two-feet tall Adélie penguins parading in full view, their trademark black-and-white dinner jackets easy to spot among the natural ice sculptures. These inquisitive creatures are more than 160 miles from their nesting sites on the continent, here to feed on the krill so abundant in these waters during summer. A few penguins watch our approach and, alarmed, trip, stumble and glide away on their stomachs as cameras click furiously. Someone quips: “I wish my students showed as much interest as Adélies.” Muru and Vik laugh good-naturedly next to me. It’s an old joke but a good one.

  After two hours, Greg is satisfied with everyone’s progress and calls the inflatables back to the Shokalskiy. We need to push on while the conditions are good. The latest satellite images show that the opening in the sea ice we spotted at Macquarie has now closed. Once the Zodiacs are safely stowed away, we’re going to have to find another way into Commonwealth Bay.

  As I climb the ship’s gangway, Robert runs up clutching his iPhone. “Dad, check this out. I filmed it!” he calls out from under his layers of insulated clothing and goggles.

  We rest our heads against one another and look down. On the screen, a sleek, gray-colored whale comes to the surface of the water, followed by an impressive blast of air and condensation from its blowhole. It’s a shot in a million.

  “Well done, Robs, that’s fantastic! I can’t believe you managed such a good picture.”

  “I was so lucky,” he buzzed. “Everyone else was struggling to get their cameras out. I was just there and took it with this.” Robert gives the phone a shake, with the biggest grin I’ve ever seen.

  I’m so proud. This is just what Annette and I wanted: a moment that will stay with him forever.

  “What kind of whale do you think it is, Dad?”

  “I’m honestly not sure. Let’s ask Tracey. And we could also try Nikki. They might know.” It may be a dwarf minke, the very same species Nikki grew up with in Queensland. Each summer they head south to feed on the krill, but at 65 degrees south we’re at the limit of their range. “Let’s load the movie onto YouTube later. If Tracey or Nikki don’t know, someone else out there might have an idea. How about you write a blog entry? It’ll be great for people to read what you’ve done today.”

  * * *

  There are mercifully few places on the planet where the landscape changes before your very eyes, where the scenery is constantly on the move, where features on the horizon disappear without a moment’s notice and well-trodden paths vanish without trace. It’s an unsettling concept. We have a deep-seated human need to understand our environment, to know our bearings and the way home. Unfortunately, it’s not always possible in the Antarctic.

  Sea ice is anything but easy to navigate. The ceaseless tussle between wind, waves, and ocean currents means it’s constantly on the move, pushed and pulled in all directions, opening up stretches of water in some areas, driving it together in others. Shackleton once described it like a “gigantic and interminable jigsaw devised by nature. The parts of the puzzle in loose pack have floated slightly apart and become disarranged; at numerous places they have pressed together again . . . until it becomes ‘close pack,’ when the whole of the jigsaw puzzle becomes jammed.” It’s a jigsaw puzzle that’s always changing; a maze where paths suddenly shut and maybe, just maybe, open up elsewhere.

  In the Antarctic, you need all the help you can get to deal with Shackleton’s jigsaw. We decided to get the best satellite communications we could afford, allowing us to download the latest imagery as it became available. Most cruise ships and private expeditions are forced to call colleagues at home. What does the sea ice look like? Can you see a way through? Our satellite system is worth every cent, allowing us to see what lies over the horizon and respond immediately; this is information the Shokalskiy wouldn’t have otherw
ise. The only problem is, satellite images have a limited shelf life. As soon as they’re taken, the clock is ticking: The ice continues its onward march and in extreme circumstances can be different in just a few hours.

  Since the Zodiac training, frustration has threatened to set in. We’ve prodded and probed the ice. We’ve searched for openings; we’ve tried bashing through; we’ve followed leads of water. Each time we’ve only found impenetrable pack ahead. Each time Igor has called us up to the bridge, pointed out the thick multi-year ice lying ahead, and with a shrug said: “No way through.” Each time we’ve been forced to beat a hasty retreat. There’s nothing we can do but try elsewhere. I’m seriously starting to wonder whether we’re going to get through. After all the planning, after all the hard work by everyone, is it possible we won’t get any farther? We do have alternatives—other places we might try to reach the continent—but these won’t help us answer the questions about iceberg B09B. Anywhere else will inevitably be a poor second choice, and there’s no guarantee the sea ice there will be any easier to navigate.

  Tonight, I’m hoping we might have better news. I head up to the top deck. With most of the team in bed, the ship is strangely quiet. The evening feels oppressive, and it’s not just my mood. At these latitudes, the sun remains low on the horizon, but there’s little warmth in its rays. The twenty-knot wind is biting and thick cloud has rolled in from the south. Just before I came up, the weather station was recording 30F. With windchill, it feels more like 18F.

  Bloody freezing.

  I set up the comms and wait for a connection, lost in thought.

  Suddenly a friendly voice speaks up behind me. “Evening, sir.” It’s Terry, one of the volunteers.

  Terry is wildly supportive of the expedition. A frustrated scientist, he was one of the first to sign up, keen to get involved in whatever needed to be done. In his orange windproof jacket and gray woolly hat pulled down hard over his head, I can just make out a beaming face and frosted stubble.