Iced In

by Chris Turney

  We now have both Argos and the two quads back together. The problem is we can’t get everyone back to the ship in a single run. Trying to compress two convoys into one means there just isn’t enough space for all. After our experience driving over, we don’t want to get bogged in snow or, worse, have someone fall out and hurt themselves on the journey to the Shokalskiy.

  I call out: “Chris, this isn’t going to work. Rather than waste any time, I’ll stay with three of the guys. Leave us one of the emergency bags and you get going. You’ll only need to send an Argo and quad back for us.”

  And if the Shokalskiy has to leave urgently, we can always camp out. If the worst comes to the worst, we can always make it round the coast to Mawson’s Huts.

  “Yes, sounds good. The other vehicles can be stowed back on the Shokalskiy while we’re fetching you,” he says.

  I call to Colin, Taylor, and Pat. “Can you guys stay with me? We probably won’t have to stay here long, but there’s no way everyone can get back in one run.” I try to make it sound a positive thing, but if we do get stuck here for a few days or longer I want the youngest, fittest adults with me. They agree enthusiastically, happy to remain at the islands.

  I make sure Robert is safely on board one of the Argos and wave everyone off. All the vehicles are packed to the gunnels with people and gear. Robert should be back with his mum and sister in twenty minutes.

  Within a short time, the vehicles are just distant blobs on the horizon, and the penguins are our only company.

  While we’re waiting, we may as well keep busy and do some science.

  “Right, guys, let’s grab the bag and bring it over to the island.”

  Taking a handle each, we drag it over to solid ground and open up some of the chocolate for an energy shot.

  Chris and Eleanor were trying to find rocks that had melted out and left behind when the ice sheet had been larger in the past, something they can date for comparison with Cape Denison. They had limited luck, but we might as well have another look while we’re here.

  Over the next half hour, we walk the island, weaving our way around the nesting birds. Whenever we get too close, the birds make their displeasure known.

  We can’t find anything that looks like it’s been transported onto the islands by ice. Just shattered bedrock, nesting birds, and lots of shit. The smell is almost overwhelming.

  Walking down off the high point of the island, Nikki calls me on the VHF.

  “Hodgemans, Hodgemans, can you hear me, over?” Her normally cheery voice has been replaced with one of concern.

  “Shokalskiy, Shokalskiy,” I reply. “I can hear you, over.”

  “Hi Chris, can you guys make sure you’re ready to be picked up when Ben and Ziggy get to you? Conditions are changing out here and the captain wants to get away.”

  Down below I can see an Argo and quad bike approaching fast.

  “Sure, Nikki. We’re just coming down now and will be ready as soon as they turn up.”

  As we step off the island, Ben and Ziggy pull up. Ziggy comes over and with no effort grabs the duffel bag and throws it on the back of his quad. I join Ben in the front of the Argo and the others pile in the back.

  “Thanks, mate,” I greet Ben as I climb in. I glance back: “Everyone okay back there? Keep an eye out for Ziggy. Any problems, shout straight away.”

  “Sure,” comes back a chorus of replies.

  Ben turns the Argo away from the island and accelerates, the engine protesting loudly.

  In the distance, a thick dark bank of water sky hangs over the Shokalskiy and away out to the east.

  Ben keeps his foot down all the way and, in spite of the contrast, successfully navigates the snow patches. The only time we slow down is to dodge a convoy of Adélie penguins that seems intent on walking under our wheels. We reach the ship in just eighteen minutes.

  As we get closer, I can see the Shokalskiy has pushed her nose into the sea ice. Conditions are deteriorating, and fast. I’m shocked. A katabatic wind is in full flow, pouring off the ice sheet and whipping the open water into a frenzy. I look out and see ice moving beyond the vessel. It’s completely different from what we had at the islands.

  Where the hell did all this come from?

  I’ve only been gone from the sea ice edge for two hours. It was all clear when I left. We’ve got everyone back quickly but now it’s nearly a white-out.

  Shit.

  A small team led by Chris is busy around the bow of the ship. The first quad bike is being craned into the front hold. Meanwhile, Ben Maddison is getting ready to reverse the first of the Argos down the side of the Shokalskiy. The vehicle is connected to the remaining quad by rope and slowly being let out from the shore. Once Ben reaches the rear deck, he hooks up to the crane and is lifted up. The second soon follows.

  Shouted instructions fill the air.

  “Ben, check that link.”

  “Ziggy, watch yourself.”

  Within half an hour everything is on board.

  I’m unnerved. This is no small local disturbance. Something dramatic has happened, but I can’t work out what. Back on board, I flip my name tag. I double-check the rows of names. Everyone’s back, including Robert.

  They’re all safe.

  I look out the side window and see the Shokalskiy is already pulling away from the sea-ice edge. There’s no messing about. The vessel immediately starts to turn and heads north.

  I go out on the deck and look over the bow.

  There’s thick floes of ice everywhere.

  This isn’t good.

  The Endurance headed east out from South Georgia to try to bypass the worst of the ice before plunging south into the Weddell Sea. It didn’t work. Three days after leaving Grytviken they met sea ice, far farther north than usual. The Norwegian whalers had been right: the summer of 1914–1915 was terrible. To the south, they faced a brilliant white “ice-blink” sky that warned of closely knit pack ice stretching seventy miles or so to the horizon; behind them lay the inky dark “water-sky” from where they had come. Shackleton chose the ice-blink. For some 1,800 miles, the Endurance was directed toward any patches of darkness in the sky that indicated lanes of open water reflecting off the underside of the clouds. It was a remarkably effective way of navigating through the ice-choked Weddell Sea. Hurley was optimistic, writing in his diary: “The ship cut her way through in noble style, leaving a long wake which could be traced, and remaining open, for a mile or so.”

  Buoyed with optimism, the expedition discovered new land on 12 January and named it the Caird Coast in honor of their major benefactor. Things looked hopeful. Large patches of open water allowed the Endurance to reach speeds of several knots. In spite of all the warnings, maybe they could set down Shackleton and his men after all. But as the latitude increased, so did the thickness of sea ice. At times it appeared impassable, and the ship would grind to a halt, apparently trapped. A few hours later, the winds would change, and they’d manage to break free, resuming their journey.

  On 17 January, the wind swung round to the northeast and, gusting up to 46 miles per hour, Worsley noted it “drove all the ice in that part of the Weddell Sea down to us, and packed it solidly around the ship.” Two days later, the Endurance was stuck, frozen “like an almond in toffee” as one diary entry remarked. At first the men thought it was just another temporary stop. After all, leads of open water still lay ahead. Shackleton organized attempts to reach them. The men threw themselves into the work with gusto. Long saws and crowbars were used to try to clear the way. Hurley filmed their efforts. It was no good. New sea ice formed almost as quickly as they cut it out. With hindsight, it all seems rather futile, but at the time it gave the men purpose, something to do instead of sitting around dwelling on the situation. Eventually they were forced to concede defeat.

  As the days turned to weeks, the reality of their situation started to sink in: they could be trapped for the winter. They had been so close to reaching their goal. Wild wrote with frustration
: “We could see the land we were making for about forty miles away, but so far as effecting landing was concerned it might as well have been four thousand.” Orde-Lees had even sorted out the stores and labeled up those for the “ship” and “shore.” Shackleton remained optimistic, at least outwardly. “His unfailing cheeriness means a lot to a band of disappointed explorers like ourselves,” remarked Orde-Lees. “He is one of greatest optimists I have ever known.... He merely says that this is but a little setback not altogether unforeseen and he immediately commences to modify his program to accord with it, even working his future plans out to given dates and to meet various possible contingencies.” To everyone else, there didn’t seem be a way out.

  * * *

  It’s Christmas Eve, and we’re not going anywhere. At least not for the moment.

  We’re stuck, and there’s nothing we can do about it except wait.

  We can’t cut our way out as Shackleton and his team attempted—there’s two to four miles of pack ice between the Shokalskiy and open water. Instead, I’m forced to try and will the wind to change direction so the sea ice might part, something like the old Bible story of Moses crossing the Red Sea. If I’m honest with myself, the odds are worse.

  Christmas couldn’t have come at a better time. It’s keeping everyone’s mind off what’s happening outside. Decorations are going up, gingerbread is being made, presents are getting wrapped. We’d originally planned to be in open water, steaming north for Christmas. But here we are.

  After lunch, Annette sits with me in our cabin. She pulls out a DVD. It’s Kenneth Branagh’s brilliant TV movie Shackleton, one from the pile of Antarctic films I brought on the trip.

  “What do you think? How about putting this on in the lecture room later today?” she says with a mischievous smile.

  I eye the case doubtfully. “Given what’s outside, do you think anyone will want to watch it?”

  “I think it will do them good. It’ll remind everyone it could be much, much worse. These guys were stuck in the ice for months.”

  I pause for a moment. “You are wonderful, aren’t you? Yes, why not? What’s the worst that can happen?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A Christmas to Remember

  It’s Christmas morning, and I’m struggling to get my head straight. Our situation has gone from bad to seriously horrible in just a few hours. How can it have changed so quickly? Everything looked so good when we brought the Shokalskiy round to the Hodgeman Islands. There was nothing but open water. I glance out of the porthole at the deceptively blue sky overhead. Now rafts of thick sea ice surround our ship.

  “Dad, go on, open it,” cries Robert, passing me a carefully wrapped present.

  Annette looks at me questioningly.

  “Sorry, mate, lost in thought.” I’m sitting at our cabin table laden with brightly decorated presents, while outside . . . for the moment, I have to close my mind to what is going on outside. I try to give Annette a reassuring smile and turn the brightly colored package over in my hands. It’s heavy. The card on the top has a short message: “To my darling husband. Happy dreams! Love Annette xx.” I can’t help but notice the wrapping paper is covered in snowflakes.

  That’s ironic.

  “Dad, hurry up,” pleads Robert, desperate to get to the next present.

  I carefully undo the wrapping and find a massive, dark, medieval-looking tome: an omnibus of The Sandman, the fantasy tale about the lord of dreams, Morpheus. Neil Gaiman is one of my favorite authors, and I’ve wanted this edition for years. I open the book, admiring the lavishly decorated pages.

  “Thanks, darling. This is brilliant.” I lean over and give Annette a hug. “How on earth did you manage to get it on board without me noticing?”

  She laughs. “Oh, a wife has means. But it did take up nearly all of our luggage allowance flying over.”

  I’m not surprised. It weighs several pounds.

  “Great, my turn,” says Robert, and dives on his next present, ripping the paper enthusiastically.

  “You’re such a freak,” says Cara, smiling. Teenagers. You have to love them.

  Over the next ten minutes, gifts are unwrapped, while the packaging assumes an impressive pile on the floor. For Annette, I’ve bought tickets to see her favorite musician, Sarah Blasko, on our return to Sydney. For Robert, a typewriter for his next story, though even Annette couldn’t get this on the ship, so it’s waiting for him at home. For Cara, books on fashion photography, one of her great passions. We must look like a picture postcard image of Christmas: a family surrounded by presents with snow outside the window, all apparently without a care in the world. It’s amazing how looks deceive. Are we really trapped? I still can’t believe it’s true.

  What are we going to do?

  I look at my watch. It’s eight-thirty in the morning.

  I need to take stock of the situation. I have to get back to the bridge and find out if anything’s changed. Maybe some leads of water have opened up and Igor is about to start up the engines. Maybe.

  “Guys, I hate to do this, but I’m going to have to go back upstairs. Do you mind if we open the rest later?”

  I’m expecting howls of protest, but instead I see resigned faces around the table. Cara and Robert don’t look completely surprised. They know something isn’t right.

  “Sure, Dad.”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  I turn to Annette and mutter, “I just need to head up. I won’t be long.”

  She nods, but I can see the concern in her eyes. After a kiss on the cheek, I go to the door.

  I’m trying to keep things as normal as possible for the family, but this is going to be tough. I look back in the room. The kids have resumed their smiles and laughter. I love them all so very much.

  Closing the door behind me, I step into silence. Even now, most of the team are still asleep. Well, it is Christmas.

  As I climb the stairs, I see Igor pacing one of the side rooms off the bridge, Vlad and one of the other officers with him. Not a word is being spoken, but the expression on the guys’ faces says it all.

  This isn’t good.

  The bridge is deserted. I’m on my own while the Russian crewmen discuss their options. What to do next is completely their call. The Shokalskiy is their ship, their responsibility. I don’t envy them one little bit.

  Ironically, one of the reasons we came over here was to dodge the worst of the weather. Now a vast icescape has suddenly appeared, and the Shokalskiy is trapped right in the middle of it. Under the blazing sun, the whole scene is awash with light, but the beauty is only surface deep. Everywhere I look, one large floe lies jammed up against another, blocking our path—massive blocks and needles preventing us from getting home to family and friends, rising out of what the great polar scientist and expeditioner Wally Herbert once described as “the stew of ice debris.” It was one of these bastards that pierced the hull of the Shokalskiy when we were trying to make our escape. The damage shows what the ice is capable of and just how vulnerable we are. We’re now completely at the mercy of the elements.

  I pick up a pair of binoculars and scan the seascape. There are no leads of water, there’s barely even a puddle: just a jumble of ice filled with dead ends. Out beyond, the thick, dark-gray clouds of water sky lie over the horizon. They can’t be any more than four miles from us. It’s sickening to know open water is so close. On the flat I can walk four miles in just over an hour. It seems such a pathetically short distance, but for the Shokalskiy it’s completely unreachable.

  I walk to the starboard side and look out. In the twenty minutes I’ve been downstairs, the nearest icebergs have definitely moved. One berg is only a mile away. Over fifty feet high, it must have at least 200 feet of ice below the surface, an enormous underwater sail driven by the ocean currents. It must be doing two to three knots.

  That’s bloody fast.

  I can almost feel the shocks as the bergs carve their way through the sea ice, chewing up the surface, breaking all before them,
the water boiling in their wake. On the positive side, the bergs seem to be running parallel to the ship, which means these ones should miss us if they keep on the same trajectory. That’s something, I suppose. There are more icebergs off the stern, but I can’t be sure where they were before. Our ship is safe, for now—a tiny refuge set in a scene of devastation.

  Igor steps back into the bridge. “Chris, can you get Greg and the other Chris? I need to speak to them.”

  His tone is somber. This isn’t going to be for a festive drink.

  “Sure, Igor. I’ll go and find them.”

  The simplest thing would be to call them up on the ship’s tannoy system, but that will wake everyone. The less we broadcast at the moment the better.

  I head downstairs and meet Greg on the stairs.

  “Morning, Greg. Igor wants to talk. I just need to get Chris. Can we meet in the bridge?”

  “Sure,” he says matter-of-factly. Greg knows it’s not good news.

  I head down two flights of stairs. It’s so quiet. Sensible people are sleeping.

  I find Chris’s door and tap hesitantly, not wanting to disturb any of the neighboring cabins. I have an English reticence that I’ve never been able to shake off.

  “Chris, Chris?” I whisper. “Are you up?”

  I hear a grunt of acknowledgment.

  “Sorry, mate, but Igor needs to speak to us. It’s serious. Can you get up to the bridge?”

  The voice on the other side of the door suddenly becomes alert. “Yes, of course. I’ll just chuck on some clothes.”

  I return to the bridge, where Chris joins us five minutes later. Hardly a word has been said the whole time we’ve been waiting. It’s almost like someone has died.

  Igor is pensive, anxiety radiating from him. Big decisions are being made. The confident smiles of the crew members are gone.

  Igor continues where he and I left off, almost pleading with us to understand. “No way out. Shokalskiy needs help.”

  Greg nods cautiously, “But can’t we wait? Maybe in a day or two the wind—”