by Chris Turney
“No, not possible,” Igor interrupts, sweeping an arm out toward the window. “Shokalskiy can’t leave on own. This ice is too thick. I make call.”
He’s already pushed the distress button for help.
* * *
Shit.
It’s official, then. We really are in trouble.
The general rule of thumb when trapped by sea ice is to wait it out. Eventually the ice should spit you out; it may take weeks, months or even years, but you should get home.
Not this time. The icebergs are too close, the pack too thick.
The silence of the room is broken by the printing clatter of a fax machine. Igor rips the message off the machine and lays it on the table in front of us.
We read it in silence.
From: Falmouth Coastguard
Subject: ATTENTION MASTER
IMMEDIATE
24 2025 UTC DEC 13
FM UKMRCC
TO AKADEMIK SHOKALSKIY C/S UBNF
ATTENTION MASTER:
YOUR INMARSAT C DISTRESS MODE HAS BEEN ACTIVATED.
YOU MUST CONFIRM YOUR DISTRESS OR INDICATE YOUR
VESSEL IS SAFE.
COMMUNICATE WITH UKMRCC AND PASS YOUR POSITION
Igor turns to Greg: “You call, please. My English not so good.”
Greg nods acknowledgment. He’s been the point of liaison between the bridge and the expedition. He’s worked hard with the crew to keep things running smoothly in the background. And that’s just the way I want it. There’s no way I’m going to start butting in and confusing the lines of communication. We need to keep everything working as efficiently as possible.
It seems bizarre that the Falmouth coastguard in the U.K. is handling our rescue. They couldn’t be farther away. But Falmouth is one of the global hubs for rescue, switched on twenty-four hours a day. Anyplace, anytime, a distressed ship’s call first goes to them and is then passed on to a local rescue center.
Greg rings the number and confirms the distress signal. He gives our coordinates: 66 °52” south, 144 °19” west.
We get a barrage of questions: What’s the state of the ship? Distance to the ice edge? How close are the icebergs? What’s their trajectory?
Greg delivers the answers, short and to the point. A few minutes later, he hangs up.
“Okay, they’ve got enough to be getting on with. They’re going to call back in twenty minutes with further questions.”
There’s nothing to do but wait.
I look at the bridge clock above us. It’s only nine-thirty. A lot’s happened this morning.
My family are eagerly waiting downstairs to open more presents, but a toxic mix of pack ice, a hull breach, a drift to shore, and roaming icebergs are threatening to spin things out of control up here. Two different worlds: festivities in the cabin, an emergency on the bridge.
What a Christmas.
I absently glance outside. No change. Surely the wind will swing round, maybe not today but sometime soon. A few cracks in the ice would make a world of difference.
I want to be as far away from here as possible, but no amount of willing is helping so far. The ice is staying stubbornly locked around the ship.
The telephone rings.
Greg picks up and relays the question: “Do we need immediate evacuation?”
There’s a helicopter at the French base Dumont d’Urville, seventy miles away. If we have to, we can get the passengers out onto the ice for pickup. It would be a challenge transporting a handful at a time over that sort of a distance, but it could be done.
Igor walks up to the windows and looks out at the bergs moving past us on the starboard side. He returns to the radar screen and takes another look.
After a moment, his mind made up, Igor shakes his head. “No, we’re okay for now.”
“You’re sure?” Greg asks.
Worriedly, Igor shrugs his shoulders. “I think okay.”
That’s going to have to be good enough for now.
Greg relays the message, listens for a moment, and then hangs up.
“Okay, we’re going to be passed over to the Australian Rescue Coordination Centre shortly. They’ve asked we send any photos we have of the ice and call back in forty minutes. In the meantime, they’ll look to see what ships are nearby.”
There’s nothing around for at least 100 miles. Before we left Australia, I informed the Italians, French, and New Zealanders that we were going to be working in the region. But of these only the French have an icebreaker, the Astrolabe, and that left their base for Hobart several days ago. There is the possibility a Chinese icebreaker called the Xue Long might also be able to help; they’re meant to be reconnoitering possible sites for a new base in the Ross Sea, but their current location isn’t known.
Our best chance is the Australian icebreaker, the Aurora Australis.
“Right, I’ll go up on the top deck and send over the photos,” I say. “What’s the email address?”
Greg writes it down on a scrap of paper.
“While I’m online I’ll check on the Aurora Australis.” The icebreaker could be anywhere. The Australian schedule has been screwed up due to getting trapped in sea ice earlier in the season. They’ve already crammed two voyages into one to make up for lost time, but since we left New Zealand I’ve lost track of their schedule. They could be back in Hobart or resupplying their base at Mawson.
That’s the other side of Antarctica.
Greg nods. I grab my laptop and the comms case. Throwing on my down jacket, I stagger out onto the blustery deck. The frigid air catches me off guard; in the warmth of the bridge, I forgot about the forty-knot winds blowing outside.
Working against the wind, I sit up on the top deck facing the bow. The Shokalskiy is locked in the ice pointing almost due north, the ideal direction for connecting to Inmarsat’s satellites over the tropics. On the port side, I can see the rocky stretch of coastline at Stillwell Island and behind that a wall of ice: the East Antarctic ice sheet. Somewhere beyond, there is Cape Denison. It looks close—too close for comfort. I take the requested photographs.
The high-pitched squeal shrieks at me for attention and I dash back. We’re connected.
If we’re lucky, the Australian icebreaker will be at Casey, only a week’s sailing from here. We won’t be popular after all the shit they’ve already endured this season, but in Antarctica an emergency trumps everything. Out here everyone looks out for everyone else. Government operator, tourist, it doesn’t matter: there’s never any question of refusing help. There’s no one else out here. If you don’t look out for one another, people can get hurt . . . or worse.
I open up my laptop and download the photos. I stare at the icy images—those bergs have definitely moved. I email them straight to the coastguard.
Waiting for the pictures to send, I access the webcam on the Aurora Australis and check the ship’s schedule.
I breathe a sigh of relief. The Australians are doing a resupply at Casey. It’s close, Antarctic-close.
I return to the bridge with the update.
“That’s some good news, I guess,” says Chris.
* * *
An hour later, I’m standing at the front of the lecture room on the lower deck. Every seat is filled, every spare patch of floor sat on. With the Heritage staff, we have fifty-four people packed into a tiny space. It’s getting hot.
We couldn’t keep the situation quiet for much longer. We’ve already closed the bridge—a first for the whole voyage—to manage the calls with the coastguard. It was only a matter of time before someone started asking questions, serious questions. If we don’t lay out the facts and fast, rumors will start and things will only get worse. We need to brief everyone. It’s what Shackleton would have done. It’s the only way we’re going to get through this.
Nikki made the announcement over the ship’s tannoy in her normal bright, cheery voice. In fact, it was so bright and cheery you’d never know anything was up—perfect for keeping everyone calm. She’s a rea
l asset to the team.
Before heading down, I pop back to my cabin and explain what’s been going on. The family heard Nikki and figured out what was happening.
“Are we going to be okay?” Annette asked after the kids left to drop the presents in their room.
“We should be fine, love,” I said, trying to not show any worry in my face. “We’re now in regular contact with the rescue center and they know where we are. Either the wind direction will change, or they’ll send a ship to break us out.”
I hope.
Now we have to bring everyone else up to speed. Igor is speaking to the Russian crew; the expedition and Heritage staff are my responsibility. The team are a mix of personalities, ages, and experience. Few are expeditioners in the traditional sense of the word. How they’ll respond I don’t know, but I’m not going to give them the worst-case scenario. The last thing we need is panic. Thankfully, most seem happy chatting about the morning’s festivities.
I can see Annette, Cara, and Robert in the middle row. Annette’s look of concern says it all; she knows it’s worse than I’m making out. I smile weakly, and the kids smile back.
Chris and Greg are seated to my right, just as they have been every day for the briefings. We’ve worked well as a team on the subantarctics and Cape Denison. Now we’re going to have to step up a gear.
I clap my hands for silence.
Remember Shackleton: keep it positive.
“Morning, everyone. Happy Christmas.”
Boisterous cries of “Morning, Chris” and “Happy Christmas, Chris” come back in reply.
That’s a good sign.
“As I’m sure most of you have seen, the sea ice from yesterday hasn’t broken up. There’s a persistent easterly wind that’s keeping the ice locked around us and unfortunately the forecast suggests this is not going to change appreciably for several days yet. That means we’re unlikely to be able to get out under our own steam. Because of this, the captain has shut the engines down.”
There’s no need to talk about a possible blocked rudder, the breached hull, the icebergs, or the drift toward the coast.
“The good news is that the weather is looking better than forecast, but we can’t rely on this. As a result, Igor has made a call for help to get us out of here.”
There’s a murmur across the room.
Earlier, Greg warned Chris and me that Igor thinks we may be here for ten or more days and might need to start thinking about rationing. At the moment, the Shokalskiy is all right for food, but if we get stuck much beyond ten days we’re going to need a resupply.
Probably best not to mention this just now.
“At this stage, there’s not a lot we can do. It’s important we’re patient and focus on looking out for one another while we wait. To bring you up to speed, I’ve asked Greg to give you a rundown from the perspective of the bridge.”
I want the team to hear it from our point guy. Greg’s wealth of experience will help reassure them.
Calmly, Greg outlines the morning developments and what’s likely to happen. “As you’ve just heard, the captain has requested assistance to help break the Shokalskiy out. The Australian Rescue Coordination Centre—you may know them as the RCC—are now looking after us. We’re in regular contact, and they’ve directed three vessels to our position: the Chinese Xue Long, the French Astrolabe, and the Australian Aurora Australis. These are all icebreakers, and should be with us in three to four days’ time. The Xue Long will probably get here first. It was on its way from Fremantle to the Ross Sea to scout out some locations for a new research base, so we’re rather fortunate. It’s a majestic vessel and should be able to cut a way through to us. I’ll make sure we get a picture on the noticeboard upstairs with some details about the ship.”
There are looks of approval around the room.
“There’s nothing else we can do for the moment, as Chris said. We’ll hopefully be out soon, so just enjoy Christmas. But it’s important we don’t spread panic. I’ve been in situations like this before, and phone calls home can cause confusion. So when you speak to loved ones today, please don’t let on about our current situation—including those of you in the media.” Greg nods toward Alok, Andrew, and Laurence.
I’d already spoken to the media guys to give them the heads-up about what’s happening. They’ve agreed not to report our immediate situation because of these concerns, and signal an acknowledgment to Greg as he sits down.
I’m standing back up to finish off the briefing when a sudden succession of sharp, hollow bangs resonate through the ship.
The good humor in the room immediately vanishes; worried looks are exchanged.
I put up my hands and try to sound reassuring. “As you can hear, the crew are making repairs to some damage the ship received on the way out from the Hodgemans. It sounds far worse than it is. There is a break in the hull, but it’s above the water line. It’s all under control.”
The metallic ring of the repairs cuts right through me.
We were lucky—very, very lucky. If the ice had been any deeper we would be in serious trouble. The rest of the team don’t need to know that, though.
“Any questions?”
Janet puts up her hand. “So with the ships coming, am I right in thinking they can reach us without much trouble?”
“Yes,” I reply. “The Xue Long can cope with sea ice over three-feet thick, so it should be able to cut a path through. Once she gets to us we’ll most likely follow closely behind her to open water.”
I look to Greg for confirmation, and he nods.
I continue: “The Astrolabe is unlikely to be able to reach us on her own, but the Aurora will be a few days behind if there are any problems.”
“So why have they sent the French ship?” asks Rob.
“That I can’t say, Rob. Igor was most insistent the sea ice is too thick and they won’t be able to help, but they’re coming anyway.” I pause. “Maybe they don’t want to miss out?”
There are hoots of laughter. It’s a welcome sound, breaking the tension.
“Now it’s Christmas Day, so everyone relax. Nikki has put up a schedule of events for the day, and Nicola and Brad have been working hard preparing a fabulous dinner for later tonight. Isn’t that right?”
I turn toward our two cooking maestros who are standing by the door.
“Absolutely, Chris,” Nicola says, smiling. “It’s going to be fantastic.”
* * *
During their first few months trapped on the Endurance, Shackleton’s men faced an uncertain future. Hope still lingered that they could get out under their own steam. Sure, the currents and winds were taking them away to the west, but if the pressure on the ice would ease up just a little, they might yet escape and even drop Shackleton and his team off. Leads of water did sometimes appear near the ship, but would then close shortly after, taunting the men on board. Shackleton remained positive, telling the men it was “better to be in an open pool than a closing crack, for that means pressure, the greatest peril a polar ship has to face.” All perfectly sensible, but still deeply frustrating. The icescape was too chaotic, too broken “to get the hut and all our provisions ashore, some 50 tons of gear at a minimum, taking fuel and dog-food into consideration,” wrote Orde-Lees.
By mid-March, their northward drift was all too apparent. With the approach of winter, the days were now noticeably shorter and temperatures were dropping. Repeated attempts to set up the radio system had failed; no one in the outside world knew where they were or what was happening. Shackleton resigned himself to the inevitable. They were stuck and needed to prepare for the winter darkness. The expedition doctor Alexander Macklin commented:
We could see our base, maddeningly, tantalisingly. Shackleton at this time showed one of his sparks of real greatness. He did not rage at all, or show outwardly the slightest sign of disappointment; he told us simply and calmly that we must winter in the pack, explained its dangers and possibilities; never lost his optimism, and prepared for
winter.
The boilers were shut down, and the stores and equipment moved so the men could sleep in a part of the vessel better insulated to cope with outside temperatures of -30F. To free up space on the deck, flamboyantly designed “dogloos” were built on the ice to create “Dog Town.” Shackleton kept his cabin, now in a cold part of the ship, to give himself the space for thinking and planning; if men needed a confidential word with him, they could do so without fear of being overheard.
With winter, the winds became stronger. The grinding and crashing of the Endurance against the sea ice was replaced with the eerie creak of timbers. They were surrounded by “an immense chaos of hummocks and ridges, ice needles and broken blocks piled up in the wildest confusion” and completely at the mercy of the elements. Time and time again, storms struck the ship, some inflicting serious damage. On August 1, 1915, a “terrific blizzard sprang up,” and blocks of ice crushed the Endurance, smashing the rudder and starting a major leak. Another time Dog Town was destroyed by two twenty-foot-high floes, the dogs fortunately saved by an alert Shackleton who had stayed up during the night.
There was no way out. They were trapped with no chance of rescue.
The expedition had failed to reach its goal. Now all they could do was stick together as a team and hope the ship stayed out of serious trouble.
* * *
Six hours later, I step outside, alone.
It’s been the weirdest Christmas ever.
The warmth of the ship instantly dissipates as the heavy door closes behind me and the polar wind sweeps into the doorwell, snow blowing in my face. Zipping up my jacket, I adjust my scarf and hat, trying to keep as much of the cold air out as possible.
Somewhere out on the port side is Stillwell Island, but it’s disappeared from view, hidden by one of the thickest fogs I’ve seen in years. The visibility has crashed to just a hundred feet. I can’t see anything out there. The Shokalskiy’s isolation is now complete. We’re in our own cocoon, cut off from the rest of the world. On the broken ice below, the only thing I can make out are two Adélie penguins jumping between floes, single-minded in their undertaking.