by Chris Turney
If we ever wanted a helicopter evacuation, we can forget it. The wild winds and zero visibility make that impossible. We’re on our own and no one else can help us. The A-factor is working overtime.
I head along the corridor to find Greg. I need to talk through our options. We drop into his cabin to speak.
“What choices do we have if we get into further trouble, Greg?” I’m almost whispering. The walls are wafer thin, and I don’t want anyone to hear what we have to say.
“It depends on how bad things get, Chris. We’d only leave the ship if it’s at risk of sinking. The icebergs look like they’ve stopped for the moment. But if that changes, we do have the Argos.”
I grimace. The wheeled Argos would be hopeless trying to cross the rafting ice outside. Thankfully, Serge has repaired the tracked vehicle after its swim in the ocean. He very proudly showed it off to me working in the forward hold. If necessary we could crane it onto the sea ice next to the Shokalskiy. I wouldn’t want to push it too hard, but we might not have much choice.
We talk through possible scenarios. If things get dire and the ship is threatened, we’ll have to get everyone onto the ice and try to make for the continent. If an iceberg does head toward the Shokalskiy, we’ll probably get everyone into the lifeboats for shelter while we do relays. Stillwell Island would be our best bet, but it would be a huge ask of the team—some might say impossible—to cut a path through unfamiliar terrain in dense fog with winds reaching over 60 miles an hour. And all accompanied by a group with virtually no experience of extreme conditions. It’s not a situation that fills me with confidence.
I look out of the porthole over Greg’s shoulder and shudder. There are ten miles of moving ice between us and the continent.
Shit, I hope it doesn’t come to that.
I’m struggling to see us keeping everyone alive in the conditions outside.
There’s no way I want to introduce this scenario to the team unless it’s definitely happening. Morale is good, but not that good. Panic will just set in, and that won’t help anyone. There’s nothing anyone can do at the moment anyway. The radar should give us a couple of hours’ warning if any of the icebergs start moving in our direction—enough time to get everyone fully dressed and ready to go. Preparing for this eventuality now would only unsettle everyone.
With the strengthening wind, the ship is now listing to port big time. It’s no longer just a feeling. And it’s getting worse fast.
We both head up to the bridge. Terry calls after us. “All okay, guys? It doesn’t feel good.”
“All fine,” Greg answers over his shoulder as we hurry on.
Terry isn’t the only one concerned. I’m seeing a lot of worried faces about the ship.
Up on the bridge, Nikolai is still pacing between the radar screen and the starboard window. The tilt meter is now reading 5 degrees. That might not sound like much, but for a vessel the size of the Shokalskiy, 5 degrees is a big deal. The cabins and corridors are noticeably askew.
“It’s not a problem, Chris,” Greg says quietly. “It’s disconcerting, but we can manage this. If necessary, Igor can flood the ballast to correct the ship.”
“Can you make an announcement on the tannoy and tell everyone this? I know the team would appreciate hearing all is okay.”
I walk over to the window and let Greg make the call from the ship’s control panel. I glance down. The weather station readout on the nearby computer screen has flatlined. The conditions outside are so extreme it can’t cope. The last reliable wind measurement was 54 knots and rising.
I gaze into the gray whiteness. The storm just seems to keep getting worse.
And we’re completely on our own.
* * *
The weather is too wild to go out on deck to give interviews. Even if we found somewhere sheltered outside, the high-pitched screaming of the winds would kill any chance of us being heard. So most of the afternoon is being spent in my cabin taking satellite phone calls. After three days of being stuck, almost everything that was carefully stowed in the room has been used. The floor and seating are now strewn with science kit, clothing, boots, bundles of wires and other electronic gear. Along the walls, batteries and consoles hum contentedly as they’re being charged.
For the phone calls, I’ve fed a magnetic antenna out through one of the portholes and slapped it onto the outside of the ship. With the open window, the small orange curtains flap wildly with each gust of wind, the temperature in the room approaching that of the outside. We don’t always manage a clear link to the satellites, and the signal keeps dropping out, but it’s the best we can do. I don’t want the bridge swamped with any more media calls; we need to keep that line open for the RCC and other emergencies. It may be Boxing Day, but New Zealand is up and eager to know what’s happening. Luckily for them, we have one of their own on board. Kerry-Jayne is more than happy to oblige.
She’s on the sixth interview, still enthusiastically answering the same questions fired at her by the journalists. “I’m actually rather pleased we’re stuck,” Kerry-Jayne says with remarkable cheerfulness. “I wanted longer to study the bird life in the Antarctic, and thanks to all this ice I’ve got it.”
The final interview complete, Kerry-Jayne turns to me. “You know, Chris, during four decades of expeditionary work, I’ve never mixed with so many different scientists. I’m learning so much.” She gathers up her gear to resume the hourly bird counts from the bridge, stops at the cabin door and laughs. “I’m happy to do the interviews, but it must be a bloody slow news day back home.”
I’m glad Kerry-Jayne’s here. Even with all that’s happening, Kerry-Jayne remains completely unflustered
Back in Sydney, our media man Alvin has seen the news and stepped into the breach. Most of the university seems to be on holiday, but not Alvin. This is a major news story, and his team are at the frontline. Before we left, he kindly agreed to be point man for inquiries, but little did he suspect he was going to have to give up his holiday time.
The afternoon calls from New Zealand are now turning into international requests, including from the United Kingdom and United States. Alvin is already proving his worth, fielding inquiries and keeping it at a manageable level. I just don’t have the time alongside my other responsibilities on the vessel to answer everything. I hope this works to convince everyone at home we’re okay. An email from my Dean, Merlin, is particularly reassuring, and just what I needed to hear: “Keep up the good work . . . Take care and ensure you have some tales to tell your future grandchildren.”
Annette is looking after the children, answering their questions, reassuring them. But we also have our own families at home to think of. Annette and I agreed it was important to phone our parents—it is the holiday season, and, with our predicament in the news, we needed to reach out and tell them we’re okay. Annette’s mum and dad were reassured. Almost matter-of-fact, they wished us all a happy Christmas and ended with, “Oh, do you know what happened to your sister’s present? It hasn’t turned up.” My parents, on the other hand, were both struggling with their emotions, worried sick about what was happening. It was a heartbreaking call. I can’t believe how lucky I am to have Annette by my side, but I would give anything in the world to have the family safely at home, away from all this. Anything.
* * *
At the same time as Shackleton and his men were trapped on the Endurance, a dramatic series of events was playing out on the other side of the Antarctic. Poorly financed, the Aurora left Hobart for McMurdo Sound in the Ross Sea on Christmas Eve 1914. The plan had been to lock Mawson’s former ship in the sea ice over the winter and use it as a base, from which the men could deliver the supplies toward the Pole that Shackleton expected to pick up on his way over. The Aurora departed six weeks late, and time was pressing. The leader of the party, Aeneas Mackintosh—one-eyed due to the result of an injury sustained on Shackleton’s previous venture south—was concerned the Boss might have been dropped off early in the Weddell Sea and was already making his wa
y across the Antarctic. Unfortunately, the telegram reporting the Endurance’s delayed departure was never sent from Grytviken. Unaware, Mackintosh immediately set about laying caches of food down to 80 degrees south before the summer ended. This would at least give Shackleton a fighting chance of getting to McMurdo if he was already on his way.
Returning in March, Mackintosh and his men were exhausted and dispirited. They had laid the depots as planned, but the man was not a good leader. Even though he was with Shackleton on the Nimrod, Mackintosh lacked any real knowledge of expeditionary work. He had driven the dogs too hard and too quickly after their long voyage, and many of the unfortunate creatures had died. Poor sledging technique only exacerbated the terrible conditions by making the journey far harder and longer than it needed to be. Furious arguments had ensued. The Aurora collected the disgruntled men on their return and decided Cape Evans, just offshore Scott’s old base, was a safe anchorage for the winter. It was not for long. On 7 May 1915, the Aurora was struck by a storm. Breaking free of her anchors, she was swept out to sea, leaving ten men stranded on the shore, including Mackintosh, with “only the clothes on their backs.” The expedition faced disaster.
Realizing their ship was gone and unlikely to return, the men of what became known as the Ross Sea party moved into Scott’s Hut. Morale was terrible, rescue uncertain. And they faced a huge challenge: They now had to lay the full schedule of supplies Shackleton was expecting. To accomplish their task they needed food, stoves, sledges, tents and clothing, virtually none of which had been brought off the ship. The men had to improvise. They set about organising themselves, salvaging what supplies they could find. A large tent was found and from this trousers and jackets were fashioned for everyone; food left over from Scott’s expedition was prepared for the summer journey; old tents, sledges and stoves were repaired as best they could be; seals were killed for meat and fuel. The following summer, during a staggering 199 days of sledging in largely defective gear, the men somehow laid down the supplies Shackleton had asked of them, all the way through to 83 degrees south. Hardly any of the dogs had survived the previous year’s effort, which meant the men had to drag the sledges and supplies themselves. It was an incredible achievement, particularly given the bitter disagreements that plagued the group. One of the men, however, died from scurvy and, impatient with the conditions, Mackintosh led another man across desperately thin sea ice, never to be seen again.
Remarkably, after the Aurora was swept out to sea, it too became trapped in sea ice, just like the Endurance. It was a dreadful year for sea ice in both the Ross and Weddell seas. In a little-known part of the story, Shackleton’s second vessel drifted helplessly for 700 miles over nine very long months. When leads of open water appeared close to the vessel, the men tried to cut their way out but to no avail. They faced crushing sea ice and terrific storms, and watched bergs narrowly miss the ship. Released from the sea ice in February 1916, the ship was barely recognisable when it limped into New Zealand two months later. It would not be until January 1917 that the Aurora made it back to McMurdo to rescue the seven surviving men.
* * *
It’s the end of Boxing Day. The team have just finished dinner, and a movie is on in the lecture room. The day is ending more positively than it began. The storm seems to be calming down outside, the rip in the hull has been patched up, and Igor has shifted the water in the tanks to tilt the vessel back upright. The ship doesn’t feel like it’s in so much peril now. But even more promising, the Xue Long and Astrolabe have made better progress than expected and called with the news they could be at the edge of the sea ice by mid-afternoon tomorrow. Things are looking up.
I head to the medical center, where I find Andrew checking over his photos from the day. I shut the door quietly behind me and pull up a chair. “I just wanted to catch up. Are there any problems I should be aware of? Is everyone all right?”
I learned long ago that telling everyone you’re available doesn’t always translate into action. Sometimes people are shy; sometimes they’re reticent about voicing issues for fear it might be taken as criticism. I’ve had lots of conversation with the team in the lounge and during mealtimes. I know Chris and Greg have done the same. But no one has sought us out privately to express concerns. Maybe there aren’t any, but I need to be sure. An obvious person they might confide in is the expedition doctor. I need to hear if there’s something I’m missing.
“No, they’re all good,” replies Andrew, smiling confidently. “Their biggest fear seems to be missing the arrival of the other vessels when they’re in bed!”
I leave feeling much more relieved. If everyone is concentrating on the rescue, that’s good. They’re looking forward rather than dwelling on what might be. I go into the lounge to make tea for Annette and myself. Maybe we’ll get out of here soon. The family will be safe and we might even still get to visit Macquarie. If we leave in the next couple of days, this will have all been just a bloody awful scare.
That’s a wonderful thought.
I head upstairs, trying to avoid tipping scalding tea over my hands. I’m just about to knock on the door for Annette to let me in when I become aware of someone halting at the door next to mine. It’s Andrew. He’s just stepping into the captain’s cabin . . . clutching his medical bag. We’re not the only ones feeling the strain.
* * *
The morning comes as a devastating blow.
Everything outside has changed—again. The fierce winds of yesterday have packed even more ice in between us and open water. What had been a few miles of sea ice is now far, far worse. There is no dark-gray water sky anywhere. We’re surrounded by the white glare of ice blink. There’s no let-up all the way to the horizon. There must be twenty miles of ice. Twenty miles to open water. Four miles was bad enough.
And to make matters worse, what was a broken icescape is now a scene of complete devastation. Under cover of the fog, the sea ice has cracked, collided and rafted; two-storey-high blocks of ice create a vista strikingly reminiscent of a destroyed city. The pressure of the ice has formed long ridges around us, running out in all directions. Most disturbingly of all, the icebergs off the starboard bow have moved several hundred feet. If they’d set off in our direction, it would have been a disaster for the Shokalskiy.
Thank Christ we didn’t have to evacuate the ship. The weather station is now running properly again after shutting down for eighteen hours during yesterday’s storm; eighteen hours of the shittiest conditions imaginable. I try to banish the image of seventy-one people trudging across moving sea ice in a blizzard with next to no visibility. I shake my head—that would never have ended well.
It must have been one hell of a breakout of sea ice up the coast to cause all this. The question is, what are we going to do about it?
I need to find Chris and work through the different scenarios facing us. Fortunately, the ship is quiet, most of the team kept busy by the schedule devised by Ben Maddison and Nikki: with lab work and movies on offer, not many people are about. It’s all helping keep a focus while we figure out what to do. We go to my cabin, a good place to talk with little fear of being overheard. Chris collapses in a seat opposite me, haggard and worn, the aftermath of yesterday’s storm clearly weighing heavily on his mind. We know what’s at stake here. There’s no point in wishing for the few miles of sea ice we had on Christmas Day. Twenty is what we now have to deal with. We set to work interrogating the latest sea-ice images and weather charts. A shift in the wind would help, but the forecasts insist we’ll have strong easterlies for at least the next week. I know weather patterns can dramatically change in the Antarctic, but I can’t shake the feeling it’s a futile hope that we’ll suddenly get a westerly breeze. Given that, we have to face the fact that the Shokalskiy isn’t going anywhere without help.
The Xue Long is our next best hope. And if she does get through, we’ll need to be ready.
There’s a knock, and Greg puts his head round the door. “Morning, gentlemen. Can we speak?”
I clear some of the papers off a chair to make space.
Greg’s not optimistic about the ability of the Chinese to break through. “It could be a three-vessel job to get us out,” he warns.
My heart sinks further. I don’t dismiss Greg’s concerns lightly—he has decades of experience in sea ice. He’s seen it all. He’s even been trapped by it and had to be evacuated. If Greg is saying we might need three ships, we have to consider it seriously. The Xue Long is only capable of breaking ice just over three feet thick, and almost everything around us is thicker than that now; some of it is over ten feet.
Can they find a way through when they reach the sea-ice edge later this afternoon? If not, we could be here a lot longer.
* * *
Eight hours later, I’m on the top deck. It’s late in the day, but there’s hardly a cloud in the sky. I can feel a light breeze on my face. It feels good to be back outside.
Standing next to me is BBC Andrew, fully kitted out for a live interview back to the U.K., earmuffs on, microphone at the ready. Andrew’s the broadcaster’s man on the ground and is focused on the task at hand, in spite of all that’s happening around him
From down below come shrieks of laughter. I peer over the side and see people milling about on the ice, enjoying the evening sun, grateful to be off the ship. After thirty-six hours stuck inside, we needed somewhere to break the cabin fever that was fast developing. By lunchtime, a safe area to walk was staked out with bamboo poles and flags on a large floe next to the ship. It might look like a prison yard, but it’s a brilliant antidote to the claustrophobia some were feeling.
This afternoon the call came through to the bridge that the Xue Long and Astrolabe had reached the sea-ice edge. It seems extraordinary to think that just twenty miles away ships are freely moving about; just twenty miles from our frozen position. And yet, with almost no hesitation, the Chinese ploughed straight into the sea ice, leaving the French behind to repair a troublesome engine. The Chinese vessel seems hell-bent on getting us out of here, and they’re reporting excellent progress. They’re absolutely incredible. We’re hoping to see them soon, very soon.