by Chris Turney
Igor is on the bridge. He’s not confident we’ll be able to get out on our own just yet. His immediate focus is on the helipad. If it melts much more, the helicopter won’t be able to land and we’ll remain trapped.
The change in conditions seems to be having different effects across the area. Looking at the monitor, the Xue Long is drifting with the ice away to the northwest. It’s not by much—only 0.2 knots—but over the last few hours the ship’s movement is enough to show up as a track on the screen. By contrast, the Shokalskiy remains firmly locked in place; the ice is so closely packed in against the coastline, we’re not going anywhere. Meanwhile, the Aurora Australis is resolutely probing to find a way through. The Australian ship is about twelve miles away but reporting thick, old floes of ice. There’s still no way through.
Captain Wang calls the bridge, wishing us a happy New Year and enquiring after the helipad. We tell him about our preparations but relate our concern over the temperature outside.
“Thank you. No problem. Too windy for flying today. Maybe tomorrow.”
Greg replies in thanks.
“We try to move out to open water today.”
Poor man, he’s been saying that for a while.
“Is difficult. We trapped in ice.”
“Xue Long. This is the Aurora Australis speaking.” Captain Murray joins the conversation. “We will attempt to reach you today.”
Over the radio, the Australian outlines his plan: with no flights possible, the Aurora Australis will try a different tack and break out the Xue Long before resuming their efforts on us.
We’ll just have to see what happens.
Down in the lounge, Nikki is printing off messages that have been sent to team members through the ship’s email. It’s helping a lot. We may be far from home, but supportive messages from loved ones are proving priceless for those on board. We know we’re not alone.
I’m idly chatting to Nikki when Alok puts his head around the door, a note of urgency in his voice. “Chris, they’re nearly ready for us in Times Square.”
I’d completely forgotten about doing our interview for New Year. Poor Alvin has been swamped with requests. He’s had over a thousand requests and, apart from a few loonies, most have been hugely supportive and sympathetic. It’s helped reassure everyone on board that the rest of the world really does care. The team at CNN have been one of the best and are keen to do a live feed to New York.
I grab my jacket for the top deck. “How’s it going up there?” I ask as we leap up the stairs.
“All good. They’re ten minutes out. Seventy million viewers, apparently.”
What? Seventy million tuning in? It’s a number that’s hard to grasp.
With all the rain and wind we’d been having, Chris has tied up a large red tunnel Hilleberg tent to the railings. It’s our new media hub, offering shelter from the fickle elements. Inside, cameras, microphones, laptops, and piles of paper cover the floor. Laurence is already inside checking the settings, while medic and photographer Andrew is standing by in case of technology failure during the broadcast. A laptop and a tripod-mounted camera are set up at the front of the tent. I manage to find a space at the back, Alok and Laurence beside me, the tent furiously flapping in the wind.
On the screen, the neon lights of Times Square are being beamed into our tent. In the foreground, 360 anchorman Anderson Cooper and actress and comedian Kathy Griffin are dressed heavily for the New York winter. They look colder than we are.
A distant voice calls out over the computer: “We can see you. You will be live in five, four, three, two . . .”
After a moment’s pause, the speakers crackle to life.
“Hello there, hi, Times Square,” I call out.
Anderson replies: “Hi, that’s great. We can hear you loud and clear.” There’s just a slight delay, but his friendly New York accent is unmistakable.
I can’t believe I’m doing this.
“How did you guys ring in the New Year? We saw that video of you all singing.”
“We had a special song written by the team,” I reply. I feel hopeful after all we’ve gone through together. “We came up on the top deck and broadcast it live. It’s now four o’clock in the afternoon and looking good.”
Alok continued: “It’s like all the great poets of the time telling stories of what’s happened to us. This is our Odyssey, and we’re telling it as we go along.”
I can hear singing in Times Square. We’re a world away, and we can actually hear singing in New York. This is bloody amazing technology.
“Now you guys are waiting for a helicopter, but I’ve never met people who are jollier and happier,” Anderson says meaningfully.
Kathy quips mischievously, “You’re like Sex in the City having mimosa!”
It wasn’t really the inspiration we were going for, but good to know.
“We’re working hard to keep everyone going,” I answer, not quite sure how best to respond. “Everyone has been fantastic. There’s a great team spirit, and we’re just looking forward to getting home.”
It’s bizarre to be talking to two celebrities I’ve watched at home, but I’m enjoying the experience. It makes a welcome change from everything else we’ve been juggling.
“We’re doing the same here,” says Kathy. “We’re just waiting on the helicopter to rescue us. Me in particular.”
Everyone laughs.
There’s just one thing I want to do. “Anderson, we see you’re cold. We’ve got you this coat.” I pull out one of our blue expedition jackets.
Laurence takes it forward toward the camera and says: “We’re going to send it to you via penguin.”
Anderson looks genuinely surprised. “Thanks. We can use it here.”
Kathy gives a look of mock concern. “You’re losing your minds. You need psychological help.” She twirls her forefinger at her temple.
You might be right there.
Touchingly, Anderson wraps up the interview on a personal note. “I think you guys are really inspiring in the face of all that, and we wish you the best. We hope you get to your families soon. Chris, thank you so much. All the best.”
The world really is watching.
* * *
The James Caird rolled up onto the pebbly beach. The men on board had spent the last two days sailing along the west coast, desperately trying to avoid being thrown against the rocky shore. Finally, Worsley spotted a small cove through a break in the cliffs that looked like it might be the refuge they so desperately needed. Some of the men would not survive another day on the small boat; they had to go for it. Bringing in the oars, they rode the swell over the shallow reef and jumped ashore. Their tongues swollen with thirst, the men were seriously dehydrated. They leaped on a nearby stream and drank their fill. It “put new life into us,” wrote Shackleton. “It was a splendid moment.”
They had made it to land, but salvation lay on the east coast where the Norwegian whaling stations were based; Stromness was only thirty miles away. It sounded so close, but how to get there was another question. They had survived the Southern Ocean, but it would be foolish in their weakened state to head back out to sea; the currents and weather could easily sweep them far from land and away into the South Atlantic. The only other option was to climb over the mountains, across the “precipitous slopes, forbidding peaks and large glaciers” that formed the backbone of the island, a path no one had ever taken before. True to form, Shackleton made the call. The men on Elephant Island were depending on them.
Only three of the men were fit enough to make the journey: Shackleton, Worsley, and Crean. Staying behind, McNeish, as the most senior man, was left in charge with Vincent and McCarthy. The night before their attempt, Shackleton barely slept. “My mind was busy with the task of the following day . . . No man had ever penetrated a mile from the coast of South Georgia at any point, and the whalers I knew regarded the country as inaccessible.” Traveling light with no tent or sleeping bags, the three men planned to cross the mountain
s as quickly as possible. Trudging their way up through the mountains, climbing steep, icy slopes, they looked for a pass that would take them over to the east coast. Three times they met a dead end, three times they were forced back to try again. On the fourth attempt, they discovered a pass at the very end of the day. They were dangerously late. The sun was setting. With no shelter, there was a strong possibility they would freeze to death on the mountain peak.
The three men had to keep moving. Their only option was a steep slope of snow and ice that disappeared into the darkness. Shackleton declared: “It’s a devil of a risk, but we’ve got to take it. We’ll slide.” Coiling their rope to form a sledge, they sat one behind the other and pushed off. Worsley wrote afterward how they launched into the unknown with trepidation but: “Then quite suddenly I felt a glow, and knew that I was grinning! I was actually enjoying it . . . I yelled with excitement, and found that Shackleton and Crean were yelling too.” The men dropped 900 feet in just a couple of minutes, jubilant to have survived.
The trio pushed on. They were now on the very edge of existence. The physical exertion was almost too much. Freezing winds had blasted them for most of their journey. They were hungry and thirsty. At times, they were close to delusional, imagining another traveling by their side. They urgently needed rest. At one point, Shackleton let the two men sleep while he kept watch. Fearing they might not wake up, he stirred his companions after five minutes and told them they’d been asleep for a refreshing half-hour. They stumbled on, slipping through the darkness. They were close to collapse and couldn’t continue for much longer. Not a moment too soon, Stromness Bay suddenly broke through the gloom. With the sun rising, the early-morning steam-whistle calling the whalers to work cut through the air. “Never had any of us heard sweeter music,” wrote Shackleton. “It was the first sound created by outside human agency that had come to our ears since we left [Grytviken] in December 1914.” They were close, really, really close.
Thirty-six hours after leaving the west coast and having had virtually no rest, they staggered into Stromness whaling station. They were a terrible sight, a “trio of scarecrows,” with rags for clothes, salt-matted hair and beards, and faces blackened by months of blubber smoke. The first people they saw were two children playing in the street who ran on sight, terrified by the vision before them. A man pushing a wheelbarrow stared blankly at Shackleton when he asked for help and passed by with just a grunt. Finally someone agreed to take them to the station manager’s office. They were kept waiting outside until the manager appeared at the door. He looked skeptically at the three bedraggled men standing at his entrance. Shackleton described the encounter:
“Well? ”
“Don’t you know me?” I said.
“I know your voice, ” he replied doubtfully. “You’re the mate of the Daisy.”
“My name is Shackleton, ” I said.
Immediately he put out his hand and said, “Come in, come in.”
“Tell me, when was the war over? ” I asked.
“The war is not over, ” he answered. “Millions are being killed. Europe is mad. The world is mad. ”
Even with all the fighting dominating the world headlines, the disappearance of the Endurance was well known. No one had heard a word from them for over eighteen months. Some believed Shackleton and his men had crossed the Antarctic, others that they were trapped in the sea ice; a widely held view was they had died. Calls for rescue attempts had been made, but nothing had happened. Shackleton’s sudden appearance at the manager’s doorstep was astonishing—a miracle in a bloody time. The news went round the station like wildfire: against staggering odds, Shackleton had returned to South Georgia.
* * *
It’s five-thirty in the afternoon, and the Aurora Australis is struggling to reach the Xue Long. The Australians have been reporting young ice around them, but the Chinese are in the same thick multi-year ice as we are. They can’t get out and are hoping the Australians can do a double rescue. The dangers are made all the more apparent by listening to the discussions between the captains in the bridge.
The Chinese are really concerned. “This ice very dangerous for us.”
Is the Xue Long saying they’re at risk from icebergs as well?
The Australians respond: “The ice is relaxing around us, but we’re making slow progress.”
My stomach is in knots. Please don’t let the Aurora Australis get trapped.
“It’s heavy going.”
The Australians want out. They’re not confident they can reach either of us. The sea ice is too thick for them to proceed. The safest way is to fly us out with Chinese support. But that doesn’t help the Xue Long, and the Russians are steadfastly refusing to go anywhere.
“We stay,” Igor insists.
That’s his call. No one is going to question it. He’s the captain, and the crew are his team. But we have to do what’s right for us.
It now looks like a helicopter evacuation is going to happen. Maybe tomorrow. The weather is looking better for then; sunshine and light wind are forecast.
That evening, I introduce the briefing and then hand over to Greg, who has prepared a slide show on the helicopter evacuation. I almost collapse into a nearby chair as Greg starts talking. Weariness is threatening to overtake me. I’m exhausted by all we’ve been through and all that might have been. I desperately wanted to get us all home under our own steam. We should be sailing into Bluff, not beset in the Antarctic. I feel the terrible weight of responsibility.
The strain is showing on all the faces in the room. With New Years behind us, they need another focus. We can’t stay much longer. It’s been a terrifying ordeal, and many are on the edge of cracking.
Greg continues. “Don’t forget your grab bags. These are meant to contain essential items. If the chopper comes down, the bags have to hold extra clothing, drink, food and any medicine for you to survive on the ice.”
The shocked looks say it all: too much information.
* * *
It’s Thursday, 2 January 2014. Ben Maddison is keen to host the inaugural Writers Festival at Cape Denison. Over the last ten days, his writing class has gained quite a following on board the Shokalskiy. What started out as a small group has now blossomed into a full-blown academy with essayists, poets, and novelists scribbling away at all hours. Many of the team members have waxed lyrical to me about rediscovering a love of writing they haven’t known since they were children. This is something you often find in Antarctica, especially when you get trapped in ice: There’s actually time to reflect and reassess what you love, what you want to do with your life when you get back home.
There’s the possibility we may be evacuated by helicopter today . . . but maybe not. After ten days, I’m resigned to the uncertainty. Neither the Chinese nor Australians are saying one way or the other. There’s only a hint of wind, ideal for flying, but bearing in mind the A-factor, I’ve given up assuming anything. If the Writers Festival will help keep everyone’s minds off the uncertainty, I’m all for it.
“Great idea, Ben,” I say eagerly. “We can put it in one of the large domed tents on the ice.”
Within an hour, Chris has the ten-foot-high bright orange structure up on the helipad. Minutes later, a column of authors make their way off the ship for a morning of prose, chatting excitedly, notepads and paper clutched to their chests. It seems more like an academic procession than an Antarctic expedition. If we are evacuated by air, Chris assures me we can get the tent down in half the time. We’ll be more than ready for a sortie if the call is made.
Back on the Shokalskiy, the corridors are strangely empty.
Medic Andrew catches me in the corridor on the upper deck. He’s had an idea.
“Chris, I think we should leave the expedition photos up on the noticeboard with the blogs.” He points to the images and text pinned to the wall outside the medical room. “If we leave and the ship is stuck for years, they’ll tell our story to those who come after.”
I’m su
ddenly thrown into the future. I imagine the Shokalskiy frozen among the bergs, silent as the grave, the corridors filled with hoarfrost. A small expedition chances upon the vessel, unmarked on any map, a refuge from the blizzard that’s blowing. Stumbling up the gangway, they prise open the door and step inside, gasping for breath, shutting the storm outside. The strangers turn on their torches, beams of light falling on the corridor walls, their voices echoing in the empty space. Treading warily, they see the noticeboard. Images of the subantarctic islands, the Southern Ocean, albatrosses and seals, Erik and Chris’s oceanographic work, Robert’s minke whale, Mawson’s Huts, Stay the Dog, the Hodgeman Islands, Christmas.
Precious moments made by an extraordinary team.
I snap out of the future. The here and now is all that matters.
“Great idea. If we’re going to leave, let’s keep it all up there.” Andrew smiles and pins up the photos from the last couple of days.
I climb to the bridge to find out the latest developments. The Australians are asking about the dimensions of the Chinese helicopter. Can it land on the Aurora Australis? There’s a breakdown in communication. Details are getting lost in translation.
This could be fatal.
“Greg, let’s get Colin and Kerry-Lee up here. They’re both Mandarin-speakers and can help out. That’ll stop any confusion and make sure everyone knows what’s going on.”
Five minutes later, Colin and Kerry-Lee have agreed to leave the Writers Festival and join us on the bridge, answering questions and relaying key points between the Chinese and Australian captains.
Thank goodness we have Colin and Kerry-Lee. Antarctica is challenging enough without language issues.
The Chinese are insistent they can’t land on the Aurora Australis: the Australian helideck is too small for the flying conditions. The Australians insist it isn’t.
The Chinese almost cough with embarrassment and make an alternative suggestion. If they can’t deliver us to the Aurora, we would be most welcome on the Xue Long.