by Chris Turney
What an incredibly generous offer. It is tempting. The Chinese vessel is closer to the sea ice edge and farther away from those bloody bergs. But we may be jumping out of the frying pan into the fire. We would be risking a helicopter flight—something that isn’t ever taken lightly in Antarctica—and remain stuck in the sea ice.
After all that’s happened, I’m seriously contemplating whether we should hold tight on the Shokalskiy. The bergs aren’t moving, and if the Xue Long gets out there’s a good chance we’d also be released.
But the Australians are really pushing for an aerial evacuation. They’ve concluded we’re both stuck. If they persevere, they’ll only get trapped as well. A helicopter evacuation is the only option.
The Chinese push back: no, we really can’t land on the Aurora Australis. Given the helicopter rotors span nearly fifty feet, the Australian ship deck is just too small.
Maybe we are going to have to stay here after all.
Finally, the Australians relent.
An alternative plan quickly unfolds: we could be delivered to an ice floe next to the Australian vessel. We have our helipad. The Chinese are now searching for something suitable around the Aurora Australis. Their helicopter hasn’t sighted anything yet.
Igor is getting increasingly restless at the delays.
“Chris, Greg, this snow is getting soft. Look,”—he points off the starboard side—“there’s running water. And cracks.” His arm sweeps across the waiting helipad. “The floe may not last. We have to get passengers off now or cancel. It will be too soft later.”
Things aren’t looking good. The Chinese want a floe 100 feet across; so far they’ve found nothing even half that size near the Aurora Australis. The weather is good for flying at the moment, but the forecast shows it crapping out soon.
Greg goes to speak to Captain Murray on the phone. The Aurora Australis doesn’t think it can help the Xue Long. The Australian feels we should evacuate now; with the impending bad weather we might not get another chance for several days. All bets would be off then. Even if we just get to the Xue Long, that’s better than nothing, he argues. There are fewer icebergs around the Chinese vessel.
Murray’s concerns alarm me. I look off the ship’s starboard side at the threat. The fleet of bergs have stalked us for ten days, seemingly ready to pounce at any time. During most of this time, the team have treated them as part of the scenery. Could they still strike?
Oh, hell. What do we do?
* * *
As soon as Shackleton, Worsley, and Crean walked into the Stromness whaling station, the manager arranged for a ship to collect the three men waiting on the west coast. With their safe return, Shackleton was hell-bent on getting back to Elephant Island. Winter was approaching fast and he was worried about Wild’s men. They had little shelter, limited food and few medical supplies. Three days after their arrival, Shackleton tried to get through with one of the whaling ships from South Georgia, but the sea ice proved too thick. Moving on to the Falkland Islands, Shackleton ran into a wall of British bureaucracy that offered little direct help. Frustrated, he appealed to different South American governments and relocated to the southern Chile city of Punta Arenas where he organized the rescue efforts. Attempt followed attempt with failure. They would try one more time. On 25 August 1916, Shackleton set out with Worsley and Crean on a small Chilean steel-hulled steamer called the Yelcho. Five days later, his heart in his mouth, Shackleton saw Elephant Island—the way was clear of ice thanks to a southerly gale that had blown through.
Shackleton was just in time. Wild had done an impressive job leading the men, but they were now in dire straits. As the weeks had rolled into months, despair had begun to settle in. The men were responding in different ways. Wild wrote later in his memoirs: “At least half the party were insane, fortunately not violent, simply helpless and hopeless.” Some anxiously watched the horizon for a ship, others hunted for penguins and seals, which had all but disappeared, still others just lay in their reindeer sleeping bags day after day. The men were down to their last few days’ rations, and there was whispered talk of cannibalism, with a supposed plot to kill Orde-Lees that was only averted by their rescue. The team that Shackleton had left behind was on the verge of falling apart.
Hurley described 30 August as a “day of wonders.” The Australian was the first to see the Yelcho and rushed back to the upturned boats where the men were sheltering, crying out, “Wild, there’s a ship. Shall we light a fire?” The men scrambled outside, tumbling over one another, tipping their seal hoosh on the floor as they rushed outside. A boat approached the shore and on board Shackleton called out: “Are you all well?” Wild, sobbing with joy, called back: “We are all well, Boss.”
“This is the fourth attempt I’ve made to reach you blighters,” laughed Shackleton in reply.
Shackleton kept his visit short; he didn’t even go to visit the camp. He was impatient to be off. The last thing they needed was to be trapped by the sea ice again. The men grabbed their personal gear and within an hour everyone was on board the Yelcho. The Chilean ship cranked up its engines and headed north as fast as it could carry them. The men had escaped by the narrowest of margins. Although the Antarctic had thrown everything at them, they had pulled through a horrifying ordeal, together.
Shackleton was desperate to tell his wife Emily his news. As soon as they reached Punta Arenas, he dashed off a letter: “I have done it . . . Not a life lost and we have been through Hell. Soon I will be home and then I will rest.”
Shackleton’s men were going home.
* * *
“We found ice.”
The ship’s comms suddenly bursts into life. An excited Chinese voice clarifies the message: the Ka-32 helicopter has found a floe “to the right” of the Aurora Australis that looks big enough to land on.
They’re hovering over it now. Can the Australians send someone to check how thick it is?
The evacuation looks like it might be back on.
“Greg, can we speak for a moment?”
I pull Greg aside.
“At the moment, everyone is safe on board. Flying them out is a risk. Do we have to go?”
I’m acutely aware of everything that’s been risked to get us out, but I need to think about the team first. Is flying out really the safest option? After all we’ve been through, should we remain and hope for a change in the winds?
We talk it through. “We can stay, Chris, yes. But if one of these bergs starts moving again”—Greg pauses for a moment, searching for the words—“If people die, it’ll be a bad call.”
We don’t have a choice. The weather is good, and we have a chance to get out. Shackleton would have taken this chance. We have to go. The Writers Festival is over, and the tent long since packed away, leaving the helipad ready for operations.
Ten minutes later, the Australians report over the radio that the floe is thick enough for the chopper to land.
The Chinese are happy.
It’s six o’clock. The call is made to go.
Greg calmly announces over the tannoy system that we’ll be evacuating the ship.
I feel terribly conflicted. Disappointed I’m leaving our ship, the vessel that’s taken us so far, but relieved to know a decision has been made.
For good or bad, we’re committed and the team springs into action. A human chain is quickly formed along the deck and gangway, bags and boxes thrown down the line to the waiting sledges on the ice below. There’s a keen sense of urgency in the air. Everyone is here: scientists, expeditioners, volunteers, media, Russian crew. We’re one team now.
Vlad is smiling. “It’s good to be off ship,” he says, dragging yet another sledge of kit out to the gathering pile at the helipad.
Stay the Dog is one of the first down. Perched on the top of Robert’s ice slide, she watches unmoved over the proceedings. Stay’s seen it all before.
The Chinese helicopter flies over, the heavy throb of its double rotor blades cutting the air. I stop talking
and cover my ears.
The Ka-32 cautiously drops onto the ice, almost drunkenly wobbling into position over the Milo “H.” Half a dozen Chinese crew jump out, throwing planks of wood onto the surface for a makeshift landing platform, along with buckets of frozen food for the Shokalskiy’s indefinite stay. The rotors slow down but keep spinning. If the ice is too thin and the chopper starts to break through, the pilot will need to floor the engine and pull away immediately; in a situation like that there is no time to fire up the engines from a cold start. Fortunately, the ice seems to be taking the weight.
That’s a good sign. Hopefully it won’t get much warmer and weaken the ice further.
With the Chinese crew off, the throb of the double rotors increases, the helicopter shifts its weight and, with a slight tilt of the nose, lifts off, heading away as quickly as it came, leaving the team on the ground to frantically make the final preparations to the landing area.
We have twenty minutes before they return and the first sortie flies out, twelve people per sortie. Twelve people safe. Little Nikki is heading out on the all-important first helicopter. As ship manager, Nikki has masterfully looked out for everyone on the Shokalskiy. Now we have to get the team settled on the Aurora Australis as soon as possible, and Nikki has agreed to continue in this vital role. Annette and the kids are on the second sortie.
Inside, the corridors are heaving with people. With single-minded pursuit, everyone is rushing in different directions, making final preparations before they fly out. Among the throng, Annette finds me and we duck into a quiet corner.
“ I’ve just learnt Elizabeth is really scared about the flight. Can you get someone to be with her?”
Just like Annette to worry about others when she has something scary to do herself.
“Thanks, love. I didn’t know that. Yes, I’ll make sure.”
Through the crowd I spot Ben Fisk, who is on the first flight with Nikki. I quickly explain the situation, and he kindly agrees to sit with Elizabeth. She’s not the surest on her feet and after what Annette said, I know she’ll need someone with her.
We head upstairs to get Cara and Robert kitted out in our cabin. Both have their full Antarctic gear on with life jacket and grab bags. I can’t believe I’m letting them go. I want to remain with them, but Annette is insistent.
“No, love. You have to stay. We’ll be all right. You have to make sure everybody is okay. We’ll see you over there.”
Cara silently gives me a hug. Robert is just excited.
“I’ll be flying in my first helicopter. And it’s in Antarctica!”
He’s over the moon. I can’t say I blame him, but now’s not the time for excitement. This is dangerous. I kneel down in front of him and do up the zip on his jacket.
“Robs, I’m going to come out to the helipad, but you’ll be on your own with your mum and sister on the helicopter. I need you to look after them. Can you do that for me?”
He nods seriously, understanding, and I give him a hug and rub his head.
In the distance, I hear a distinctive thud in the air. I glance up and through the cabin porthole see the helicopter approaching. This is it. We really are getting out of here. Hovering only briefly above, the bright red aircraft lightly touches down on the helipad, stark against the rafted blocks of ice that have held us firm. Below the furiously spinning rotor blades, the Chinese ground crew shepherd the first group on board along with Stay the Dog. Within moments the door is slammed shut and they’re gone. The first group are away. The evacuation has begun.
Right, let’s get going.
We go down to the lounge, where the second team is gathering for take-off. The space is filled with brightly colored clothing. But for all the people, the room is silent, the mood somber. Joanne is sitting pensively off to one side, visibly worried. Annette sits next to her and chats quietly.
Outside, the signal is made. The bridge has been called. The Chinese are on their way back.
We start to move out of the ship.
It’s time for the family to leave. I don’t want them to go, but the sooner they’re away, the sooner they’ll be safe.
We join the waiting group outside. Ben Maddison is there, talking about home, dinner tonight, the weather, anything to keep everyone’s minds off the flight. Mary and Kerry turn and smile as we approach, barely recognisable in their full Antarctic clothing and snow goggles.
At that moment, the chopper flies over. I duck instinctively, feeling the powerful downdraught. Any closer and I’d be thrown to the ground. Near the landing, I can make out Chris and Eleanor lying across the pile of bags and gear, stopping them from being blown away.
Touchdown.
Chris makes the all-clear signal; the group are good to go.
I give Annette one last embrace and the kids a quick cuddle. They walk off to the helicopter bravely, Robert waving to me as he briefly looks back. I’m worried sick, but now is not the time to show it. Within seconds, the helicopter is back in the air and gone.
I return to the Shokalskiy along what’s now a well-worn icy path. Back on board, the ship is starting to feel abandoned. Half the team have left; the few remaining are helping to shift the last of the gear out onto the ice. I go up to my room to make sure I have everything. With the family gone, our home for the last four weeks has suddenly become just another empty space. I feel an overwhelming sense of loneliness.
My thoughts are broken by the sound of the returning helicopter. Looking out the porthole, I see the Chinese land and the third group of twelve moving out.
I breathe a sigh of relief. That means my family made it okay. Thank God for that.
Now we just have to get everyone else out of here.
I leave my room and go downstairs. It’s time.
I’m on the penultimate flight. Chris, Eleanor, and Greg are bringing out the science gear and samples at the very end.
I make one last visit to the bridge. Igor is at the port side window, watching the evacuation. Nikolai and Vlad are patiently standing by. We’re leaving the Russians on their own to face whatever might happen, and it doesn’t seem right, but Igor is certain about them staying.
There’s not a lot left to say. We shake hands. “Good-bye,” I say to Igor, “and good luck. I’ll see you in Bluff soon.” I hope. There are nervous smiles all round.
I join the others in the lounge, and we make our way outside. Little is said; most are lost in thought, reflecting on the impending helicopter flight. Each trip is taking about twenty minutes. The Chinese are running the evacuation like clockwork.
As the chopper lands, I lead the way to the open side door, head down to avoid the worst of the downdraught. Inside, the cabin is filled with seats and a strong smell of aviation fuel. I head up to the pilot.
“Hello,” he shouts over the sound of the engine and rotors. He has a beaming smile.
All in a day’s work.
“Thank you, thank you.” I shake his hand. I must look a wreck, but I don’t care. We’ve nearly out of here.
With everyone on board, the side door slams shut and the pilot pulls back on the throttle. The helicopter’s engines roar. The rotor blades respond, slowly at first, then biting the air with increasing frequency, a deep throb filling the cabin. We take off. Pivoting on my seat, I manage to find a small porthole and press my face against the cold Plexiglas as the view unfolds. The Shokalskiy appears so small, set among icebergs that are far too close for comfort. She appears almost defiant, as if challenging the Antarctic to do its worst. It almost did. The scale of what lies below is breathtaking. The entire icescape is a battleground of white; floes of all sizes jostle for position in a mind-bending jigsaw. Even at several hundred feet, I can’t see the end of it—the jumble of rafted ice stretches all the way to the horizon. No wonder the Shokalskiy failed to escape; she never stood a chance of getting out.
I can’t help but think of Igor and the crew.
Poor bastards. I wish we were all getting out of this together.
I l
ook back down and find I’ve lost sight of the vessel among the chaotic scene. It’s as if the Shokalskiy had never been.
We fly on. Few words are spoken, the enormity of all that’s happened striking home now it’s nearly over. How it could have been so much worse.
Moments later we pass over the red-hulled Xue Long. The Chinese vessel is surrounded by ice, immobile but majestic, the nearest bergs aft of the ship. On the deck, I see waving figures. The Chinese have been amazing. So many have worked so hard to help us, but without the Chinese we wouldn’t be getting out at all. And now they look like they’re stuck. I can only hope they get out soon . . . and safely.
The pilot pushes on. The shattered icy surface passing underneath, seemingly without end. Slowly, the bright red Aurora Australis appears on the horizon, a deep trench carved out of the pack behind her. The sea ice here looks like it’s several feet thick.
Heaven knows how the Australians have managed to get in so far.
The pitch of the engine changes as the helicopter turns and gently comes in to land beside the icebreaker.
We touch down. The rotors slow and the side door is flung wide open. Light pours into the cabin. The rotors whip the surface snow into a frenzy. Through the wild drift, a smiling, bearded face emerges at the entrance.
“Welcome home!” he proclaims.
We’ve been in a cocoon for four weeks, with no new faces. Suddenly there’s a familiar accent and a warm smile. It catches me off guard.
I stagger off the helicopter. People come forward to help us toward the waiting ship. Five storeys high and four times the size of the Shokalskiy, the Aurora Australis towers above us. I look at my watch. Amazingly, the call to leave our vessel was only made two hours ago. Things have moved bloody quickly. No wonder I feel so disoriented.
I almost run across the snow and ice toward the ship, leading the charge to get on board. I need to see the family, to know for sure they’re okay.
A sea of faces look down from the decks above. They may be strangers, but they’re smiling, waving. I’m starting to feel emotional—the worries and stress of the last ten days have taken their toll.