When the Night Comes

by Favel Parrett

  When you are walking here, you have to be careful. There are elephant seals everywhere and they look like rocks. Then they move or burp and you get a big surprise. Huge fat seals! But there are little ones too, babies. They have the biggest eyes you have ever seen. Round and deep like space.

  I got to a beach and sat down on the black sand. There were giant petrels and skuas looking for food, looking for scraps—baby seals huddled together in groups, sleeping then waking and wanting more milk. Calling out to mum. Still no wind. The ocean dead calm.

  Maybe hours went by, I don’t know. I wasn’t cold. I just watched.

  Some little gentoo penguins were about. I could hear them above the noise of the elephant seals. They are shy, nesting in the grass, and it’s hard to see them. But then one came out, walked right there in front of me.

  I took my glove off so that I could take a photo. I have Soren’s camera. It was around my neck when the order was given to abandon ship. It’s lucky. I’m glad I have it. I don’t want to lose it. My glove fell and landed near the penguin. I held my breath but the gentoo stayed. It didn’t run away. Its little orange feet were bright against the sand and it came closer, inspected my glove. It pecked at it a few times, then it stood up and looked right at me. I can’t tell you how long that moment lasted, but everything inside me that was scared disappeared. It was gone.

  The photo is probably not straight and maybe it is out of focus, but it shows the moment. How close he was, my little friend who came to say hello. To lift my spirits.

  It is for you. A gentoo and my glove there on the sand at Macquarie Island, 6 December 1987.

  There are other photos. I don’t know if they’re good or bad—but they are there and I took them. And then there’s Nella—our little ship.

  Isn’t she the best?

  A ROLL OF FILM

  The photos as they came—black-and-white.

  A rocky beach, huge iced-in cliffs behind. Heard Island.

  The sun and the moon in the sky all at once, the soft light always there.

  A cape petrel, painted black and white and perfectly small. Bo’s favorite bird.

  Nella Dan right there on the shore, on the rocks. White letters that spell out MACQUARIE ISLAND on round fuel drums beside her—the water calm, the water still. Her body slightly on its side.

  Her last days.

  The last photo—a gentoo penguin on a dark beach, a glove, and the very edge of a shoe. Bo’s shoe.

  It is the only picture I have of him—his glove, a gentoo penguin and his shoe. But he is there in the photo, his eyes behind his friend’s camera. He is there in the background, taking it all in, silent and still as he was.

  I have had these photos for twenty-five years. I have looked at them so many times that they have become part of my makeup.

  A cellular memory. A map. A way.

  I hold one up now, black and white. A thin isthmus with triangular peaks reaching for the sky on either side. And behind the photo, the real thing—Macquarie Island, in full color.

  Green where there was none. Green where there had only been blue and gray and white.

  “So green,” he said, “green and like a big wet sponge. You never even knew you missed it, green, until you’d been in the ice for so long. Then it hit you. LIFE!”

  This place is special and there is nowhere else like it. She is waiting for you to come, ready when you get here.

  The last words sent to me from Bo, written in pencil on scraps of paper, yellow and worn now with time, but still the pencil marks are clear.

  Your friend,

  Bo Anker Johansen

  I stand on the bow of my orange ship. Photos are silent but Macquarie Island screams with life.

  We had rough swell and strong winds all night, but in the morning at first light—3:16 AM—the ocean went to sleep. Out my porthole, Macca stood tall, dusted with snow as the sun burst open a blue sky.

  All the things he told me, all the things he said, were true and real and I am here.

  Bo—I am here.

  Bornholm

  “Papa? Tell me about the sea.”

  There is a man.

  He is sitting at his kitchen table. Outside it is dark. It has been dark for hours and yet the man has hardly noticed.

  It is normal.

  It is winter.

  It is nothing.

  Opposite him sits a small girl—his daughter. It is warm in the kitchen—they are nice and cozy and warm sitting there together eating the dinner that the man has made.

  “What should I tell you?” the man says.

  “About the ice,” the girl says with a mouth full of fried potato. “What did you do when you got stuck in the ice?”

  The man moves a few pieces of sausage about his plate. He looks at the girl.

  “Well, we ran out of apples and we ran out of onions. We worked hard.”

  “But did you play football on the ice?” the girl asks.

  “Yes, this is true. We played football on the ice. We had a tournament.”

  “Did your team win the tournament?”

  “I don’t remember now,” the man says. “Mostly it was just for fun—to pass the time. We all fell over on the ice, we laughed a lot.”

  The girl nods. She knows this. There are photos of the tournament and she has seen them. Black-and-white photographs. One was taken from inside the ship through a porthole. The men are standing on the bright white ice, a perfect circle of light against the darkness inside.

  “And did you help dig her out? The red ship?”

  “Yes,” the man says. “We all did that. We all did some digging. We got her going but it was slow and we were using too much fuel, so we had to stay put and wait. We had to give up on the digging.”

  “But who came, Papa? Who came to find you?”

  The man smiles. He has finished eating but there is still food on his plate. He puts his fork down, rests his elbow on the table. He leans toward the girl—his daughter.

  “You know the answers to these questions,” he says.

  But the girl shakes her head.

  “Tell me, Papa! Because I have forgotten.”

  The man leans back on his chair now, his arms by his sides.

  “The Icebird came but they nearly got stuck too because they did not listen. They never liked to listen to us, so they had to turn back. That ship could get crushed in an ice field like an empty tin can—not like us. We were safe. We were in no danger.”

  The girl nods. “Yes, you were safe,” she says. “And what happened then?”

  “The Japanese came in a big icebreaker and they rammed the ice, cracked it like it was just an egg. Crack, crack, crack, and it was all broken up. We were finally free. We were moving again, moving after so long.”

  “How big was the ship, Papa?”

  “It was very big. It made us look like an ant!”

  “And what was the best thing?”

  “Well, they gave us some apples. A big bag of apples. I think I have never tasted apples so sweet or good. It is funny how you can miss a thing like an apple.”

  “I would not miss them,” the girl says.

  “You would miss them,” the man says. “You would miss them if you did not have them for so long.”

  The girl says nothing then. Her plate is empty and she looks at her papa’s plate.

  “Do you want some more?” the man asks, but he does not wait for an answer. He picks up his plate, pushes the remaining bits of fried potato and sausage onto the girl’s plate.

  “Don’t tell your mother that I did not eat all of my dinner,” the man says. “She says I am getting too thin!”

  The girl laughs at this and he nods. It is their daily agreement.

  “Will I go there?” the girl asks. “Will I go down to the ice?”

  “If that is what you want, then you will go,” the man says. “You will go anywhere you want to go.”

  The girl concentrates on eating for a while. Maybe she is thinking—thinking about the
cold water, the color of it. About the albatross that come out of the thick gray to glide on the wake of passing ships. A kingdom of birds. The water rising higher than mountains.

  “Will you come with me, Papa? Will you come to Antarctica?”

  There is a man.

  He is sitting at his kitchen table. Outside it is dark, but he does not see the darkness now.

  The light is coming—just early light. Nella Dan is sailing up the Derwent, they will be in Hobart for breakfast and after he will be able to step down onto the solid ground of the small city, a city of hills that climb up and up to the face of a stone mountain.

  A family there waiting for him. A family waving. A woman, a small boy with curly hair, and a girl called Isla.

  A place he wanted to call home.

  “Papa?” the girl says, a piece of fried sausage glistening at the end of her fork.

  The man looks at this girl—his daughter. He studies her face for traces of fear, for lines of worry. He looks at the whites of the girl’s eyes, at the tightness of her lips.

  But there is nothing.

  His girl is free.

  “I have spent a long time at sea, much of my life. But once you have seen it, you dream about it sometimes, and you know it is there, and that is enough.”

  The girl nods. She pops the piece of sausage into her mouth.

  Her plate is empty.

  “Tomorrow we will pull the rowboat up—it’s time,” the man says.

  The girl nods again. “I will help,” she says.

  There was a man and he told me about the sea. About the ice and about the light, about the birds that came out of nowhere to talk to him—to keep him company.

  It was another world.

  At night my bed became a ship on the slate-green water. I would sail under the open sky—the stars pale there, both the moon and the sun shining down at once, and I was not afraid.

  It was light.

  He gave me a picture of his ship and I put it on my wall with Blu-Tack.

  It was in black and white, and mostly gray, but I could see the colors there. The red of his ship and the white-blue of the ice. The color of the sky changing from light to dark and then opening up to blue in patches—moments.

  This gentle kindness in my house.

  My brother and I walked on the stone streets, the past there like an owl watching us from the rusty rooftops. Huge eyes and thin sharp claws that tried to pick at us as we walked. Tried to take our warmth—steal our joy—take the light away.

  But kindness was a shield.

  For a time we walked along untouched, together—a few rays of sun shone down on the crescent that led to our new house. A line of hope.

  The little white cottage on the hill. A house that we owned. Red roses against the whitewashed walls. A black heavy door thick and old and solid. A room of my own.

  There was a man and he told me about the sea. About the ice and about the light, about a ship called Nella Dan. I knew him once, for two long summers—when lots of things happened—and lots of things changed.

  His name was Bo.

  ABOUT THE NELLA DAN

  “She was from another time when ships were built to last, and she had a mind of her own.”

  —CAPTAIN ARNE SORENSEN

  There were four “Dan” Danish ships leased from the J. Lauritzen shipping line—Thala Dan, Magga Dan, Kista Dan and Nella Dan—that were used by the Australian government from 1953 to 1987.

  Nella Dan was the most famous of these ships. Commissioned by Lauritzen, with great input from the Australian Antarctic Division, Nella Dan was named in honor of Nel Law, the wife of the Australian National Antarctic Research Expedition director of the time, Dr. Phillip Law.

  Built by the Aalborg Shipyard Pty. Ltd. in 1961, Nella Dan incorporated all the customary features of her elder sisters: an icebreaker stern, ice fins and an ice knife. However, Nella had modifications unique to her—a double hull in the engine room and part of the holds, and a dishwasher were two such innovations. The ascent to the crow’s nest was through the interior of the mast, and the ship supplied its own fresh water with an Atlas generator. When she was built, the Nella Dan was regarded as setting the standard for polar vessels.

  Nella Dan spent twenty-six years in service for the Australian government and she sailed longer and farther than any other ship in history in the Antarctic region. She visited every one of Australia’s Antarctic stations, and supported major exploratory activities along much of the Eastern Antarctic coastline. From 1981, Nella Dan provided a research base for Australia’s increasingly sophisticated and prestigious marine science program. On 3 December 1987, she dragged her anchor during fierce winds and ran aground off Macquarie Island. After an intense battle to save her, the controversial decision was made to scuttle the Nella Dan.

  There has never been another ship that worked for the Australian Antarctic Division that has made those who crewed on her or traveled on her so emotionally attached. She was a special ship—old-fashioned, small and comfortable and much-loved. Her crew are remembered as being cheerful and kind, and there was a strong camaraderie on board. For all who worked on her, she was home. Some of the crew were with her for years, a few for more than a decade. Six of the Danish crew remained behind on Macquarie Island watching over their ship in 1987. They would not leave her. They are among a handful of people who really know what happened after she ran aground. But that is their story to tell.

  Researching this book has been a life-changing journey for me. I have made many friends all over the world. I have traveled to Macquarie Island, to Antarctica, to Denmark, and experienced many wonderful things.

  I feel very blessed.

  I owe it all to Nella Dan.

  Nella Dan rests at the bottom of the Southern Ocean at 54° 37.5' S, 159° 13.3' E. Twenty-six years of memories, laughter and adventure went down with her. But for those who loved her, she sails on.

  “She was the Ship of my Life. She was the perfect ship with the perfect crew—for a young kid just finished school and ready to conquer the world.”

  —Hans Sønderborg

  “I will never forget Nella Dan.

  “She gave me the ice, for the first time, and brought me home from the last.

  “She opened for me the jewel box of the south in a time now past.

  “She was a fine ship, with a fine crew, and belonged to a braver time.

  “She is gone now, but her spirit lives on, in hearts, and in memories sublime.”

  —Lex Harris

  “It certainly was an adventure and a privilege to have sailed on and worked with the Nella Dan and her wonderful crew. The wooden red coat hanger in my wardrobe with the JL emblem in gold always makes me smile.”

  —Scott Dempster (Trust Me, I’m a Larcie)

  “My trip on the Nella was one big happy experience. As a ‘newcomer’ on the ship, I felt welcome from the very first day, and during my eight months, I experienced a lot of comradeship. Professionally, I learned a lot, not least from my chief steward, Ruben Nielsen.”

  —Niels Hanghoej Sørensen

  “She was one of a kind. I’m proud to have been sailing with her. And I wouldn’t be without those nine and a half months for anything in the world—that was a great time.”

  —Jan Riisgaard

  “I feel pretty lucky to have been involved with the Nella and to have seen the life from both sides as I worked for the Antarctic Division during the 1985 season when we were stuck in the ice. I was asked if I’d like to attend Voyage 1 on behalf of my then boss, Dr. Simon Wright. I was so excited! I jumped ship to work as a stewardess and was on board for the 1987 season. Nella gets in your heart, it’s funny how a ship can do that. I can still remember so clearly the day when we were removed/transported from Macquarie Island by LARC to the Icebird. Nella was still on the rocks, listing heavily to one side, and as we passed her there was not a dry eye. The connection between the crew and that ship was mind-blowing. Some of the guys had spent a great deal of the
ir lives working and living on Nella, and while my time with her was relatively short, I do not think there has been a day of my life where I have not thought about that little red ship.”

  —Trish Richers

  “A legacy for Nella should be, that she was the kind host to so many adventures and so many lifelong friendships of expeditioners and crew alike. Thank you for inviting us on board.”

  —Anders Hanghøj Sørensen

  “Nella was a great (little) ship, with a great soul. Sometimes I wish I was back there. A once-in-the-life experience.”

  —Allan Kürbis

  “All hands on deck at dawn.”

  —Benny “the Bosun” (Wolle)

  “With regards to the loss: while I was not there, I was fortunate to have had eight Antarctic and subantarctic voyages on this sturdy little red ship, so I know how she acted in seas that would sink another vessel. Her will to survive was almost legendary, she was like a mother to us, she would always come to take us home. Wrapped in the warmth and comforting aromas of food and engine fumes she had a feeling of security and welcome. I too feel the loss of this gallant little red ship Nella Dan.”

  —Ivan G. Hawthorn Esq., BEM, JP International Fellow, Explorers Club, New York City, New York, USA, Antarctica 1971 and 1973, officer in charge, 28th and 32nd ANARE to Macquarie Island

  “She is still in my mind almost every day.”

  —Per Agergaard Olsen

  “For me, sailing with Nella Dan (Northeast Greenland and Antarctica) remains as one of my ‘life experiences.’ ”

  —Jens Aage Vandenhertz Schulz

  “Know the spirit of Nella and her crew will always live on through the good hearts and truth of all who walked her deck.”

  —Coral Ann Rigby

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Everything in this book is fiction, except for Nella Dan—the little red ship. It is true she was beset for seven weeks but it was in the 1985/1986 season and not the 1986/1987 season, as I have fictionalized in this book.