A year earlier NSF had awarded a $160,000 grant to two scientists at the University of California, Riverside, for “A Philosophic and Scientific Assessment of the Use of Scientific Evidence in Toxic Tort Law.” A UCR press release said that the goal of the study was “to determine whether judges are making good decisions in lawsuits related to human exposure to environmental toxic chemicals.” Carl Cranor, one of the grantees, wrote that exposure to toxins “can harm us just as much as the grosser forms of violence, theft and deception that have typically served as grist for philosophers’ analytic mills.” While workers on the 203 project were sweeping clouds of asbestos into the air and an NSF-funded report pinpointing the chrysotile asbestos was gathering dust in some low cabinet, NSF was funding a research project on the “moral and ethical implications of human exposure to the nearly invisible molecules of toxic chemicals.” Despite this research interest, not a peep was heard from NSF throughout the asbestos incident in McMurdo. But its 50th anniversary executive summary contains an explanation, of sorts: “NSF invests in individuals and organizations that conduct the work that ultimately leads to the outcomes of the investment process that NSF manages.”
Around the time that I went to the Haz Yard lab to witness a few of the asbestos samples test positive, the Safety Guy wrote an email to the Safety Girl expressing his disappointment in the quality of some recent “accident investigation” reports that she had sent. “We have been at this for some time now,” he wrote, “and our results are not very positive and it is partly due to people not taking the time to do what is necessary to produce a useful report that will lead to injury reduction.” Safety Guy wanted a number of reports redone because they had not properly assigned “root cause,” such as that employees were playing sports without wearing safety goggles, and that employees did not wear gloves when handling harsh soaps. Also in question was whether a wrist injury incurred while flipping hamburgers was a strain or a repetitive-motion injury. “I understand that you are busy with the asbestos issue,” he wrote, “but please address this ASAP.”
As the Projected Mayhem Index had prophesied, June was Level 10, though the slow poisoning of a whole work crew was a dreary genre of mayhem we had not envisioned. Whereas an axe murder or a hammer attack might be followed by an exciting chase and a dramatic incarceration, with work disrupted for FBI interviews, asbestos exposure was followed only by more paperwork. Raytheon’s official response was a memo2 by Jim Scott in Denver, who was not present for the remodel. Those who had worked on the 203 project responded to the inaccuracies of the memo in a letter.3
The company memo read that in question was “100 square feet” of vinyl flooring removed by the work crew. The employee letter read that they had also removed vinyl sheeting from four bathrooms and the laundry room for a total of 964 square feet, or “approximately 10 times the amount of square footage listed in your memo.”
The memo read that “asbestos in embedded vinyl materials is usually tightly bound, minimizing airborne exposure during handling” and that “the vinyl was removed as a single sheet.” The letter read, “We know as workers who participated in removing the flooring that this is not correct. We cut, ripped, and scraped the floor off causing the flooring to be torn in numerous pieces as well as greatly increasing (not minimizing) the airborne exposure during handling. This will be proven if the asbestos sheet vinyl is removed from the construction debris flat racks.”
The memo read, “This building was sampled for airborne fibers and found to have levels less than 1/10 the occupational standard for asbestos.” The letter questioned “the validity of air sampling after a vast majority of the renovation has been done” and stated that such samples were “not representative of the poor air quality throughout the remodel process.”
The memo read, “While some asbestos containing materials may have been disturbed in the renovation of these buildings, based on the quantities involved, time, and the conservative (over estimating) sampling methods, it appears the exposures were very low. In most cases, levels were well below the permissible limit.” The letter read, “We are confused at how you determined that during renovation the exposure levels were low and well below the permissible level. Could you please explain this?”
In 1839-1840, the United States Exploring Expedition, commanded by Lieutenant Charles Wilkes, sailed along 1,500 miles of pack ice in Antarctic waters. Land had earlier been sighted in the Antarctic, but Wilkes is said to have been the first to prove that Antarctica is a continent rather than a collection of islands. Many considered the expedition a milestone in American science. Because of this expedition, a large section of Antarctica is named Wilkes Land.
Samuel Dinsman and three other marines who had signed a four-year contract of service in November 1836 saw it expire in November 1840, while the vessels Vincennes and Peacock were harbored on the island of Oahu. When Wilkes refused to discharge the men from service, the marines refused to work.
The court statement of Samuel Dinsman says that on November 16, Wilkes put them in double irons and sent them ashore at Honolulu, where they were each put in solitary confinement in “a low, damp, filthy place… abounding in vermin”; they were fed fish that was “in a rotten state.” On November 27, Wilkes ordered their rations halved. On December 2, three of the marines were brought back to the Vincennes, where “Wilkes asked them if they would go to duty, and upon their respectfully stating that the term of their enlistment had expired,” Wilkes kept them in double irons and threw them in the brig. Two days later he brought them out, gave them a dozen lashes each, and threw them back in the brig until December 7, when they each received another dozen lashes. Court documents state, “After this system of lashing and confinement, for the preservation of their lives, the said marines were compelled, against the terms of their enlistment and against their free will, to do duty… under the command of said Wilkes.” They were finally discharged in the United States two years later.
Wilkes stated that “the officers knew not whom to trust at the time” and that the marines’ imprisonment ashore helped ease officer concerns about mutiny. He said that the prisoners’ quarters were “a comfortable place of residence” and that the food supplied them was “wholesome, palatable, and invigorating, consisting of a vegetable called ‘taro,’ and fish…” He claimed that their care was left to a sergeant whose duty was to report to a lieutenant, who in turn was to report to Wilkes, and that the sergeant “never did report that [Dinsman] was suffering from confinement or otherwise in want of proper food or raiment; that such report, if ever made, must have been made through the first lieutenant of the said ship, and never was made to or through him; they further showed, that… it was the duty of said sergeant of marines to make report to said first lieutenant of every case in which any vermin of any sort or description were found upon any marine, or among his clothing, and no such report was made to the said first lieutenant by the said sergeant of or concerning the said plaintiff…”
In defending his decision not to release the men, Wilkes said he had “explored and surveyed the Antarctic region as far as it was possible, and in that service the said ship Vincennes received extensive and serious injury” which required all available hands, not only to overhaul and repair the ship, but because the natives “were exceedingly troublesome” and “the said ships were then to visit the wild shores, and the officers and men to come into contact with the ferocious savages, of the Northwest Coast of America, where the marine force was especially needed; and it was deemed of the utmost importance to keep that force as large as possible, and… that it was with this view deemed essential to the public interest to keep said plaintiff on board said ship…”
Having summoned Dinsman from the brig, Wilkes “pointed out to plaintiff how essential his services were to the public interest, and he still refused; that defendant then ordered him to receive twelve lashes on his bare back, and the punishment was accordingly inflicted in the manner pointed out in the rules and regulations of the navy…”
The marines felt otherwise, and Dinsman suggested that his forced service beyond his contract “was not essential to the public interest, and that defendant had no reasonable or probable cause to believe that such detention was essential to the public interest.”
Whether the prison quarters were light and clean, or dank and vermininfested; whether the fish was “wholesome and invigorating” or rotten; whether the irons were lined with felt or the lashings administered with a licorice strip, Wilkes and those working for him had very different ideas as to what “the public interest” demanded of individuals.
A senior NSF representative once said that McMurdo “looked like a John Wayne movie about a mining camp.” In the 2000 edition of NSF’s annual Antarctic Press Clips, the introduction explains, “Antarctica is a continent of amazing natural beauty as well as the focus of worldwide scientific curiosity. Most people will never visit ‘the ice.’ But many will experience it vicariously through stories they read in their newspapers or watch on television.”
I had my first Antarctic TV experience at an outdoor survival course commonly known as Happy Camper School. There we learned techniques for anchoring tents in both drift and hard ice, how to use the camp stoves, handheld radios, and HF radios, and useful details about camping in local conditions.
One of the first things we learned was how to build an emergency survival shelter of the “snow mound” variety. A group of us piled our bags of personal equipment, then began burying them in snow. After the pile was covered in enough snow, we would dig an entrance through the side and remove the equipment, leaving a hollow sleeping space.
While a dozen of us were shoveling snow in a pile, the TV engineer and his assistant arrived in a Spryte and brought out their equipment. The TV Guy said, “All right now, when I count to three could everyone give me a real good shot of you shoveling snow?!” We were shoveling snow. Most people stopped and waited for him to count to three before shoveling harder and faster than they were before.
After we had made the snow mound and a few people began digging through the side, he asked us if we wanted to be interviewed. When two scientists said they did, the TV Guy had each of them wear Hawaiian shirts he’d brought along and stand with the expanse of sea ice behind them. He told them to rub snow in their beards. The TV Guy asked questions about the turn of the millennium. The interviewee answered; then the TV Guy helped him hone his answer into a shorter, wackier version of what he’d just said. Sometimes the interviewee’s answer was funny on its own, which delighted the TV Guy. The second interviewee was more nervous and had trouble thinking of answers for some of the questions, which prompted the TV Guy to give his own suggestions, which the subject accepted. In order to relieve the interviewee’s tension, the TV Guy told him to “Jump around for me,” which was promptly executed. Each of the interviewees was filmed counting down from five, then screaming “Happy New Year!” I loitered nearby, fascinated. The TV Guy said he was trying to get this footage out now in the hope it would be picked up by one of the networks for their live New Year’s Eve broadcast.4 The date was November 19.
He wanted a group New Year’s countdown shot, and two women began hollering to get everyone together. “I’m just a stick-in-the-mud,” I thought. “No one else seems to mind hamming it up for the camera. What’s my fucking problem?” I joined the group. The TV Guy filmed us counting down and yelling “Happy New Year!” Then he wanted to film it again with more excitement. Then he wanted us to put on our parkas so it would look colder out. Later I asked the TV Guy if I could take a picture of him. He said okay. I asked him to pose with his camera, and he obliged. I asked him to pretend he was filming people shoveling snow. He put his eye to the viewfinder, and I snapped a picture.
About a week after the asbestos was discovered in mid-June, I went to a “Sockhop” at Gallagher’s one Wednesday evening. I had seen the signs for it in the hall and in the dorms, and I asked the Recreation Coordinator if he had organized it. He said he hadn’t; it was the idea of one of the community members and he had merely provided the resources.
I was drawn to the Sockhop after finding in skua a stack of mesmerizing old magazines called Reminisce. Letters to the editor pined for “the good old days.” There were some timeless and useful how-to articles about crafts, farm chores, and cooking, but the rest of the magazine was a collection of readers’ flawless childhood memories and accounts of people’s unrelenting efforts to bring back that special time. It was part Laura Ingalls Wilder, part Norman Rockwell, and all Rousseau.
At the Sockhop, the stereo played Buddy Holly, and a sign above the burger window read “Arnold’s Diner.” Color photocopied menus on the tables listed the Fonzie Burger, the Potsie Burger, and Ralph Malph Shakes. The Sockhop’s inspiration was not the 1950s, but a sitcom set in the 1950s. I ordered a Fonzie Burger from the organizer of the event, who flitted between tables in a poodle skirt taking orders.
My relationship with Poodleskirt had been cordial but distant since I first worked with her in the Galley. She had been one of the Galley Office people, and occasionally caused grief for menials who met her disfavor. She had insisted that DAs put the salt and pepper shakers on the side of each napkin holder closest to the TV. Poodleskirt had yelled at one DA for improperly performing this pointless task. Only my friendliness with her boss had spared me such troubles.
Poodleskirt brought me my burger and I thanked her. As I ate it I tried to remember plots of Happy Days episodes, but I couldn’t, though I was sure I would if someone prompted me. I could only remember a collection of reassuring objects—hamburgers, old cars, the leather jacket worn by Fonzie, and the mechanical jukebox that played whenever Fonzie gave it an authoritative thump.
I gnawed on my burger and silently slew Gilligan’s Island memories that rushed in whenever I tried to access Happy Days. This whole Sockhop business reminded me of the nice couple who lived next to Kath in Dorm 211 last summer. They measured the efficiency of their shampoo usage by marking the shampoo level on the bottle with a line and the date. On New Year’s Day 2001, after most of the community had drunk themselves into comas and would doubtless greet the new year with suffering, the nice neighbor woman, at exactly 10:01 a.m.—one minute after regulation quiet hours lifted—began vacuuming up the confetti in the hall.
Kath occasionally burned a quarter stick of incense in her room, and the neighbors didn’t like that. They would stomp up and down the hall saying to anyone they saw, “Are you burning that smelly stuff? Do you know who is? That stuff’s forbidden.” The neighbors rightly suspected Kath. The woman said good morning to her in the bathroom, but with averted eyes. The man, departing from the politeness he showed everyone else, responded to Kath’s greetings with strain. The nice neighbor woman asked Kath’s roommate in the dirty hours of one morning while she was brushing her teeth if she knew who was burning incense in the dorm. Kath’s roommate feigned ignorance and reported to Kath that the neighbors were on a manhunt.
Eventually the neighbors posted signs in the dorm: NOTICE TO ALL RESIDENTS
Burning of incense or candles is not permitted anywhere within the building.
Smoking is not permitted anywhere within the building. This includes the vestibules. Do not light your cigarette in the vestibule before stepping outside because the air handlers draw the smoke into the building.
If you bring dishes home from the Galley, it is your responsibility to return them to the Galley. They are not to be left in the lounge area.
The doors at the end of the hallways are fire exits. They are not meant to be used for normal entry and exit. The slamming of the doors and pounding up and down the stairs is very disruptive. Please use the interior stairwell and the double doors at the center of the building for normal entry and exit.
Kath, having kept me abreast of their antics, took one of the signs and showed it to me. That evening Kath posted signs I had made for her: ATTENTION ALL RESIDENTS
NSF policy prohibits the unauthorized posting of notices.
Displaying NSF regulations for the purpose of enforcing personal motives constitutes fraud and violates NSF policy and United States civil law.
All notices not directly issued by NSF authorities are in direct violation of this policy and will not be tolerated.
Like their sign, mine bore no signature, but the magic thump of authority cast on the fidgeting snouters was immediate and lasting. Despite Kath’s continued burning of incense, she never heard another twitter from the neighbors about it, and thereafter they greeted her enthusiastically in the halls.
A Condition One storm at the end of the month left huge drifts all over town. A dune of snow blocked the Waste Barn doors, so we busied ourselves inside until Fleet-Ops came to clear it. All the milvans were blocked with snow, and I was relieved that I had done a lot of the milvan loading of Glass, Food Waste, and u-barrels the previous Saturday. Fleet-Ops was out all day moving snow for other work centers so they could get their jobs done. Two people had gone out to Silver City (a hut on the ice shelf near Scott Base) on Saturday night and, because of the storm, they were stuck out there until someone could fetch them.
The minutes from Saturday’s POC (Point of Contact) meeting were sent out in the morning. At the weekly POC meeting, the head of each department relates current events of their department that bear on the community. A secretary takes notes and disseminates the Town Meeting Minutes to the supervisors, who pass them on to the workers. Jane read through them and told us that an announcement about the bonuses had been omitted from the Meeting Minutes. HR had changed the written criteria for bonuses with this explanation: “Nothing is changing on them except the wording.” The HR Guy said that the bonus structure levels were applied too liberally by supervisors and that the company now, instead of looking at Level 3 as baseline performance, would like to see Level 3 as the “top end,” and there should be more Level 2s. I remembered when Raytheon first took over the contract and sent a representative to the Waste Barn to talk with us. He told us that Level 2 was essentially a non-rehire. The previously reprehensible Level 2 was now appealing because, if it became the new baseline, the company would save at least 2% of labor costs.
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