Winter Quarters Bay

They started as a trickle, but we are now inundated with a couple hundred people in completely irrelevant camouflage.  The arrival of US and NZ navy folks means long lines in the cafeteria and the introduction of exotic new germs.  Last night's intermittent, clammy 13 hours of sleep didn't quite kill whatever culture I clashed with, but I think I'm over the hump just in time for 12-hour shifts to start.

A friend lucky enough to have been coming back to town in a helicopter as the ice breaker made its way in took this:

The drama of several large ships making their way to the world's southern-most port occupied much of my boss's attention over the last week, but other than being privy to related news and gossip it didn't matter to me.  It's pretty neat to see a big red boat out in the endless stretch of white ice.  It was also pretty funny to see it plow a path, pushing ice against the pier, and then pushing the ice pier itself (this is bad).  Apparently, someone didn't have a basic understanding of physics -- that, like, the ice you're breaking up and pushing through needs to go somewhere.  Anyway, stuff is fine, the boats arrived and departed mostly on schedule, and containers of food, paperclips, engine oil, and everything else are being unloaded.

Who does this unloading?  A pleasant group of Kiwi truck drivers.  Tater Time is my favorite truck name.

Logistics coordination is done primarily by radio.  This is where another tedious admin-y part of me being an admin comes in: monitoring TWO radio channels (that's two radios on, full of chatter and static), in addition to extra phone calls, and mix in Kiwi accents and people unconsciously adopting that big rig dispatcher "Breaker, Breaker" way of speaking.

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Sidebar: I will never cease to be amazed by the fact that there are no deadlines, ever, as an adult.  Extensions can be obtained for taxes, foreclosures, court dates -- pretty much everything.  January 17?  What a fucking joke. If we can manage to throw a last-minute box onto the vessel as it pulls away from the pier, we will.  
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There was a small folk/country acoustic show, the McMurdo Grand Ol' Opry, with Heehaw-like comedy interludes between bands.  And Saturday night's main attraction was a 90s dance-music show at the Waste Barn, featuring covers of "Another Night," "Be My Lover," "Mr. Vain," "Blue," and all those other songs that played on an endless loop on the bus home from junior high.  Anthony Bourdain's cameraman captured amazing footage of raving Antarcticans that our official minders will ensure never sees the light of day, but believe me, it was quite the rager.

Snow, Slides, Sauce

We had our first storm in quite a while -- strong winds, lots of snow, it really felt like Antarctica.  And it reminded me of our laughably dire roof leak.  You see, the SciCo office is just two trailers with some basic interior finish (featuring asbestos flooring!), and where they were joined together some thirty-odd years ago there remains a significant seam.  This becomes apparent when several inches of snow accumulate on the roof and then melt.  Peak bucket count was five, collecting at a combined rate of one gallon per hour.  Dripping is a rare sound here, so we didn't mind it the first few days.

And like that, we're off to the races.  All of a sudden, everyone realizes there's one week left to submit cargo and paperwork to make it on the yearly supply boat, a.k.a. The Vessel.  For my part, vessel preparations involve the most mundane and humbling of secretarial tasks: scheduling meetings and advancing PowerPoint slides while other people speak.  I did subtly punish one guy for delegating this task to me by waiting too long every time he paused, forcing him to repeat "Next slide, please."

In case we weren't all reaching the point in the season where we're tired all the time, there was another delivery of ice core samples last week.  SURPRISE, the plane came early, so no one but neurotic me was awake yet, and I got to interrupt people's sleep to drive loaders around in the cold at 4am.  There's yet another, the last, shipment of ice cores coming in just before The Vessel, too -- and this one is going in the super high-tech freezer building with alarms.  More on that next time.

Despite all the shit talking of my desk job, I'm very much hoping to come back and do it all again next year.  We had our redeployment (go home) meeting and turned in our travel dates, and as always, I don't want to leave.  Sure, seven weeks wandering around New Zealand will be nice, but I'll have to find my own spaghetti and grilled cheese sandwiches and navigate the world again.  I actually had the thought while walking the other day, in freezing temperatures and biting wind, amongst beeping heavy machinery, approaching a road edge crumbling into icy waters, circled by fearless ravenous birds, "At least nothing can hurt me here."  

And then I did something totally crazy and not at all in character: watched softball for four hours.  The crowd was full of creative hecklers, and someone passed out empty beer cans to chuck at the fence.  It was fun, but not in the same league (see what I did there?) as the First Annual Natalie P. Chaddock Foundation Applesauce Chugging Contest.  There, wily competitors faced off in three rounds, the fastest chuggers advancing from one tall drinking glass full, to two, to three.  That's a shocking 14, 28, and 42 fl. oz., readers -- for a combined total of well over a half-gallon.  Only one person threw up.  The winner was completely unfazed and proudly held up his bespoke WWE-style tin-can-lid belt.  What great fun will next week bring?

Ringing It In

So we got to close/headline IceStock.

It happened to be on New Year's Eve this year, so everybody counted down, baby new year came out, and champagne sprayed everywhere.  And then we played for an hour and had a fucking good time.  I started the evening hop-dancing for warmth at 4:30pm in a stiff chill breeze with foreboding overcast skies.  But there were pots of chili, grilled sausages, hot chocolate, and friends all around.

DTF played our set at 7:10, and hit our stride after hiccoughing through the two jazz tunes.  We ended strong with improvised lyrics blues about our favorite topic, a fish fry.  This was the band's last hurrah, but various combinations of people playing together will carry the spirit on.

And then there was Midnight Rhythm: Carhart Edition.  Our bassist is famous for only ever wearing Carharts -- even on the plane down here, even leaving the sauna -- and so we decided to honor his awesomeness as a person and musician by all donning them.  He's a quiet guy, but I'm pretty sure he was pleased.  Other fun facts: someone collected old underwear all season, handed them out, and we were showered with boxers, longjohns, and a few lacy pairs while we played.  And I too-emphatically cheers'd my trumpet player, shattering her bottle of champagne in the cold.  Good thing we brought 10 bottles on stage with us.

I think it was my favorite New Year's; or at least tied with playing Taboo and waiting for the world to explode for Y2K.