Open Water

Yesterday a group of us shed our habituated, nonchalant attitudes and end-of-season ennui, giddily crowded the bow of a boat, and went on an Antarctic cruise.  The icebreaker needed to make another pass through the channel (read: empty its toilet tanks away from station), and for the first time in eight years they ferried some of us out with them.  There are glamorous jobs down here that involve flying helicopters to unique geographical formations and penguin colonies; the rest of us spend six months driving loaders on dusty roads to pick up trash, or treading the maze through the kitchen hundreds of thousands of times, looking forward to taking out the trash because it’s the only time you go outside.  In Shuttles, I’m pretty lucky to drive the seven miles out to the airfield every day, but I still qualify for this trip to the edge of the sea ice.

Actually, it took an hour to work our way out from the pier.

It was mercifully not windy, and the sun came out for a bit.  Sitting on deck and peering past the guardrail, we became tourists again, exclaiming as enormous chunks of blue-hued ice broke free and bobbed, lackadaisical seals lifted their heads to wonder at the commotion, and penguins toddled in the distance.  Chugging along in the channel, we were overtaken by a sensory novelty: the briny smell of saltwater.  Near the edge, where the ice thinned, we broke a new path.  The ice first cracked, then cleaved with satisfying low booms like distant thunder, then seawater rushed to fill the deep fissures.  The open water was black under the overcast sky, its calm immensity undisturbed (disappointingly for us) by whales.

The ice near the edge appeared to be five or six feet thick,

though softer/slushier on the bottom than further inland.

It was the icing on the cake, if you will, to the week, which included a job interview for Alaska, NASA movie night featuring Robert Redford robbing banks, ducking into the historic hut and seeing hundred-year-old dog biscuits, a doomed (for our team) but fun Canadian-themed trivia night, and the trifecta of hike+dinner+Flight of the Conchords with one of my favorite people.

Is it another kind of biscuit?

Boatloads

After staring across the white plane of the frozen Ross Sea for several months, a boat on the horizon is like a benign UFO, patiently clearing a path from the ice edge, revealing water.  In the distance the icebreaker looks like a new high-rise building that popped up overnight.  It doesn’t seem to move, but within twelve hours, it’s suddenly in front of town, towering above the ice, the insistent drone of the diesel engines joining the industrial chorus of town machinery.  Though slow, it is inexorable: the hundred or so seals lounging in its path lazily shifted position, some encircled by the turnaround loop the ship carves.  Hundreds more seals have convened further up the ice, generously sprinkled across the ridges and melt pools in front of Scott Base.

I finally made it to the bar at Scott Base this season.  A friend played guitar and sang, so the usual boisterous-can-of-sardines vibe was, thankfully, tamed.  And I got to enjoy a Shuttles perk—stealth pick up and ride over the hill when the regular shuttle van was already full.

There and Back Again

Autumn set in all at once, the temps plunging down to the teens, with unforgiving chill winds, and I wore my hat for the first time in weeks.  Shaggy-haired, somewhat-greasy people are returning from field camps, scientists are packing up their samples, and shipping containers are trundling around town, like offerings raised high on forklifts, in preparation for the annual resupply boat. 

This year the boat is packed with construction materials to update and expand station.  But more importantly, it will have some fresh fruits and veggies to perk us up and mercifully end the fascist parade of beige and brown that has usurped the cafeteria.  Some cook friends admitted that we are pretty much down to Scandinavian Blend™ (a sad and non-sequitur frozen medley: cauliflower+green beans+carrots=Norway???), and corn, both cobbed and cobless.  I’m not sure when Iowa tricked society into thinking corn is a vegetable, but it is not. 

To change things up a bit, last night a friend and I got tarot card readings from a bearded, plaid shirted, Alaska ice road construction guy.  It was less of a mystical-read-your-future experience and more a self-acceptance therapy session.  He shuffled and dealt, and the cards provided a jumping off point for discussing troublesome feelings.  Around us, the Coffee House was filled with relaxed Sunday night chatter, softly clinking glasses, trills of laughter and rolled Rs from the Spanish Club, door hinges creaking to announce friends’ arrival, heavy comfortable chairs scuffing across the floor into sociable arrangement.

Home Stretch

Post-holidays, it always feels as though the season is careening downhill to the finish.  People solidify post-Ice travel plans and scramble to apply for next year’s jobs (not to mention upcoming summer jobs back in the states).  At this point, the toll of accumulated net loss of sleep, battle of attrition with staying hydrated, and state of simultaneous pale-yet-sunburned skin is impossible to brush aside. 

Who's got two flappy arms and a chill chill vibe?  This guy.

But take heart, ye lads and lasses—there’s still six weeks of eternal sunshine, with gobs of fun to be had.  My daytime schedule has opened many fun avenues, including singing.  The week was full to the brim.  Play (and win) a ‘lil trivia and euchre; clomp around the gym in a stranger’s worn out sneakers and shoot a few hoops; marvel at a friend’s travelogue about running a marathon in North Korea; delight in the creative works at the McMurdo Alternative Art Gallery (bonus: a hot tip about ten penguins down the road); sip a beer to the dulcet tones of various guitar-playing carpenters, the shop machinery and tools artfully draped with canvas to create an industrial-warehouse-club-vibe.

Even during work, I luck out and pull my van over so various passengers and I can observe a lone emperor penguin navigating a hiking trail.  And when I happen to get the 2pm run, it’s a chance to chat with lovely galley friends, who maybe bestow an extra filet mignon on me as they tidy the kitchen before we leave.

And to completely banish thoughts of the season ending, spend a glorious eight-hour softball tournament amongst ribald hecklers, laughing through heavy snow and random bird attacks, grinning beneath your scarf when the boy you like hits his sixth home run of the day, and when he sprints to catch a drive to the outfield, and when he high-fives his teammates, victorious, and you are happy together in this place.

Year of the Penguin

With just one well-timed nap, I switched back to day shift.  Turns out it's a lot easier to enjoy a 'lil wine and cheese in good company and go to bed at a reasonable hour than stay up for 36 hours straight watching bad vampire movies interspersed with planking and squats (yes, that really is what we did going onto nights).  And that four-day weekend was capped by Ice Stock, our live music extravaganza plus chili cook-off plus New Year celebration.  I was a bit bummed about not having put together a band this year, but I did technically perform:

Is this not the bestest band?

Everyone in Shuttles was assigned a special task at the beginning of the season, such as organizing damage templates, compiling taxi run spreadsheets, serving as point person for radios.  My task was the holiday party, which to me equates to FOOD FOOD FOOD.  There is a building here that is, more or less, a house -- with a kitchen -- and is used for VIPs as well as our own parties.  John Kerry and Anthony Bourdain slept there (not at the same time).  For our events, you fill out a bunch of forms, and if you're lucky maybe the kitchen relinquishes some year-old potato chips and you bake some cookies to accompany your poker game or what have you.  I, however, plotted a more ambitious campaign.  Over the last six weeks, I've raided the main galley storage, squirreling away forbidden resources such as butter and heavy cream, a pork loin here, an orange there, several pounds of chocolate.  A network of confederates saw to my safety as, like a sloppy ninja, I flitted about secreting tasty treasures into my bag.  Finally, the day came.  My boss kindly scheduled me to cook during work, and so we ate like normal humans for one glorious meal.  The meatballs were not spherical, because I rolled them by hand.  The salad was graced by supremed orange chunks and a vinaigrette with fresh lemon juice.  The creamed spinach luxuriated in pounds of gruyere.  And the brownies, dear me...there are no words, if I do say so myself.

Yes, they trademarked this motto for their for-institutional-use-only meat.

As if that weren't enough fun for one evening, the same night was Mustache Roulette, an annual charity fundraiser wherein the scruffier men on station allow their facial hair to be shaved in all manner of ridiculous patterns.  One man who couldn't bare to part with his seven-year bushy accomplishment consented to having another person's impressive, just-chopped specimen glued onto his, to the joy of the crowd.

And yesterday was super nice out, so I went on a walk and saw fluffy baby skua chicks, a ton of seals, and two penguins.  You're really kicking ass, Antarctica.