In the early morning the loud speaker called us down to the mud room. It was time to take our first journey away from the MS Expedition, and after three days trapped on board everyone was eager to leave. Yes we'd seen the snow and the ice from the ship's deck, but it would be nothing, we knew, like seeing it from water level inside an inflated zodiac.
I don't think I've ever been dressed this warmly in all my life. And I think it just might be overkill – but better to wear too much than too little. Right?
Down in the mudroom we put on your life jackets, self inflating when they hit the water, like something worn by future-Marty McFly. Once those were on, we flipped tags to indicate that we were off the ship (I am number 104) and boarded the boats. As we tore away from the main ship it became easy to see just how small we were. The Expedition, which seemed so hard to navigate, passengers loosing themselves in the labyrinth of corridors and staircases, was dwarfed by endless oceans, and ice shelfs rising up from the deep.
The surface of the water was covered with ice, though not solid. It's what is referred to as pancake ice, flat ovals that float atop the water. Eventually these ovals will join together, and form an ice sheet. But as of right now? It simply looks like the back of a breathing lizard, as the waves run ever so gently under the flows.
And just like that it was time to head back to the ship, time to re-flip the tag, replace the life jackets, and strip out of the gear that was quite warm on the water, and thus even more so on board the ship, heated for your comfort.
While we had not stepped ashore yet, that was of no real concern. After lunch we would head towards a small island with abandoned research stations, and allow our feet to connect with solid ground at 67”. We would walk below the Antarctic Circle.
Meals, which up to this point, had been a highlight of most passengers' days were now quickly shoved aside, taken in as fuel rather than enjoyment. Suddenly there had been a change that rippled through the entire boat. No longer were we content to just watch things go by, we wanted to get out there and explore. And knowing that in just a few short hours we'd have that very experience, led to all number of eager travellers.
When the announcement came, back on went our cold weather gear, replaced were our life jackets, and in line for the landing craft we waited. Prior to boarding we had to step into a bucket of pink liquid, supposedly to kill everything undesired on our shoes, so as to not contaminate this seemingly-barren continent.
On the craft I felt as if I were a character in C+C, being ferried to the landing zone. As my boat raced out, others who had just dropped people ashore zipped by on the return trip, looking to take even more out again. This would continue for a half of an hour before all were on land. But once there the world opened up into something new, and something amazing.
The ice, the bergs, the surrounding lands – all glowing blue under the cloudy sky. For so long I'd thought ice was white, or clear – but it's not. And it never has been. It's blue; the natural tint can only be viewed when ice exists in such extreme quantities. We pulled up on shore beside a crab-eater seal, lounging on a small piece of floating ice. So secure was it in its slumber, and safety, that it didn't even look up to greet us.
Eyes panning around three old buildings could be seen. Though only sixty years old, the elements, and the lack of care and upkeep, left them looking like something from the days after man.
The main research station was constructed out of wooden boards, though the insides were still quite impressive. Bedrooms still had sheets and blankets laid out, with coats overhanging the rails. There were pantries filled with rusted cans of mayonnaise and tinned fruit, and the ladder leading up to the attic allowed for a view of row after row of canned custard.
Shelves of books had been left behind, as well as equipment, now all but destroyed by the salt air. The radio room had messages to be sent, or recently received, laid out on the desk. Who knew if any of these things would still function? Who knew why so much was left behind?
Who would come out this way to start a little camp fire? Especially one made from the only shelter for miles and miles?
Outside the building I threw myself to the ground in an attempt to make a snow angel. I was asked what movie that was from – where I had got the idea? I tried to explain that this was just something we did back home. We did it not because we'd seen it in movies, but because that's just what one does when there's fresh snow on the ground.
I find it hard to describe the experience of stepping on land, and wandering in regions where few people will ever set foot. There just aren't enough similes for the colour blue. Everything takes on a different shade, a different tint, all contrasting, clashing, enhancing. You'd expect nothing but fields of white, and yet it's rare that white overpowers.
Cameras fail in the face of snow. The turn the brilliance to grey, and force saturation lower than it should be. Bounding over the waves, back to the boat, salt water is picked up, and kicked into the faces of the passengers. They all hold their cameras dearly, for while they may be angry at them for not taking the colours as they're viewed, they don't want the salt water seeping, corroding, destroying.
Once more everyone rushed up to the observation deck, and looked out into the sea. Whales, indeed, were there – but I had been spoiled by the breaching orcas days past. These whales were playing in large groups – more than a dozen – but they were just rising up, and letting their backs become visible, before blowing, and then kicking with their tails. For an hour we watched them, freezing little by little – as none had time to put their proper gear on. Some ran straight from the shower, hair wet, and turning the ice. I made due, with only my fingers numbing.
If a picture of the landscape should have the tail in it? All the better – but just the tail? A delightful picture it does not make.
Jason, the resident National Geographic photographer, gave a presentation on photography, showing some of his work over the past twenty years, explaining how he became a photographer with NatGeo, and talking about the lifestyle. Years ago I thought that would be a delightful way to live your life. And I'm sure for many it is. But being on the road eleven months out of the year? Yes, you get to see the world, but at what cost?
Imagine picking just one thing in life and working at it until yo become the best there is... It sounds wonderful, until you think of all the other things you'd never get to experience. So what's better, Jack of all trades, master of none – or to be the best there is at something?
I'm not sure I know.
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