III A – Trinity Ice
Sfx – wind and waves
Our tall sailing ship Europa sets sail after dinner into the Bransfield Strait. We are bound for Trinity Island some miles to the southwest and close by the Antarctic Peninsula coast. The sunset lends the sky a rose-orange hue and turns icebergs to embers along the horizon and between. Hammered copper spangles highlight the dark aqua waters. The deck is quiet and lined with admirers.
The overnight haul brings us again to breakfast before natural wonders. Between Trinity and Spert Islands huddles a drifting colony of icebergs trapped in the narrow channel. Sfx – Outboard motor starting As the first boat pulls away filled with eight brightly parka’d people – one green, one blue, one yellow, one red, etc – the bosun, Jason Biondi, notes that they look like a box of crayons.
Sfx – Outboard motor
The icebergs form a gallery of gigantic flotsam, individually sculpted and delicately coloured in brilliant hues of bright cobalt blue. Carving winds, the cloying sea, and the grinding rock and gravel bottom here all add to the unique shaping of these hulking masterpieces.
They are scored and striated, split, boxed, hatched, checked and cracked. They are chiselled, dimpled, ridged, and ruffled and as smooth as wet glass with dripping icicled overhangs. The sides, undercut and tunnelled by the sea, gurgle, plunk and suck at the surf. Sluices of fresh cold water run from the sun-brightened tops.
Sfx – Seawater around the icebergs
Just as nature’s creatures evolve in wind and water, so too does the ice, and we see remarkable similarities in natural forms: seals, whale tails, birds, polar bears, and penguins. But we also see dragons, golf balls, ocean liners, Casper the Friendly Ghost, the Egyptian Sphinx – it’s similar to cloud gazing, only these evolve more slowly.
Frank Worsley, captain of Ernest Shackleton’s doomed ship Endurance, experienced the same in their small lifeboats noting, “Swans of weird shapes pecked at our planks, a gondola steered by a giraffe ran foul of us, …strange, fantastic shapes rose and fell in stately cadence…”
I hardly can imagine Shackleton’s men putting their every hope into those fragile open boats amongst fields of these mindless bruisers, praying for the slimmest chance of survival.
Bumping into one another the icebergs sound hollow, brittle and light. Though they may seem innocuous, one must never forget them to be the brute grinding hazards they are. The resultant crush of being caught between the wallowing bergs would be deadly and we are penned in for some minutes as the bergs drift together, clogging both ends of the channel. We must just wait until they open a path for us like giant reeling pieces of a behemoth board game.
Sfx – Seawater around the icebergs
At one point we are followed closely – threatened even – by a large leopard seal. Like the big cats these creatures give a visceral impression of being singularly successful predators. Quite aggressive, they are trusted by none of the Antarctic hands with which I spoke. They harbor a strong dislike for rubber boats, attacking and puncturing them with their impressive canines while in the water or even while lifted on davits a few feet above the waves beside the ship.
With this in mind a crew mans the falls and haul the boats far out of the water upon our return to the ship. It is a pleasure to see the amateur crew take control of this: after a week at sea they are becoming comfortable with the life of the ship.
#6 track 5)”Ein, zwei, oop…! Ein, zwei, oop…! Ein, zwei, oop…! Ein, zwei, oop…! Ein, zwei, oop…! Ein, zwei, oop…! Ein, zwei, oop…! Ein, zwei, oop…! Ein, zwei, oop…!”
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III B – Gerlache Strait
Entering the Gerlache Strait, Europa parallels the coast southwestward. The channel is wide but hemmed by islands and mountains creating a venturi of local winds, intensifying already ferocious storms. Just before midnight Klaas enters the Force 3 gentle breeze into the hourly log, only to erase and change it ten minutes later to Force 6. There was no snow or sleet to mark the gales advance – this is the dry katabatic wind that drops from the polar heavens like the hammer of Thor.
Sfx – wind and waves
The ship shoulders the veering wind as we pull ourselves up the masts to furl sail. We are lucky that the t’gallants and royals were furled, and the topsails and course sails are clewed up in their gear. Had the squares sails been set when this wind hit, it would have meant disaster. The blow increases as we furl, wind-filled storm hoods balloon around our heads like wacky cartoon haloes, heavy weather clothes drum tattoos against our bodies, shouting voices are stripped away on the bitter wind which billows the sails, shoving at our legs as though wanting personally to blow us off the yards.
Struggling in the dark, we do not at first see the low, near submerged iceberg ahead, wallowing in the white spume and waves. The crew on the foremast sees it too late and is looking straight down on the growler as the ship impacts the ice. Shouting against the roar of the wind, they point down at it, fearing the ice will blade the steel hull. Conny van Moergastel, the first mate, takes all way off the engines and the fierce wind pushes the bow away. The furling continues as the wind suffuses bare faces and fingers with burning cold and strips away body heat with real efficiency. It is the work itself that warms us.
Sails furled, we button up the ship to ride the storm out, dogging down portals and watertight doors. Ice lookouts are posted aloft with radios, but can withstand the numbing onslaught only twenty minutes per turn in the exponentially severe wind chill. #6 track 2 @ 4;50-Conny-“Still all right, Quentin?” Squelch. “What?“ “Are you all right?” “Fine, yea.”
They return wind-blasted and numb. The wind builds to Force 9, then to Force10, a whole gale with gusts ramming into Force 11, over sixty miles per hour, shrieking in the cordage. Sfx – wind Foam streaks the backs of the white-capped horses; the wind blows smoke twisters off the wave tops.
Sfx – wheelhouse sounds and wind and voices…
That the normal routine of the ship must go on, however, is made abundantly clear when Conny, at the helm and between ice reports, casually asks how tonight’s bread baking is coming along – there are five loaves in the oven and the rest are rising nicely, thank you. 14;55 Conny “How is it with the bread?” Glenn “I’m going to go give it about five minutes of attention, put it in the xxxx.
The telephone pole-sized gaff snaps in two, just like that, and Klaas, his face bathed in the revolving green sweep of the radar screen, never looks up. Injuries are his one concern; there are none and no more is said of it. The flogging timber is secured from further damage and risk to crew. Geysers from the bow waves whip against the deckhouse or over the stern. The wheelhouse window wipers wag puny fingers in the face of the gale as we strain to spot reported ice threats.
Sfx –Radio traffic w/ Glenn aloft #6 track 4 – Conny “Yea, Glenn?” Glenn – “There’s a great big berg about 450 meters ahead. Right now it’s dead on…” Conny repeats… “Straight ahead 250 meters.” “Yes. And also XXXXX.” Conny “Can you repeat the last sentence?” Glenn-”Two hundred meters dead ahead.” Warning bells. Conny -“Okay got it.” Beeps GPS? of the remote steering control beeps. Great wind builds up >> / 1;50 Conny “Glenn is it free now?” “Yes.” “Okay.” Wind
The impassive mountains of the continent huddle in the distance and above, between the fleeing scud clouds, the sky is studded with the peaceful twinkling of unconcerned stars. Sfx – wind and waves
With the morning the gale blows out and we have spent the night awake in full gear. We walk the deck inspecting the damage. The amateur crew, who had the night off, come yawning topsides to see the entire pro-crew is awake and on deck; seeing the exhaustion in our faces they realize it was not a regular night. They notice the gaff dangling from its topping chains like a battered and broken wing. The mainmast flagpole is fetched up in the mizzenmast, its halyard and pennant vined around the rigging. Sea salt rimes the bridge and deckhouses. We can hardly believe it – not one of the amateur crew was awakened by the gale and to a person none have a clue to what we have been through. They don’t know what hit them…. literally. But this is the kind of experience that builds camaraderie among those who live it, and none of us will soon forget this night.
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III C – Neko Bay Picnic
Southward we ease along, quietly under sail. Our surroundings flow seamlessly from one dramatic vista to the next; wonders spread before us from rail to horizon. Somewhere along the Graham Passage a series of four stone columns, narrowly separated by ice, rise high from the dark waters, appearing as knuckles – the business end of a mammoth hand. The idea of a colossal fighter’s fist, stone-clenched and taped in white ice is infinitely appropriate for this unyielding and violent land. Arriving in peaceful Neko Harbour, we anchor beneath the blue face of a massive glacier. Huge crescent waves roll out into the bay as it calves, slowly spilling its life into the sea.
My watch spends the day aloft bending on the newly repaired main lower topgallant sail – or the grootonderbramzeil as its known on the Dutch bark Europa. We stretch and centre the sail then, with twine robands, tie the sail to the steel rod jackstay that runs atop the yard. We then re-lead the buntlines and clewlines and, finally, furl the sail.
High aloft, we overlook the unending traffic in the bay as we work: crabeater seals scouting new places in the sun; penguins pop up from the water everywhere, intent on their curious business. We spot the black gliding backs of a rare pod of Arnoux beaked whales. In passing their synchronized blow sounds as a distant, chuffing locomotive, tossing misted cotton buds above the navy, wind brushed waters. This is the pay-off for a job that lasts the day. At eight o’clock at night we climb down out of the sunset, down through distilled evening air.
Well after dinner, the bosun, Jason, his girlfriend the second cook, Anneke, and I lower one of the inflatable boats into the bay. The night is deeply overcast, there is little light, and is seems we lower the boat into a black void until it rests reassuringly on the unseen swell.
Sfx – paddling / rain very present w/paddling and penguin / glacier crack / (3:26)
The gurgling of paddles and the drumming of small ice on the air-hardened gunnels replace the ship’s noises as we push away. We are hailed by the occasional bark of penguins ashore, faintly heard above the frying of a new rain on the bay.
We ship the paddles midway to the glacier and Anneke produces a thermos bottle, cups and plates. We are soon sipping steaming hot chocolate between bites of apple strudel and licking whipped cream from icy fingers. Above the whispers of the rain our breaths steam with speech; our words drift away to join the lowering rain clouds.
Back on the black water, the ship is suspended in the night. Bathed in the glow of the deck lights the miles of running rigging weave a wondrously intricate string painting. Before us the glacier looms dimly, hulking in the night.
Sfx – Icefalls, rain on boat, etc. / ice popping on zodiac rubber
In the distance thundering icefalls, like trains running on gravity’s timetable, tumble ominously into random stations along the bay, spawning new rafts of brash ice, growlers and bergy bits. We are far from the track and bustle of civilization. What luck to be sitting in a cold, freezing rain.
Sfx – paddles gurgling
