My Last Continent (23 page)

The Gullet
(67°10'S, 67°38'W)

T
he code
Mayday,
always repeated three times, signals that a ship is in urgent, life-threatening danger. There are no degrees of Mayday—just the one word—and because we ­haven't received any further information from the bridge, for me, right now, this leaves room for interpretation, for doubt and hope.

Both these emotions mingle in my mind as I gingerly move across the ice. After stepping on board the
Cormorant
long enough to change into a dry sweater, find a dry parka, and tell Kate to keep her idiot husband on board, I rushed back out—only to find that my Zodiac had been appropriated by another crew member, leaving me to find my way to the wreck of the
Australis
on foot, over the ice.

I make it only about ten yards before I begin to pass survivors on the ice, wet and shaking in the freezing rain and sharp wind. I help guide them to the
Cormorant
and ask if they know Keller, but his name doesn't register—these people are
barely capable of responding to even the most basic of questions. The state in which we're finding the survivors—and the fact that we haven't heard anything from the
Australis
in the past three hours—means that something more than an ice collision has happened on that ship. There's no leadership, no order, and the result is turning an already grave situation into a tragic one.

I continue to describe Keller to one passenger after another, but no one knows him. Despite the slickening of the ice under my feet, I begin to make tangible progress toward the
Australis,
and a fifty-yard stretch with no stranded passengers allows me to hope that things may not be as bad as they seem.

Then, ahead in the mist, I encounter a group of twenty survivors, immobile on a large swath of ice. I find a secure trail to them and begin leading them back toward our ship, a shivering procession of cold bodies and warm breath, of fear and blind faith.

And then I realize that while I've been following a slightly different path back, I should have seen the
Cormorant
by now, or someone should've seen me; I'd radioed that I was bringing in more passengers. I strain my eyes ahead, but through the mist I don't see even the shadow of our ship. This could mean only one thing—that with the winds at thirty knots, Glenn had to pull back, and this means that we're stranded.

I radio Glenn again but get no reply. I look back at the passengers, who form a long, evenly spaced train of cold, frightened souls.

I try again. “
Cormorant,
this is Deb, do you copy? Request position. Over.”

When I look down, I see that the light on my radio is out.
Either the charge is gone, or it's been destroyed by water or by impact or by a combination of the two. I stare at the device, then shake it a couple times, as if to wake it up. But nothing changes.

I hear a rumbling in the distance and glance up. A few seconds later, two Zodiacs emerge from the fog, with Thom in the lead boat. He weaves among the floes with a preternatural skill, giving the other driver a clear wake in which to follow him, and a moment later he pulls up alongside the ice. I want to hug him with relief.

“Where'd Glenn run off to?” I ask.

“He's landing passengers at Detaille. I doubt he'll be back; the ship got banged up pretty bad trying to get out. Messed up at least one of the propellers.”

I do a quick calculation in my head. Detaille, a small island to the north, is probably an hour away by Zodiac, depending on ice and weather, and if the
Cormorant
is there, the rescue will continue by Zodiac only, with at least five hours before more help arrives.

“Any sign of Keller?”

I shake my head.

Just then we hear it—seven short blasts of the
Australis
's horn, followed by one long one. The order to abandon ship.

Thom steps out of the Zodiac, planting one foot on the ice. “I'll get Nigel to request backup, and we can—”

I shake my head. “There's no time.”

“Do you need a Zodiac?”

“The ice has gotten too thick over there. I'm better off on foot.”

“Okay,” Thom says. “I'll catch up with you as soon as we take this group back.”

“Thanks,” I say, meeting his eyes. “See you soon.”

“See you.”

Our promise to meet later feels, like
Mayday
,
like a code of sorts. Something that means
good luck
. That means
be careful
. We aren't going to say those words; we aren't going to admit that we're now in the middle of something far more serious than we'd imagined. But we both understand.

I turn back in to the haze and begin walking carefully along the ice. As soon as I'm out of sight of the passengers, I pick up my pace. Though the ice feels solid, I know it's risky, but I don't want to waste any more time. I'm rushing toward the
Australis,
completely hidden in the fog, when I stop short.

I haven't replaced my inoperable radio. I look around, hoping to wave down Thom, hoping someone is still there, but they've all disappeared.

ORCAS HAVE EARNED
the name killer whales neither because they hunt humans—they don't—nor because they are whales—they aren't. This is something I often find myself explaining to passengers: that orcas are dolphins, highly skilled hunters of seals, whales, and other dolphins. They're fast—they can swim up to thirty miles an hour—but, more ­important, they're creative. They hunt in packs of five to fifty, and if they come upon a group of seals lounging on the ice, they circle in formation, slapping their tails on the water, creating waves that break up the ice or roll the berg. If that doesn't work, they lift the ice with their noses.

About four years ago in the Gerlache Strait—on the pen
insula, between the continent and Anvers and Brabant Islands—I saw a pod of orcas knock a leopard seal off a berg. Then, like cats playing with a mouse, they let the seal climb back up again. There were two pups among the pod: The orcas were training their young to hunt, the leopard seal their unwitting assistant.

Nature can be cruel, and down here its mercy depends upon which side of the ice you're on. I am, for the moment, on the right side, watching the glassy black fins glide in lazy circles just beyond the ice I'm standing on. About two hundred feet farther is what's left of the
Australis
.

The ship has listed considerably since I first saw her—though it's been no more than two hours—and at some point she'd gotten jammed up against the ice. Now visible is the faded blue from the deep end of the empty swimming pool on the top deck, and a green playing field circled by a running track. The detritus of sixteen hundred desperate passengers and crew litters the ice floes—backpacks, purses, life jackets, hats, cameras. And there are bodies, some floating, some on the ice.

It's these bodies, I suspect, that are attracting the orcas. Orcas aren't dangerous to humans, unless they've gone mad in captivity; the few known attacks on humans in the wild have occurred when orcas have mistaken people for prey. Right now, from under the ice, these bodies look a lot like seals.

The ship moans, her metal straining under the weight of the water inside, the ice outside. Crew members are still loading passengers into lifeboats and Zodiacs, but they're boarding from the ice. The
Australis
has been abandoned.

I scan the jackets and faces for Keller. Then, reluctantly, I scan the bodies, looking through the floating graveyard for his dark hair, an orange jacket. The fact that I don't see him offers only temporary relief.

I shout out to a few crew members, describing Keller, asking if they've seen him. No one has—not surprising, given the size of this floating city, given the pandemonium.

The ice in front of me looks weak, but I find a firm stretch a few yards away and use it to loop back toward the ship. The narrow inlets of water are choked with Zodiacs, not all of them manned by crew members. As I help stranded passengers step from the ice into the boats, I describe Keller to them. When I find crew members to pilot them to Detaille, I ask if they've seen him—but if anyone has, they're too traumatized, too preoccupied, to remember; I get mostly blank stares in response.

I stretch my neck backward to look up at the ship. The expected order of evacuation in a maritime emergency is passengers, crew, captain—but it doesn't always happen this way. Given the chaos here, I'm not sure anyone knows whether the
Australis
has been fully evacuated. On big ships like these, most of the crew are not experienced mariners but waiters and bartenders and entertainers; they may not have had the training they need to deal with circumstances like this. And not every captain has the integrity to go down with the ship.

I know that before I can give up on Keller, I need to consider boarding the ship. My biggest fear is that he'd have stayed on board and is trapped. When a ship goes down this fast, it's all too easy to get trapped in a passageway or pinned beneath shifting furniture. And so I begin scanning the length of the ship, looking for points of entry.

The lowest part of the bow is wedged against the fast ice. The port-side balconies, normally forty feet above the ship's waterline, are within reach, but barely. I test the ice in front of the lowest balcony; then I take a running leap, grabbing the lowest rung of the balcony's railing. I catch it, but my grip is more tenuous than I'd like, and my strength is waning, and if I were to fall, the force of gravity could send me straight through the ice. I struggle to pull myself up, flustered by how little energy I have left.

The ship groans and shifts, and I hang on desperately, swinging back and forth. Then, arms burning, I lift my body enough to swing my legs up; I wrap them around a lower rung, temporarily relieving my arms, then use my legs to push myself upward and over the side.

Collapsing on the deck, I lie there for a few seconds, gathering strength. I shouldn't allow myself this luxury—there's not a moment to spare—but suddenly a part of me is afraid to continue. You get used to death in Antarctica—from reading the explorers' tales to witnessing the inevitable losses of wildlife—but human casualties are rare, even in this harsh landscape, and I'm not at all prepared to encounter Keller if he's not alive.

Then I feel my body slip, aided by my wet clothes, and I raise my head. The ship's deck is at a thirty-degree angle and tilting farther. I need to move.

I stand and try the glass door—locked. I swing my body over to the adjacent balcony; this door slides open. Now in a private cabin, I quickly exit to the passageway. A crew member flees past, ignoring me, using the bulkhead railings to keep from stumbling. I hear a scream from somewhere deep
inside the ship, but I can't tell where. So there are still people on board—but how many, and whether they're passengers or crew, I don't know. I blindly begin to run, using the rails to keep myself upright.

Emergency lights are flashing, and an automated message repeats the order to abandon ship in multiple languages. The ship's enormity strikes me yet again as I lean into the endless passageways, straining to see amid the strobes. I begin to feel hopelessly lost. I call Keller's name, again and again, until my voice breaks.

I try to think: If he's still on the ship, where could he be? He'd probably be wherever there are people to evacuate—or maybe, by now, he'd be wherever he can find his own way out. This would most likely be the muster stations, though at this point protocol is moot, and those still on board are probably getting off the ship any way they can.

I keep moving, sliding along the bulkheads, and soon I enter a large banquet hall. The ship is listing so heavily that it forces me to my knees, and I have to climb my way to the other side of the room. I stop at the higher end and call out again, hoping my voice might echo far enough to reach someone. Then suddenly the ship heaves; the floor drops beneath me, and, as I struggle to fight the downward momentum, I see that there's nothing to break my fall except a jumble of tables and chairs below.

I HEAR A
waterfall in the distance, a peaceful sound that evokes mountains and meadows, but when I open my eyes
I see only the garish gold of an oversize chandelier. I realize in a panic that I'd gotten knocked out in the fall, and I don't know for how long. The
Australis
is now on her side, let loose from the ice, and sinking fast.

My head aches, and when I reach up to my temple to find the source of the pain, I feel a rising bump, and my glove comes back bloody. I try to stand but collapse as my left leg fails me. At first I think it has fallen asleep, but then I reach down and feel that my foot is swelling rapidly, painfully, against my boot, and as I try to stand again, my ankle can't support my weight. I loosen my bootlaces and straighten up again, putting a hand to my stomach. No pain there, no cramping—it seems my ankle, and perhaps my head, now throbbing, took the brunt of my slide down the tilting ballroom floor.

I fight off the blackness that nudges at my consciousness; I call out again, as loudly as I can, for Keller, for help. No one answers. I crawl a few feet to a doorway and tumble into a passageway. The ship's power is gone, and, despite the light from the portholes and from the emergency lighting, it's hard to see; my vision's blurred, wobbly. I have no idea whether I'm getting closer to an exit or simply going deeper into the ship.

I OPEN MY
eyes in a darkened, slanted passageway. The glow of the emergency exit signs turns everything a muted red. I can't remember passing out and can't tell how long I was unconscious. When I raise my head, I see water pooling below me, lapping at my feet, rising past my ankles. As I try to sit
up, the pain in my ankle explodes, shooting upward; at least the water has numbed it a bit. I twist my head to look up the sloping floor, toward light.