My Last Continent: A Novel(12)
ONE WEEK BEFORE SHIPWRECK
The Drake Passage
(59°39'S, 61°56'W) Thom and I stand together on the rear deck, watching the Australis moving in the distance like a time-lapse image of a drifting iceberg: slow, massive, inevitable. In one of the articles I’d read about the ship, a spokesman for the parent cruise company had bragged about how the Australis would cruise to every last inch of the planet, that no place was off-limits to a ship this invincible. It reminded me of what people once said about the Titanic.
The last disaster down here happened a few years ago, when a small tourist ship sank fourteen hours after colliding with an iceberg. That ship was lucky enough to be within an hour of another boat, and small enough that all her passengers could be rescued—but of course thousands of gallons of fuel were spilled, coating the penguins, destroying their waterproof feathers.
I tighten my grip on the railing. “It just drives me insane to see that ship down here. Maybe Glenn can nail them on some IAATO violation or something.”
“I doubt it,” Thom says.
I sigh. “What good is an association that’s supposed to protect this place from cruise ships if membership is voluntary?”
Thom doesn’t answer; this conundrum frustrates us all. Back in the early nineties, when the International Association of Antarctica Tour Operators was founded, only six thousand travelers a year visited Antarctica—now it’s closer to forty thousand. That alone makes our instincts to protect the continent seem futile—not to mention the fact that there’s no such thing as an Antarctic coast guard.
And nothing yet has prevented the cruise-bys: the ships that come down just so their passengers can say they’ve been. I’d complained about it to Keller the last time I saw him, which wasn’t long after I’d read yet another story about the fancy new Australis. He’d tried to make the point that our Cormorant passengers are no different—they are simply able to pay more for the luxury of a small expedition with scientists and Antarctic experts on board, and all passengers sign liability waivers no matter what ship they’re on. We’d argued about it, but in a way, of course, he’s right. We’re all at risk down here because every day we venture into the unknown.
Thom pushes away from the railing. “I’ll go up to the bridge,” he says. “See what I can find out.”
I nod. A nausea spreads through me that is far worse than seasickness, far worse than the guilt of taking our own hundred tourists to shore. Down here, ships look after one another—but how do you look after a ship that’s more than ten times the size of your own?
Thom doesn’t return, and after a while I assume he’s been detained by a tourist or given a task. I step inside, to the lounge, where small groups of passengers gather around tables drinking coffee; a few sit alone in chairs, reading or gazing out the view windows. My roommate, Amy, is setting up the afternoon slide show. As a full-time employee of the tour company, Amy travels from Antarctica to Alaska, from Mexico to the Galápagos, and she’s often with the Cormorant during the entire Antarctic season, late November through early February. This is her fifth year in Antarctica, and we always bunk together when we can.
“What’re you showing later?” I ask.
“Just some footage from the ROV,” she says.
The ship’s remotely operated vehicle reaches depths of up to a thousand feet, far deeper than Amy herself can dive—and her video of the ocean floor is alive with colorful and intricate corals, ghostly icefish, pale sea sponges, graceful brittle stars.
“Any footage of the yeti crab yet?” The existence of a blind, hairy Antarctic yeti crab is a new discovery, first seen in the Southern Ocean just a few years ago, and I’m always teasing Amy because it drives her crazy that she hasn’t captured it on film yet. Last season, Keller helped me Photoshop images of the elusive crab into places on board the Cormorant—on a table in the dining room, next to a glass of beer in the lounge—and throughout the voyage we’d e-mail them to Amy, writing, Did you see the yeti crab?
“Piss off,” Amy says cheerfully as she taps at her laptop’s keyboard. She leans over to attach the laptop to the projector, then accidentally tangles the cord around her arm and pulls the projector off the table. She catches it just before it hits the floor.
Amy is small, with a soft, pale beauty, as if she herself had emerged from the unblemished depths of the sea, and when she puts on a dry suit and scuba gear and descends into the water, she disappears below the surface seamlessly, as if she belongs there. When she’s not under the water or on board a cruise vessel, she writes picture books for kids.
A blast of cold air comes through the lounge, and I turn to see Kate and Richard Archer walk in. I let my eyes linger on them, curious. Kate’s hair is windblown, curling into ringlets from the moist air outside, and her skin is flushed with cold. She stands close to Richard; he’s more than a head taller, with wheat-colored hair and a thin build. As they walk toward a table, I realize from his slower gait that he’s at least ten years older than she is. After they sit down, he looks at Kate, then reaches out and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. Her round face breaks into a smile as the curl bounces loose, back into her face, and then she leans forward and gives him a kiss.
“So where’s Keller?”
I turn back to Amy and shrug.