My Last Continent: A Novel(53)
“They’re making a run for the Gullet, aren’t they?”
“They won’t make it that far.”
I leave the bridge and return to the deck, raising my binoculars, as if I might see Keller on board. I look for an orange crew jacket, but it’s freezing cold, and hardly anyone’s outside—only a scattering of passengers among the Australis’s five decks, with no idea what their captain is risking. They are already fading in the mist and the sleet that is beginning to slicken the deck under my boots.
I peer through the fog at the stiffening ice. Just yesterday Glenn had been planning our own run for the Gullet, the scenic but narrow strip of water that cuts between Adelaide Island and the continent. Few tourist vessels ever make it that far, and given the changing weather and the amount of ice forming, Glenn had decided to turn around. Unlike whoever’s at the helm of the Australis, Glenn is far too careful to attempt anything tricky unless conditions are just right. And so we are headed north again as the Australis is heading south.
The sea is incredibly icy even here, with bergy bits clanging against the hull. Passengers always freak out when they hear the metallic thud of ice—I’ll spend most of my day reassuring skittish passengers that the Cormorant has a reinforced hull, that it’ll take a lot more than a few growlers to sink it. If only I could say the same about the Australis, which is not built to navigate the icy conditions she’s headed into.
In the hundred years since the Titanic sank, ship design and construction have improved drastically; it’s not a stretch to assure passengers that today’s cruises are safe. Yet the one thing that hasn’t changed is human nature—ego and folly and hubris and whatever outcomes these may bring—and every ship is only as safe as her captain and crew and the choices they make.
I listen to the smaller pieces of slushy ice rub against the steel like a wire brush; the familiar, uneven rhythm normally relaxes me. I lean on the railing, eyes still on the Australis. I’d like to think I’d have known the ship was this far south, that I’d have felt Keller’s proximity somehow. More than ever, I need to talk to him. But as I’m heading up to the communications room, Glenn radios.
“We’re doing an ice landing,” he tells me. “Be ready to scout in five.”
I LOWER THE gangway onto a wide plain of fast ice. The captain has nudged the Cormorant into a frozen expanse of ocean, and, despite the cloudy afternoon, the ice burns with white light. Another unforgettable experience for the tourists: a chance to walk on water.
Several inches of fresh powder cover the ice, and Thom, Nigel, and I walk out onto the frozen sea, testing its stability with ski poles, posting flags to mark boundaries the tourists won’t be allowed to walk beyond. Within half an hour, we are escorting passengers directly from the boat onto the ice.
Ice landings are my favorite types of excursions—no Zodiacs, no penguins, just three feet of solid ice that, because they’re walking on the ocean, the passengers celebrate. A man flops down to make a snow angel. Snowball fights erupt.
I scan the area, and when I glimpse a figure about a hundred yards away, past one of the boundary flags, I think I’m seeing things again. Who would venture past what we’ve determined to be safe?
I know the answer even before I raise my binoculars to my eyes.
She’s several yards past the flag by now, and no one else seems to have noticed. I walk briskly toward her, trying to seem as casual as possible. I’m hoping she’s just overlooked the flag and will realize her mistake and turn back. But Kate keeps going.
Once I’m past the flag, I shout her name. If she hears me over the wind, she doesn’t respond.
I pick up my pace, and my boots slide on the ice that’s just below the thin layer of snow. In front of me, the pearly surface of the ice and the blanched sky meet and blur into one. Don’t fall, I tell myself. Don’t fall.
I’m sweating under my parka and all the layers beneath, and I’m breathless from the cold and from calling out to Kate. Finally, about twenty feet away from her, I start to run. I catch up and grab her by the wrist.
She turns, the expression on her face unreadable. I hold fast to her wrist as I try to catch my breath.
“What’s with the disappearing act?” I sputter out.
“I just wanted a few minutes away from everyone. I don’t like being around people all the time.”
“Then you shouldn’t have taken a cruise. Let’s go.”
“I’m not ready yet.”
“This is not up to you, Kate. We haven’t checked this ice for safety. Come on.”
Before I know what’s happening, she yanks her arm away and starts running—away from me and the Cormorant—and I glance back toward the ship. The naturalists are busy with other passengers, and so I turn and follow Kate. I don’t know what sort of suicidal mission she’s on, but I do know I can’t let her go any farther. She is slipping and stumbling, and when I get close enough to catch her again, I reach out—and this time both of us lose our balance and tumble to the ice.
I break my fall, landing hard on all fours, feeling the searing bend of my wrists, the sharp pain in my knees. My sunglasses fall off, and I turn over and lower myself to the ice, lying there faceup, closing my eyes for a moment against the blinding white of the sky.
When I open them again, Kate is sitting next to me, wincing and brushing snow off her parka.