My Last Continent: A Novel(63)

As soon as we backed onto more solid ice, one of the geologists helped me strip off my clothing, and the one who’d reached in for me was taking off layers of his own, dressing me in his socks, his sweater, his parka, calling out to the others to bring me dry pants, gloves, a hat. My skin was bright red, the blood having rushed to its surface in an attempt to preserve the body within. My limbs felt numb, and my entire body shook convulsively for the next hour—but I was lucky. Many who meet head-on with the waters of the Southern Ocean don’t survive long enough to die from acute hypothermia; they suffer cardiac arrest, or they go into what’s known as cold shock and drown. Within the first few moments of submersion, the heart rate escalates, the blood pressure increases, and breathing becomes erratic. The muscles cool rapidly, and those closest to the surface of the skin, like the muscles of the hands, quickly become useless. You can’t move, can’t speak, can’t even think. Even at forty degrees Fahrenheit, let alone twenty-eight, it only takes three minutes for hypothermia to set in. Water rescues are rare; recoveries are not.



I PULL OFF the mask from over my eyes, which I’d hoped would help me sleep, and turn my head to the side. Amy is lying in bed on her back, a similar mask over her own eyes. I can’t tell if she’s asleep or, like me, she’s been lying awake all night.

Glenn had encouraged us all to get some rest while we could, and Amy and I had lain in our bunks, speculating about the Australis, daring to hope the situation might not be as bad as it seemed. She assured me that Keller would be okay, and we told each other that the damage might, in fact, be minimal—that we could end up encountering a scene of calm and order. Finally we fell into silence.

I get up, throw on extra layers and my crew parka, and look at my watch—nearly five in the morning. We must be getting close.

Amy stirs and sits up. “Did you sleep?” she asks, and I shake my head. “Me neither,” she says.

Outside, the water has given way to a dense mix of brash and pack ice. The sea is now a chunky soup of pure white, with a few specks of dark gray where the water peeks through. Amy and I stand together on the foredeck, not speaking, and I strain my eyes while the Cormorant creeps along, feeling it shudder as it punches its way forward. There are only a half dozen passengers out here—most are still asleep. When we’d passed through the lounge moments earlier, we’d glimpsed a few people with books in their hands, their eyes focused on the portholes. And here on the deck, several passengers shoot videos of nothing, maybe hoping to be the first to capture footage of the sinking ship, and a few others take selfies.

I have to look away from them. Not far off, crabeater seals doze on icebergs and floes. Some raise their heads briefly and then return to their naps; those who are closer slump toward the water and slide in between the tide cracks, frightened by the rumble of the engine and the thunk of ice hitting the ship’s hull.

We’re getting close, but thanks to the murky air, I can’t see very far ahead. The fog has coalesced into the ice, wrapping the Cormorant in a whitish haze. As we push forward, the muffled drumbeat from the hull intensifies in proportion to the ice in our path. I glance up over my right shoulder toward the bridge, half-wanting to be there and half-needing to be away from all that tension.

“We should check in,” Amy says, catching my gaze.

I don’t want to take my eyes off the ghostly fog, as if I might see Keller emerge from the mist. But Amy’s right.

I nod, and just as we turn to go, the air is pierced by a scream. I whip my head toward the sound and see a woman backing away from the rail.

Amy and I rush toward her. “Are you all right?” I call out.

The woman can only point toward the water, and when I see the horror in her face, I know what she must’ve seen. I want to close my eyes, back up, run inside. But I look past her to the water. Floating below, amid the slush, is a bright blue parka, hugged by an orange life jacket. As the ice parts, I see the legs, the arms, the lifeless body within.

It’s begun.

They’ve seen it on the bridge, too, or maybe they’re seeing even worse. The engines whine, dragging the ship to a stop. Amy’s got her arm around the weeping passenger, attempting to calm her, and I look up at the bridge and see that most of the crew has disappeared, probably down to the Zodiacs. High above, a flare explodes, bathing us all in a pale-red glow. In this burst of sanguine light, I see that this is not the only body; there are dozens of blue jackets bobbing in the water among chunks of ice, bodies floating facedown in the churning slush.

We’re too late. As a second flare fires into the sky, I strain my eyes but still can’t see the ship, just gloom and icebergs and penguins scattered about on distant floes. And then, as my eyes adjust—and maybe as my mind adjusts—I realize that those figures on the ice aren’t penguins at all. They’re humans, passengers, dozens and dozens of them—some crouching on patches of breaking ice, others waving their arms for help.

From the stern, cranes whir, preparing to drop the first of our eight Zodiacs into the ice-packed water. Amy is leading the woman toward the staterooms, and I start heading belowdecks. Suddenly I stop, remembering Richard’s binoculars. They are far superior to anything we crew members have, and they could make all the difference in helping me locate Keller.

I race up to the lounge, searching frantically for Richard. I don’t see him, but Kate is there. We instantly make eye contact, and as I rush across the lounge, she meets me halfway.