My Last Continent: A Novel(8)

I can see a figure in the water, but it’s bulky and oddly shaped, not smooth and sleek, like a seal. I shine my flashlight on it and see red.

It’s a man, in his cruise-issued parka, submerged in the water up to his waist. He looks into the glare of my flashlight. I stand there, too stunned to move.

The man turns away, and he takes another step into the water. He’s crazy, I think. Why would he go in deeper? Sometimes the seasick medication that tourists take causes odd and even troubling behavior, but I’ve never witnessed anything like this.

As I watch him anxiously from the shore, I think of Ernest Shackleton. I think of his choices, the decisions he made to save the lives of his crew. His decision to abandon the Endurance in the Weddell Sea, to set out across the frozen water in search of land, to separate his crew from one another, to take a twenty-two-foot rescue boat across eight hundred miles of open sea—had any of these choices backfired, history would have an entirely different memory. In Antarctica, every decision is weighty, every outcome either a tragedy or a miracle.

Now, it seems, my own moment has come. It would be unthinkable to stand here and watch this man drown, but attempting a rescue could be even more dangerous. I’m alone. I’m wearing socks and a light jacket. The water is a few degrees above freezing, and, though I’m strong, this man is big enough to pull me under if he wanted to, or if he panicked.

Perhaps Shackleton only believed he had options. Here, genuine options are few.

I call out to the man, but my words dissolve in the foggy air. I walk toward him, into the bay, and my feet numb within seconds in the icy water. The man is now in up to his chest. By the time I reach him, he’s nearly delirious, and he doesn’t resist when I grab his arms, pull them over my shoulders, and steer us toward the shore. The water has nearly turned him into deadweight. Our progress is slow. Once on land, he’s near collapse, and I can hardly walk myself. It takes all my strength to help him up the rocks and into Thom’s tent.

He crumples on the tent floor, and I strip off his parka and his boots and socks. Water spills over Thom’s sleeping bag and onto his books. “Take off your clothes,” I say, turning away to rummage through Thom’s things. I toss the man a pair of sweats, the only thing of Thom’s that will stretch to fit his tall frame, and two pairs of thick socks. I also find a couple of T-shirts and an oversize sweater, and by the time I turn back to him, the man has put on the sweats and is feebly attempting the socks. His hands are shaking so badly he can hardly control them. Impatiently, I reach over to help, yanking the socks onto his feet.

“What the hell were you thinking?” I demand. I hardly look at him as I take off his shirt and help him squeeze into Thom’s sweater. I turn on a battery-powered blanket and unzip Thom’s sleeping bag. “Get in,” I say. “You need to warm up.”

His whole body shudders. He climbs in and pulls the blanket up to cover his shoulders.

“What are you doing here?” I, too, am shaking from the cold. “What the hell happened?”

He lifts his eyes, briefly. “The boat—it left me behind.”

“That’s impossible.” I stare at him, but he won’t look at me. “The Cormorant always does head counts. No one’s ever been left behind.”

He shrugs. “Until now.”

I think about the chaos of earlier that day. It’s conceivable that this stranger could have slipped through the cracks. And it would be just my luck.

“I’m calling Palmer. Someone will have to come out to take you back.” I rise to my knees, eager to go first to my tent for dry clothes, then to the supply tent, where we keep the radio.

I feel his hand on my arm. “Do you have to do that just yet?” He smiles, awkwardly, his teeth knocking together. “It’s just that—I’ve been here so long already, and I’m not ready to face the ship. It’s embarrassing, to be honest with you.”

“Don’t you have someone who knows you’re missing?” I regard him for the first time as a man rather than an alien in my world. His face is pale and clammy, its lines suggesting he is older than I am, perhaps in his mid-forties. I glance down to look for a wedding band, but his fingers are bare. Following my gaze, he tucks his hands under the blanket. Then he shakes his head. “I’m traveling alone.”

“Have you taken any medication? For seasickness?”

“No,” he says. “I don’t get seasick.”

“Well,” I say, “we need to get someone out here to take you back to the Cormorant.”

He looks at me directly for the first time. “Don’t,” he says.

I’m still kneeling on the floor of the tent. “What do you expect to do, stay here?” I ask. “You think no one will figure out you’re missing?”

He doesn’t answer. “Look,” I tell him, “it was an accident. No one’s going to blame you for getting left behind.”

“It wasn’t an accident,” he says. “I saw that other guy fall. I watched everything. I knew that if I stayed they wouldn’t notice me missing.”

So he is crazy after all.

I stand up. “I’ll be right back.”

He reaches up and grasps my wrist so fast I don’t have time to pull away. I’m surprised by how quickly his strength has returned. I ease back down to my knees, and he loosens his grip. He looks at me through tired, heavy eyes—a silent plea. He’s not scary, I realize then, but scared.