Where'd You Go, Bernadette(89)

If anyone asked me—which in his defense, that Artforum reporter valiantly attempted, but every time I saw his name in my in-box I frantically hit delete delete delete—I’d say I never considered myself a great architect. I’m more of a creative problem solver with good taste and a soft spot for logistical nightmares. I had to go. If for no other reason than to be able to put my hand on the South Pole marker and declare that the world literally revolved around me.

I didn’t sleep for two days straight because it was all too interesting. The South Pole, McMurdo, and Palmer stations are all run by the same military contracting company out of Denver. The coordinator of all Antarctic operations happened to be at Palmer for the next month. My closest connection to any of this was Becky. I resolved then: I don’t care how profusely Becky apologizes every time she asks a waiter for more dinner rolls, I’m going to stick with her.

One of those days, I was out on the water with Becky in our floating science lab, calling out numbers. Ever so casually, I mentioned that it might be fun for me to accompany her to Palmer Station. The tizzy that erupted! No civilians allowed! Only essential personnel! There’s a five-year wait! It’s the most competitive place in the world for scientists! She spent years writing a grant!

That evening, Becky bid me adieu. This was a shock, because we were nowhere near Palmer Station. But a ship was swinging by at three in the morning to get her. Turns out there’s a whole shadow transportation network down here in Antarctica, much like the Microsoft Connector. They’re marine research vessels on a constant loop, transporting personnel and supplies to the various stations, often hooking up with cruise ships, which also double as supply ships for these remote stations.

I had a measly six hours. There was no way I could persuade Becky to bring me to Palmer Station. I was in bed despairing when, at the stroke of three, up sidled a giant paprika-colored bucket, the Laurence M. Gould.

I went down to the mudroom to get a front-row seat to my future slipping away. Stacked on the floating dock were Becky’s lockers and fifty crates of fresh produce. I could make out oranges, squash, cabbage. A sleepy Filipino loaded them onto a bobbing, unmanned Zodiac. Suddenly a crate of pineapples was thrust at me.

I realized: For days, I’d gone out with Becky on plankton-measuring excursions. This guy thought I was a scientist. I took the crate and jumped into the Zodiac and stayed there as he passed me more. After we filled the Zodiac to capacity, the sailor hopped in and fired up the engine.

Just like that, I was headed to the massive, utilitarian Laurence M. Gould. We were met by an equally sleepy and resentful Russian sailor. The Filipino stayed in the Zodiac and I climbed onto the Gould’s dock and began unloading. The Russian’s only concern was logging in the crates. When the Zodiac was empty—and to test that this was actually happening—I faintly waved to the Filipino. He motored back to the Allegra by himself.

There I was, standing firmly on the Laurence M. Gould. The best part: I hadn’t scanned out of the Allegra. They’d have no record of me leaving, and probably wouldn’t know I was missing until they docked in Ushuaia. By that time, I could get word to you.

I looked back at the Allegra and gave her a nod of thanks. Then, in the maw, the shape of Becky started loading the remaining supplies onto a Zodiac. My irrational dislike of her took hold again. And I thought, What do I need Becky for? Becky’s not the boss of me.

I found my way into the belly of the ship and through a labyrinth of foul-smelling passages, a combination of diesel fuel, fried food, and cigarettes. I came upon a tiny lounge with pilly pastel sofas and a boxy TV. I sat there as the engine grumbled to life. I sat there as the boat pulled away. I sat there some more. And then I fell asleep.

I awoke to the screech of Becky. Around breakfast time, some sailors had seen me sleeping and asked around. Luckily, we were just six hours from Palmer Station. Becky decided the thing to do was deliver me to Ellen Idelson, the manager of Antarctic operations. For the rest of the journey, I was a prisoner in the lounge, an object of curiosity. Russian scientists would poke their heads in, watching me watch Lorenzo’s Oil.

As soon as we reached Palmer, Becky dragged me by the scruff to dear leader, Ellen Idelson. To the chagrin of Becky, Ellen was thrilled when I declared I’d work for free and that no job was too demeaning.

“But how is she going to get home?” Becky wailed.

“We’ll stick her on the Gould,” Ellen said.

“But the beds are all accounted for,” Becky said.

“Yeah,” Ellen said. “That’s what we always say.”

“But she doesn’t have her passport! It’s on the Allegra.”

“That’s her problem, isn’t it?”

We both watched Becky huff off.

“She’s really good at writing grants,” Ellen said with disgust. It was a case of “the enemy of my enemy is my friend.” June was busting out all over.

I was turned over to Mike, a former state senator from Boston who had wanted so badly to spend time in Antarctica that he had trained to become a diesel mechanic. He put me to work sanding and painting the decks around the generator housing. He handed me a stack of industrial-grade sandpaper. Before I went through the grits, the wood needed to be scraped. I had a putty knife, which was dull, and I figured I could borrow a whetstone from the kitchen.

“There she is,” said Ellen, who had been having a tête-à-tête with the chef when I entered. Ellen pointed to a picnic table. I obediently sat.