My Last Continent (21 page)

Up ahead I see another group of passengers moving toward me in a blur of blue. “Stop!” I shout at them. “Stay where you are!”

But they can't hear me; I need to get closer, to tell them
to wait for Thom. I stab at the ice as I move forward. Then I hear a sharp, cleaving echo and freeze.

The sound is not beneath me but up ahead, and I look up in time to see one of the blue jackets disappear. The other tourists stop in their tracks, one of them screaming. I force myself to proceed slowly, testing the ice as I move forward. After a few more steps, the tip of my trekking pole sinks into slush.

It's not much of a hole, but it's wide enough for a human body. I back up, then flatten myself on the ice and shove my right arm into the water. Most of the passengers are wearing life jackets, so I extend my arm laterally across the ice ceiling, less than two feet below, hoping that underneath the current isn't as strong as the wind indicates.

My hand makes contact with something, and though my arm is quickly growing numb, I grab on and pull, seeing a flash of blue as I drag the body toward me. When it's closer, I plunge both arms into the water and pull as hard as I can, using my legs to propel myself backward, away from the hole. I'm gripping an arm, and I quickly find my way to the jacket's collar so I can pull the body out facefirst. I catch a glimpse of the man's face, gray and frozen in shock, and I continue to pull, heaving the body up as I inch backward, the ice chipping away at the edge of the hole.

I get the man's shoulders above water, but I can't get him out. I turn and call out for Thom, for Nigel, for Amy, hoping one of them will hear me. Then I hang on, waiting. The man seems to have stopped breathing, but between the current and the violent shaking of my arms, it's hard to tell.

At first I think no one's going to come, but then I feel a body edging close to mine. “I've got him.”

It's Nigel. I slip backward and let him pull the man farther out of the water. When the torso emerges, Nigel gets to his knees and drags the man all the way out. He turns the man onto his back and kneels over him, feeling for a pulse as he simultaneously pinches the man's nostrils shut and bends down to force air into his lungs. With a sputtering cough, the man's lungs empty of seawater, and his eyes flutter open.

The man is shivering uncontrollably, and just because he's now breathing doesn't mean he's out of danger. Nigel radios for help.

I myself am shaking, and I wrap my arms around my body to steady myself. The other passengers are still huddled close together on the ice, very near to where the man had fallen in. “Back away,” I call to them, though I know their instincts and fear and the cold are drawing them together. “You'll have to stand apart from one another—three feet, at least.”

I watch them separate—slowly, reluctantly, dubiously.

Nigel's talking to the man who'd fallen in, asking him his name, age, where he's from, anything to keep him conscious. But it's not looking good; the man is incoherent, sputtering fragmented words, his teeth drumming violently together.

In my mind I'm assembling a chain of events: the
Australis
trapped in ice, desperate efforts to push its way out, ripped hull, ice floes crashing together, people jumping, fog, chaos, death.

Amy arrives, responding to Nigel's call, and the two quickly strip off the man's jacket, sweater, and shirt and wrap him in a fleece blanket, which will have to do until someone else arrives to help Amy take him back to the ship. Already we are too few rescuers, with too few resources, too late to the scene.

I turn to Nigel, who waves me ahead, and for a moment I hesitate. The sleeves of my jacket are soaked through. My arms are still numb, and water courses from my sleeves down the front of my chest. The fabric against my skin is wet and cold. Yet I start out again, clenching my jaw tightly shut to keep my teeth from chattering—as much from nerves as from cold—and I move my arms up and down as I walk, to keep the blood flowing.

A shadowy ridge of icebergs rises like giant incisors in the distance. I continue slowly, cautiously, watching for signs of movement in case any of them, like ancient trees, decide to tip over and crack the ice I'm standing on. Despite the thickening fog, I can tell I'm getting closer to the
Australis;
I hear the sounds of tortured, twisting steel and muffled human voices. As I navigate the ice, I place flags marking my route, the places that are safe to walk—for now, anyhow.

And then I see her.

Still shrouded in mist, about a hundred yards straight ahead, is the
Australis,
listing heavily to port. I pick up my pace.

Everywhere I look, I see lifeboats and passengers in the cruise company's bright blue jackets: some in Zodiacs, some on the ice. I scan the jackets for a glimpse of orange, a flash of red.

My throat swells with despair, and I swallow it away and try to breathe. As I study the scene in front of me, I do a rapid triage in my head. The
Australis
's lifeboats may be able to navigate out of this maze of ice with the wind thrashing the floes together, assuming they're manned by crew members; at any rate, those inside are safe for now. Zodiacs are more maneuverable and easier to pilot, though they're also smaller
and more prone to tipping; passengers might be able to get to safety as long as they don't get stuck in pack ice, which is becoming increasingly likely.

Those who are stranded on the ice need help, and fast—but there are so many of them, and though I know Nigel and the other naturalists and crew members will be following close behind, for now I'm the only one here. I look at the groups of passengers, clustered together like penguins at a nesting site, and realize the agony of the choices ahead, weighing lives against the thickness of ice, weighing my safety against theirs, weighing the fact that there is only one of these victims who really matters to me and I don't know where he is, and, as much as I'd rather look for him, these people in immediate danger can't be ignored.

The
Cormorant
is now at least a quarter mile behind me, and I radio Glenn and give him my position, tell him what the situation is. I don't see anyone I recognize as
Australis
crew; they're likely still on board, trying to get more passengers to safety, and this gives me hope.

As I get closer to the ship, pockets of water widen, opened up by her shifting and sinking, causing ice floes to split and drift. As the water continues to separate the floes—some the size of a dining room table, others the length of a city block—I have to slow down more and more to stay on the same sheet of ice.

Then I find myself at a dead end. Between me and the ship, a mix of brash and bergy bits stretches for twenty, thirty feet. Beyond that is a stretch of ice about the size of ten parking spaces; standing on it are twelve passengers, and there is no direct path to them. My only option is to retrace my
steps and take a wide route to the left or right, devouring vital moments while I may or may not get myself any closer. But I have no choice.

I motion with my hands for everyone to stay put, to spread out. And they understand, doing as I instruct while I make my way around. I find a path, but the wind is growing relentlessly, and when I finally reach them, I look back at the trail I've marked.

Already the ice has begun to break up in the wind, and through the rolling fog I see that my markers are now in different places than where I'd left them—which means I've lost the only way to get these survivors to safety. The ice is too broken to traverse on foot, too tight to come in by Zodiac. The frightened passengers have begun to bombard me with questions, and I hold up my hand to silence them as I grab my radio to call Glenn again.

“We can't come in any farther,” he says. “The winds are gusting to thirty knots and the ice is at eight-tenths. We'll need to push back—soon.”

“I've got a dozen people here,” I say, “and I don't have a solid path back.”

“Just hold on. We'll get a couple of Zodiacs over there.”

But I don't see how Glenn will spare two more crew members to haul even one Zodiac over the quarter mile I've just traversed. We may be stuck here for hours—if the ice holds out that long.

I try to take in a breath, but my lungs freeze, refusing the intake of air, and then my head begins swimming through waves of black. I lean over, hands on my knees, and take short, hiccuping breaths until I feel my chest expand at last.

Finally I straighten up, trying to put on a mask of composure. The wind drives sleet into my face as I look around me. I'm hoping for a glimpse of Keller, but all I see are scared, unfamiliar faces.

There's a movement to my left, and I turn in time to see a towering iceberg in the distance swaying in the rough surf.

As I watch, it begins to tip.

All unstable icebergs will flip eventually, and when bergs of this size tip and roll, the waves they spawn can be monumental: large enough to wreak havoc on ships, and certainly large enough to be fatal to anyone standing on nearby ice.

“Lie down, lie down!” I yell at the passengers; then I collapse, spread-eagle, on the ice. “Like this,” I shout, raising my head, straining to make myself heard over the cracking ice. “Spread out your arms and legs!”

The passengers follow my lead. I turn my head, my cheek against the ice, to watch the iceberg as it rolls—gracefully, gently, though I know what's about to come will be anything but.

A moment later comes the rise of the water, the wave moving toward us as if in slow motion. I shut my eyes, digging my fingers into the ice sheet under me, whispering
please hold, please hold,
my breath warm against the ice—and when I feel the floe lift and sway, rolling us as if we're on a giant water bed, I visualize us all moving with it, as one, staying put, staying together.

Then I hear the screams of passengers, and I open my eyes. We're still moving, the ice curving and bending below us, but so far we're okay. A few people keep screaming, panicking, but we're all still here. We're going to make it.

Then, a tremendous crack—the ice begins to split and crumble. I feel a splintering, and, my body acting faster than my mind, I roll away just as a fissure opens up beneath me, a yawning mouth of water where I lay just a moment before. When I hear a shriek, I look over to see a woman slipping into another cleft in the ice. A passenger grabs her arms and manages to hold her there, in the water up to her thighs, until two more passengers crawl over and help pull her out.

As the waves reverberate under the tender ice, we all lie still. I close my eyes for a moment, not sure I ever want to move again. I'm safe here, for now. The baby is safe. And, until I learn otherwise, Keller is safe. The minute I open my eyes, I'll need to stand up, to pretend I know what I'm doing, and to keep moving ahead, toward what I'm more and more certain I don't want to see.

I hear a few more creaks, normal sounds given the weight and motion of the ice, and when I'm sure that nothing else is splitting apart, I stand up, looking first toward the
Australis
. She's nearly shrouded in fog again, the wave having pushed us farther away. Near the hull, lifeless bodies drift in the water.

I turn away, and in front of me is the first bit of good news: The wave has pushed us hard against a large ice field, which means we might have a temporary bridge to the
Cormorant
. And there's no time to waste.

I try to shake off the mounting stress and quickly move forward, testing the ice. Within moments, I'm radioing Glenn, barking instructions to the stranded passengers, and leading them to sturdier ice, step by excruciating step. I find my first marker flag, and then I find another. The ice is still shifting, and making our way back will be a slow and dangerous
process, taking time I don't want to spare without knowing where Keller is. I look back over my shoulder, at the fading ship, at the wide-eyed passengers who are trusting me to save them.

I'M HALFWAY BACK
to the
Cormorant
when I see Thom and two more crew members dragging a Zodiac across the ice. When they reach us, Thom and I leave the two crew members to continue leading the
Australis
passengers, while we forge ahead toward the open water that will take us to the ship. My arms feel as though they'll snap off with the cold and the weight of the inflatable, but I'm grateful for the heat my body has to generate to get it done.

As we approach the water's edge and nudge the boat into the sea, we both pause to take a breath. Thom looks past me, and his eyes sharpen. “Shit,” he says, then hops into the Zodiac and holds out his hand. “Get in. Hurry.”

I take his arm and step into the Zodiac, barely staying on my feet as he guns the engine and spins us around. “What happened?”

“Someone just went in,” he says. I follow his eyes and see a bobbing figure in a blue parka, arms in the ice-fogged air but already slowing with the cold.

Thom pulls up as gently as he can, while I reach out and grab the blue jacket with all the strength I have left—but it's not enough. The man is heavy with the weight of water and panic, and I struggle to hold on to him as he flails against me. Thom cuts the engine and leans over to help; together we
manage to haul the man into the Zodiac. I pull a blanket out of the hutch and wrap it around the man's head and shoulders. He's red-faced and shivering, his mouth working though he's unable to talk. He wasn't in very long, and he should be okay—if he gets warmed up, and fast.

“We need to get him back,” I say, and Thom nods. This guy isn't stable enough to make it back alone, and he's probably too big for me to handle—which leaves us with only one real option.

I see that Thom's thinking the same thing. “Get us back over to the ice,” he says. “I'll find someone to bring him in. Then we'll go.”

“It'll take too long,” I say. “No one's even been over to the
Australis
yet. If you can take him in, I'll keep going and report back.”