In January of 1996, I took a ship down to the Antarctic Ocean. I wrote this while we were down there:
2200 (10 p.m.). There’s a gale outside just now.
“Outside” is 68 degrees south, 170 degrees west. The Antarctic ocean. It’s not quite the end of the world, but I can almost see it from here.
The wind is 45 knots gusting to 55 and the seas resemble rolling gray walls laced with streaks of white. The highest are 16 — 18 feet. They’ll soon build to well over 20. The weather is what we call “snotty,” and it’ll be a while before it gets any better.
We just passed an iceberg that was about the size of a small island. It’s not the biggest out here. They’re being calved from the Ross Ice Shelf and heading north. That’s towards us. The “pucker factor” is rising because it’s not easy to maneuver in this kind of weather and we’re going to have to maneuver a lot in the next few hours.
We’re aboard a research vessel. Every 30 miles we stop and lower instruments to sample the water all the way to the bottom. We’ll be doing this every day for the next 32 days. Cousteau’s films never captured the tedium and hard work that accompanies “ocean research” — especially in this part of the world.
I’ve been going to sea since I was 20 and, once I started, I was hooked. A part of the attraction was that I liked the people. As a group, they’re a little different than what you might find around an office. They tend to be rough around the edges, tend to see things in black or white, and can be splendidly profane when the need arises. Being around them makes the time pass more quickly.
Right now, I’d like to sleep, but the weather makes sleeping difficult. We’re constantly rolling and you get mattress burns on your elbows and knees trying to stay in your bunk. In these conditions, you learn to wedge lifejackets and any extra pillows under the edge of your mattress. You then try to sleep like a hot dog in the “V” created between the bulkhead and the mattress.
My job is, basically, to worry and I’m good at it. I worry about minor flooding reported deep inside the ship. It’s salt water and we don’t make salt water. The ocean does though.
I worry about the weather. I worry about fuel and supplies, laundry soap, clean linens, cokes, and tomorrow’s schedule. I worry about where we are and where we’re going. I worry that we may not see a small iceberg. Doesn’t take a big one to put a hole in the hull.
I worry about the crew. I look for people who might be too tired to pay attention to what they’re doing. That can get you hurt out here.
We’re in the middle of an ocean that can, at times, dish out more punishment than any ship can endure and, so, you try to be careful. You use all of the experience gained over the years, but there’s always a new twist or wrinkle and you start wondering whether this might be one of those times.
The funny thing is, in spite of all this, I’m never allowed to look worried.
I’d hate to admit the number of times where I’ve thought to myself, “Now how am I going to get us out of this mess?” Still, I’m not allowed to show it. That’s part of the job, too. It’s even tougher. The crew hates a captain that’s worried and shows it. Doesn’t sit well with them.
Thirty days and 6,000 miles to go. The wind just gusted to over 60 knots and we’re taking solid water over the bow. It’s getting dark and the icebergs are still out there. I’m thinking that Edmonds, Washington is a long way from here.
My wife says that one day I’m going to have to grow up and get a real job.
Not just yet, I hope. Not just yet…
I retired two years later. One of the toughest lessons you learn as you get older is that you can never go back to the moments in your life that are etched into your soul. The ones that you’d give anything to recapture or relive.
Damn.
Larry Simoneaux lives in Edmonds. Send comments to: larrysim@comcast.net
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