My Last Continent(55)

“It makes you think about stuff,” she says. “Like how little I’ve done in life, when I really think about it.”

“We can’t all be Shackleton,” I say. “Besides, he was pretty damn lucky. If things hadn’t gone his way, he wouldn’t be remembered the same way, trust me.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” She sits up, pulling her legs to her chest.

“How’s Richard doing?” I ask, donning my sweatshirt. “Has he recovered from his fall?”

“It’s only his pride that’s wounded,” she says. “It’s funny about Richard—he’s always so hard on himself. He’s never felt comfortable without a bit of pain in his life. Falling off a cliff puts him back in familiar territory.” She looks up at me. “He feels terrible. He apologized to Nigel, and he even asked Glenn to get in touch with the other man who helped.”

“That won’t be easy,” I say.

“I think you’re right about the medication—that patch he’s using. I’ve never seen him like this before. But he’s so afraid of being seasick he won’t take it off.”

“In these waters, he’ll be fine. You should convince him to give it a try.”

She doesn’t answer, and her eyes drift toward the horizon. “What about you?” I ask. “How’re you doing?”

“I’ve been thinking,” she says. “About how I don’t want to be another bystander. One of those people who looks at all this melting ice and says, Oh, well, there’s nothing we can do about it anyway. I’m just not sure what it is I should be doing.”

“There’s plenty,” I say. “The little things really add up.”

“Like what?”

“Well, don’t tell Glenn I said this, but you can ask for more environmentally friendly meals on this ship.”

“I assumed they were already.”

“That’s what they want you to think,” I say. “It’s ridiculous that they serve seafood on this ship, with thousands of penguins killed by fishing nets every year.”

“That’s awful.”

“But do we mention this in the lectures? No. Do we avoid serving fish? No. Because God forbid anyone should have to forgo five-star dining in the Antarctic.”

“I didn’t think about that,” she says.

“No one does.” I remember Keller’s rant on our last voyage and stop. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to get going. Besides, Glenn would have my ass if he heard me right now. I shouldn’t be saying any of this.”

“I don’t know,” Kate says. “Maybe you should.”

“Well,” I say, “if it came from a guest, Glenn might actually listen.” I look at my watch, realizing I’m going to be late for the day’s landing if I don’t head belowdecks right now.

I force a smile. “Ready to walk on a new continent?”



OF THE THOUSANDS of travelers who venture to the Antarctic peninsula every year, fewer than 5 percent actually set foot on the continent. Most of our landings take place on the surrounding islands, not the continent itself—but they don’t report this back home; it’s always I went to Antarctica. And everyone assumes going to Antarctica means the South Pole anyhow, when only a couple hundred ever make it that far.

Even the Cormorant’s crew, who will bend over backwards to get tourists’ feet on the continent, can’t always make it happen. It’s not for lack of trying but usually for lack of a place to land. Even Shackleton’s party never actually made it to the continent. Antarctica does not lay out its welcome mat very often—for eleven months of the year, sometimes twelve, ice prevents boats from landing on the sliver of exposed continent we’re heading for today. The winds are calm, the sun is shining, and clear, relatively ice-free water awaits our arrival.

There is no beach at Prospect Point, so ferrying passengers between the Cormorant and this steep outcropping of land is a challenge. The clouds are hanging low, obscuring the sheer white cliffs in front of us. Amy and I take turns piloting the Zodiacs and holding them steady against the rocks, while Thom and Nigel help the tourists up an elevated, scraggy shoulder.

Up the rocky incline, the main attraction is what’s left of the hut at Station J—the one Nigel helped take down. It was built in the 1950s by the British Antarctic Survey and was occupied for only two years. The inhabitants left almost ­everything behind—rusting, unopened cans of food, utensils scattered on rickety shelves, books on a moldy cot, a wall calendar open to 1959. It remained a museum of sorts until it was dismantled in 2004. Now there is nothing left but the foundation and the mummified carcasses of two Weddell seals, their gray skin weathered and dirty like old leather but still intact.