We lower the gangplank, and I step down to a relatively stable section of ice; as one of the lighter crew members, I’d volunteered to be first, though I’m sure everyone knows I have other reasons. About fifty yards in the distance, a dozen passengers are gathered together on the ice, but the Australis herself is still only a dim glow of lights in the fog beyond. Those who are on this patch of ice should be able to make their way over. Some are already hurrying toward us. I hear Glenn’s voice on the PA system, telling the Australis passengers who we are, urging calm, exhorting them to follow our instructions.
But they are exhausted and panicked, and still coming forward—to keep them safe, we need to slow them down, spread them out. As I step forward carefully on the ice—poking it with a sharp trekking pole, hoping the pole won’t meet with slush or weak ice, keeping my ears on alert for that dreadful splintering noise—I wonder whether the other naturalists are as calm as they look. Despite our training, and despite the knowledge, in the deepest parts of our minds, that something like this could happen, I don’t think we ever really believed it would.
The ice under my feet holds up well, and I signal to the others behind me to follow; at the same time, I hold up a hand to stop the passengers coming toward us. As distressed as they must be, they obey.
I turn around and see Thom heading down the gangway. The plan, hastily assembled once Glenn and Wylander assessed the ice and weather conditions, is for Thom and me to scout out a trail for the passengers to follow to the Cormorant, and once we find a safe passage, we’ll leave marker flags along the way. Nigel and Amy will then lead the rest of the expedition team along the trail to make sure the passengers remain spaced evenly apart, so they don’t create more pressure than the ice can bear. It’s obvious, from the bodies floating past, that some have made that fatal mistake already—and our plan is only as good as the weather allows.
I try not to look down, not wanting to see an orange naturalist’s jacket floating past, or Keller’s signature bandanna.
Focus, I tell myself. I need to take one moment at a time, one tenuous step at a time. As I begin to make my way across the ice, I realize that we’ll have to revise our plan sooner than we expected. The group of passengers ahead is stranded on a forty-foot-wide patch of ice with about thirty feet of slush between them and us. They hadn’t stopped in response to Glenn’s or my signal; they stopped because they had nowhere else to go.
“Ease up,” I call over my shoulder. As Thom joins me near the edge of the ice floe, the passengers on the other side advance to the edge of theirs.
“Move back!” Thom shouts. “Spread yourselves out!” He splays his arms wide. “Stay near the middle of the ice, as far apart as you can,” he calls to them. “We’ll get you. Just hold on.”
“We’ll need a Zodiac,” I say, and Thom nods. We’ll have to carry the Zodiac over the ice to this small stretch of water, then use it as a ferry. Despite their rubber construction, these Zodiacs aren’t exactly lightweight; they’re nineteen feet long, and transporting them over land requires at least two or three strong crew members. Even if the ice holds, once we get the boat in the water, boarding anxious passengers safely from a fragile rim of ice is yet another challenge.
Another flare bursts above, and as it fizzles in the sky, Thom turns to me. “If you want to keep going,” he says, “I’ll take care of these folks.”
“You’ll need help with the Zodiac,” I say.
“I’ll get Nigel. Go on. Be careful.”
I turn toward the flickering light of the flare and begin walking gingerly in its direction, the ice here still sturdy and unbroken for as far as I can see. Yet appearances are often deceiving—the pack ice that surrounds us, formerly attached to the continent, has been blown around the sea all winter by ocean currents and winds, broken apart and thrust together again, and now that it’s covered with a layer of snow, it’s impossible to tell where weak spots are until you’re right on top of them. Worse, the winds are picking up again, which means that, no matter how stable the ice may look, conditions could change in an instant.
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.