My Last Continent(77)

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.”

He doesn’t say anything as I pull up alongside the ice. He gets out, and I help the man to his feet. We get him out of the Zodiac, and then Thom looks at me. “Be careful,” he says.

“I’ll let you know how things look when I get closer.”

He nods, then steps away. He pulls one of the man’s arms over his shoulder, and they begin the walk back to the Cormorant. I watch them for a moment, making sure the ice is stable, that it’ll hold. We are surrounded by a seemingly endless number of survivors—and these are the lucky ones, the ones who are close to safety. We still have no idea what is happening farther away, on the ship.

I turn the Zodiac around. The ice is thickening quickly, as is the fog, and I can find no direct route to the Australis. The Zodiac can handle open water and not much more than a little slush, so I have to traverse around the jagged floes at a maddeningly slow pace, moving almost parallel to the ice field I’ve just left, making very little forward progress.