How many times have I cursed her? On mornings when I leave the warmth of my bed and step outside only to get slapped, hard, in the face by a strong, bitter hand. On walks to job sites, when the wind attacks me relentlessly, making my eyes water from distress and compressing my lungs--literally stealing the breath from my body and leaving me gulping and gasping for air. Or when the exhaustion kicks in from lack of sleep--a common side effect from living in a land of constant daylight. These are the moments when I feel the most dissension. And at these times I find myself bitter, like a dejected child, wondering why I even bother to come to Antarctica.
It’s funny, how many times have I spat unkind words at the wind while being punished for daring to trespass on Antarctica's secret domain? Yet now, on the brink of freedom, she shows me her heart. Why now when I can just about see my mother-land, North America, living and breathing, with open arms beckoning me home?
Don’t mistake Antarctica’s heart with her beauty. I have seen her beguiling loveliness. I have looked upon her magnificence, upon her elegance and her grandeur. I have felt her power and I am always left shocked and in awe. When this happens my heart warms and I hold out my arms ready to be embraced; but, of course, that is just about the time when I get back-handed in the face once again. I have never, until now, upon my exit, felt the warmth from her heart.
--------------------------------
We are passengers on a big, bulky, awkward machine called a Terra-bus. Slowly we crawl the fourteen miles from McMurdo Station to Pegasus airfield, taking over an hour to arrive (nothing moves quickly in Antarctica). This is step one on our long journey home. There is a high vantage point from the road as it crescendos abruptly along the side of Ob Hill, just before it winds down, slowly and gently, towards the sea’s edge and the doorstep of the Kiwi base. It is easy to see the airfield from this elevation. Located on perma-ice, the runway is shockingly close to the sea’s edge--a mere mile away. We could have sailed to our C-130 from McMurdo.
The ice shelf, since the beginning of the summer, has thawed, broken into pieces, and proceeded to liquify into open water--attracting all sorts of wildlife. Orcas and Minkes patrol the shore-line, serial killers stalking their victims, while penguins and seals loll and lounge apathetically on the land’s edge--unconcerned with the predators and their deviant plans.
It was during this long, fourteen-mile drive that I decided to take a moment to say good-bye to Antarctica. She may not be a sweet, loving, providing Continent, but she is still my Continent, my first adventure, my first love.
I slowly lifted my eyes, half expecting them to be stung by a cruel wind or to have my lungs stripped of air. I winced in anticipation for that spiteful blow--a knee-jerk reaction--but it, of course, did not come. My dry, functioning, eyes instead, slowly, sentimentally, beheld my home of four months.
The northern and western skies were deep, dark and ominous--threatening snow. The smoky clouds gave the appearance of night--a premonition of what was to come in the following months. As the clouds stretched south they lost their dark hugh and their menacing breadth, and the sun dropped its rays through holes in the mantle--highlighting the mountains in bright, blazing patches. The first signs of sunset were exhibited in blushing pastels. Blue, orange, pink, and red splashed the sky as if placed by the tip of an artist’s brush. I studied the sky and the earth, but my vision soon became fixed on the inhabitants. As if cued, dozens of skuas took flight at that moment, acrobatically pitching left and right, plunging their hawk-like bodies into free-falling dives, and recovering themselves at the last possible second. They are masters in the air. On the ground, seals speckled the ice with their black, slug-like bodies and a handful of penguins, dressed in their formal attire, could be seen standing smartly at attention. The Ross Sea swelled. The rhythm of the tides heaved up and down like inhaling lungs and ice bergs floated stoically in the dark and deep waters.
Panoramically I took in all these striking scenes and, suddenly, unexpectantly, my eyes weren’t so dry. I have always held warmth and endearment in my heart for this bitter, harsh continent; Although, at times, the desolation and rejecting cold makes it hard. But at that moment I felt Antarctica’s heart beat. I was, for an instant, plugged in to her pulse and I was a witness as the warm, life-blood flowed. I felt a pang of homesickness for what I was leaving behind. I suddenly wanted to turn around, to stay. To grab on to the warmth I had just felt and let it swaddle me. Surely it would carry me through a long, cold Antarctic winter. She could turn on me once again. Lead attack, after attack, of frigid violence, but I would hold onto what I had just felt--that beautiful pulse, that thumping heartbeat.
There are probably many incentives for why people keep returning to Antarctica. I can tell you that it isn’t the bureaucratic bull-shit that comes with working for a government-contracted company. And it definitely is not the food. Perhaps this heartbeat is felt deep down in all of us. It’s that little bit of warmth found in a cold, frozen place. It’s the experiences. The remoteness. The adventure. The secrets that she chooses to share. The mysteries that she keeps. It’s her magic. Her beauty. Her cruelty and her power. Her bitterness and her warmth. It’s all these things and more.
Antarctica, you will be on my mind and in my dreams until I see you again.
