25. Illusion Domes

Still, things don't go as planned.

Unknown currents have pushed Aomi back, significantly delaying the two-day voyage. Darkness will fall before I can arrive.

A bright band of light continues to Aomi's left as she glides through the windless sea, her engine purring.

In the narrow gap between the hanging clouds and the horizon, the base of a 2,000-meter-high, ice-covered island gleams like a dazzling golden band. Why does the white ice slope glow gold? The sun is hidden behind thick clouds, so where is this bright light coming from?

A crosswind brushes my cheek as noon approaches, the islands glittering silently over the sea. Aomi hoists her sails fore and aft, and I'm delighted as she picks up speed.

At this speed, with this wind, I'll reach my destination before nightfall. It's funny that I worried so much about arriving after dark. Now, I smile to myself and even start to whistle.

As the white mass of the Melchior Islands—my destination—appears on the horizon, I glance at my watch. It's already past 8:00 p.m., and night is about to fall. Frustrated, I take the helm.

To the right, strange, dirty-white domes dot the sea. Are they dome-shaped icebergs?

I keep moving, barely paying attention. By my calculations, I should have reached the Melchior Islands already. But the white mass of islands ahead isn't getting any bigger.

Strange. Aomi should be moving steadily at four knots—the water is rushing along her sides, but she isn’t getting any closer to the islands. It feels like running in a dream, aware it isn't real. No, maybe it’s like last night...

As I think this, the group of dome-shaped icebergs passes behind, and the sky grows darker.

Is the white mass ahead really the Melchior Islands? Or could it be just a mirage, like the ones that often appear in the Antarctic? I hurry down to the cabin to study the charts, and a shiver runs down my spine.

Those weren't dome-shaped icebergs I just passed... Damn it!

I stop Aomi immediately. I've mistaken the real Melchior Islands for those dome-shaped icebergs and sailed right past them without realizing.

It's clear now I won't make it before sunset. And if Aomi enters the islands at night, there's a serious risk of crashing into rocks or ice in total darkness.

Waiting in front of the islands until morning is impossible too. Last night felt like a race against white phantoms, and it left me utterly exhausted. Staying up all night again just isn't physically possible.

I go down to the cabin, boil water on the pressurized kerosene stove, and add brandy and a heap of sugar to my tea in a double-walled cup. As I sip, I mark my current position on the chart with my favorite soft pencil.

Outside the window, the sky and sea steadily grow darker. Fortunately, the wind is dead calm, and there are no waves. Fortunately, the wind is dead calm, and there are no waves. The water is about 400 meters deep—too deep to anchor. Still, I could manage a nap, drifting on the calm sea.

Using a pair of dividers, I locate the farthest point from the surrounding islands on the chart. If I head there, she should have more than an hour and a half before crashing into one of them, even if swept away by the tide or wind.

After warming up with tea, I turn my back on the Melchior Islands and steer away from them for about an hour. When I reach my planned position, I cut the engine in the pitch-black darkness. All sound fades as Aomi floats, motionless on the water, like a black mirror.

It's quiet—a silence with only a faint grip on reality, like a soundless dream, interrupted by the subtle ringing in my ears and the sound of my blinking

I set my two alarm clocks for an hour and take a nap in an awkward position, resting just the upper half of my heavily clothed body on the bed to avoid oversleeping.

No sooner do I think I've fallen asleep than the alarms ring, and I check the water around me. To Aomi's right, the 60-kilometer-long Brabant Island glows faintly, like a pale white figure from my childhood nightmares. But to her left, the Melchior Islands, which should be visible, have vanished into total darkness. If I'm not careful, Aomi could be swept away by the tide and crash into them.

I sleep for an hour, wake up, and do a quick safety check. After repeating this routine several times, the brief Antarctic summer night finally fades as dawn approaches.

I insert the starting handle into the engine and crank it with all my strength.

As the steady hum of the 3.5-horsepower, single-cylinder diesel engine echoes pleasantly through the hull, I grab the tiller and point the bow toward the Melchior Islands.

It's a white morning beneath a vast, cool, clouded sky.

---

For more details, see the Explanation page.

---