31. Beyond Ice

Having fulfilled my dream of landing on the Antarctic continent, I feel no regrets.

Yet, for some reason, I feel forced by an unseen power to see how far south I can venture along the Antarctic Peninsula, where winter swiftly approaches.

At 10 a.m., with the sun climbing steadily in the northern sky, Aomi sets sail for Galindez Island, 60 kilometers to the south. Beneath clouds that suddenly fill the sky, strong winds and tides clash, whipping up ominous, triangular waves.

Soon, a sharp, knife-like cut appears in the mass of white mountains stretching across the blue horizon ahead.

"That's the entrance to the Lemaire Channel!"

The channel, a narrow passage through the valley, stretches about 15 kilometers and is often described as one of the most beautiful places in the Antarctic.

This site is also known as 'Kodak Valley,' probably because visitors, captivated by the breathtaking sight of steep mountains rising from the water, all aim their Kodak cameras at the view from the deck in unison.

With northerly winds filling her sails, Aomi reaches the mouth of the Lemaire Channel, and I grab my binoculars to scan the narrow passage. Unfortunately, the far end of the river-like surface ahead appears choked with ice, leaving no room for navigation.

This may be just an illusion caused by the distance. As I get closer, I hope gaps between the ice will begin to open up.

I start the engine, lower the sails, and cautiously begin moving along the valley floor.

But no matter how close I get, the ice ahead remains tightly packed, with no gaps appearing. Eventually, Aomi reaches a vast, white expanse—a wilderness of dense ice.

Clear ice, ten centimeters long; white ice, the size of barrels; and blue-white ice blocks, several meters long, fill the valley. There is no way I can continue.

It has already been five hours since I set out. If I turn back against the northerly wind, the sun will surely set along the way, putting Aomi at risk of colliding with rocks and ice hidden in the darkness.

Since I cannot turn back, since I cannot retreat... I have no choice but to push forward.

Determined to move forward, I hurry up the 17 steps attached to the mast—steps I had carefully designed and built in Buenos Aires for the Antarctic—and scan the ice field from 10 meters above sea level.

The water at the bottom of the valley, with steep mountains rising on either side, is filled with countless pieces of ice of all sizes, and there is no room to pass through.

Is it still impossible to advance?

I strain my eyes and spot a black, circular, pond-like opening in the white ice field ahead. By pushing through smaller pieces of ice and steering clear of larger chunks, Aomi might be able to reach the black pond. I climb down from the mast and press the bow into the ice field.

The next moment, Aomi and I are engulfed by the deafening sound of ice grinding against the hull. Numerous pieces of ice, sharp as glass, strike the bow, scrape against the hull, and drift aft one after another.

Each time an ice floe, weighing hundreds of kilograms, crashes into the hull, both Aomi and my body shudder violently, with the metallic vibrations of the aluminum mast echoing throughout. I fear a hole might open at any moment, despite the stainless steel reinforcements I added to the hull.

Twenty minutes later, as Aomi reaches the black pond that has opened in the ice field, I climb the mast once more to survey the path ahead.

This time, the view fills me with despair. Countless blue-white ice blocks, large and small, are packed more tightly than ever.

Even if Aomi could move forward, she would become trapped in the ice field, and her hull could be crushed under the enormous pressure of ice driven by the wind and tide.

Clinging to the top of the mast, which rises sharply into the sky from the bottom of the valley, I strain my eyes for a way forward. Then, as I suspected, there is nothing ahead but white ice, and the black surface of the water is nowhere to be seen.

Trapped in the ice field, will nightfall come before I can find a way out?

Gripping my binoculars, I frantically scan the endless white surface around me, straining my eyes again and again without giving up.

Then, a few hundred meters from Aomi, near a cliff rising on the channel's left side, I spot a faint black line running like a stream.

If I can reach that narrow lead—a ribbon of open water—Aomi might be able to escape the Lemaire Channel!

Hurrying down the mast, I seize the tiller and force the bow against the white edge of the ice from within the black pond.

No! The ice is far too dense.

The hull digs into the ice field and eventually comes to a halt, as though it has run out of strength.

If only Aomi could reach the surface of the black, creek-like water, I would be able to escape the channel—but... it's...

Suddenly, as I glance up from the white ice field, the sight of mountains towering nearly 1,000 meters on either side of the waterway strikes my eyes with vivid, breathtaking clarity.

The majestic peaks are too steep for snow to cling to, but snow has gathered in the narrow crevices cutting across the slopes, forming a delicate white web over the black rock faces.

In the crystal-clear, cold air, the mountain cliffs rise with an almost divine majesty—both beautiful and overwhelming.