33. Resource Called Beauty

At 9:00 a.m., Aomi departs the island, leaving behind the British base.

After warming up her engine, she breaks through the glass-like ice in the bay with her bow. On shore, crew members from the base raise a hand in greeting, while others aim their cameras.

When I look back again, the two-story main building, the huts, and the powerhouse, all lined along the base, appear no bigger than grains of sand, as if compressed from top to bottom and side to side by the vast ocean, sky, and ice. I am alone again, enveloped in the white light of the Antarctic atmosphere.

Heading north, Aomi weaves left and right to avoid small pieces of ice floating on the water. After a month of navigating the Antarctic coast, she seems to have perfected her slalom through the ice.

Ahead, the Lemaire Channel, a passage with steep cliffs on both sides known for its spectacular views, opens into a valley between mountains.

Soon I reach the entrance to the channel and see the calm water at the bottom of the valley, a perfect mirror reflecting the steep peaks on either side under a leaden sky. The floating ice, framed by the symmetrical landscape above and below, is sparse today.

When I passed through this channel last time, heading south, I struggled with the ice, but this time I should be able to make it through and reach Anvers Island, about 60 kilometers to the north, by evening.

Looking up at the sheer, cliff-like mountains towering majestically from the valley floor, I sigh repeatedly and begin sailing through the channel.

Two hours later, a fierce headwind blows from the approaching exit. The mirror-like surface reflecting the majestic mountains shatters instantly, and the waterway erupts in whitecaps.

Aomi presses on toward the exit, dodging glassy pieces of ice that rise and fall among the whitecaps.

I notice a flat, hill-like tabular iceberg approaching Aomi from the lee side. Each time I glance back, it seems to grow wider and taller. Because 90 percent of its mass is underwater, it is carried by currents instead of wind, moving against the wind as if chasing Aomi.

I push forward to get away from it, but the headwind is too strong and Aomi’s speed barely increases. Caught between the intense headwind and the looming iceberg behind, Aomi has nowhere to go.

Worse, the tabular iceberg with its vertical cliffs comes closer and closer, rising so high that I must look up at it. Each white wave breaking against the fluorescent blue wall of ice is clearly visible. If Aomi’s hull, moving up and down with the waves, makes even the slightest contact with the ice wall, she will be instantly destroyed by its sharp edges.

I increase the engine speed further and try desperately to escape, but, as I feared, it makes no difference. There is no way to advance against such a strong wind. Escape is impossible. There is no hope at all. Aomi will surely crash within minutes.

I take a deep breath and suddenly decide to abandon my attempt to escape. Turning the bow sideways, I run parallel at full speed beneath the towering blue-white cliff of the iceberg, which looms so close it almost touches Aomi. As soon as she reaches the corner of the tabular iceberg, I steer sharply around to the back.

At the very last moment, Aomi is saved! {this line: italicized}

By now, the winds sweeping through the Lemaire Channel have risen to extraordinary intensity. In places, tornado-shaped plumes spiral from the water, and snow blows off the mountain slopes in white trails hundreds of meters long. Even with the engine at maximum power, Aomi moves no faster than a child can walk.

What should I do? Turn back? No, I’ll press on a little longer. If I’m lucky and the wind drops, I can reach Anvers Island by evening and rest. {this paragraph: italicized}

But something is wrong. The islands I saw ahead, beyond the channel’s outlet, have vanished, replaced by a gray sky. The steep rocky peaks and ice on both sides have also grown hazy. Are my goggles fogged? No. Even after I take them off, it is the same. Visibility is rapidly fading.

“A blizzard is coming!”

Now, progress is definitely impossible. If I do not turn back soon, the snow will blind me and close off the passage back to Faraday Base.

“All right, let’s go back.”

With a shout, I swing the bow 180 degrees. The air is crystal-clear. The black rock and white glaciers on either side of the channel stand out so sharply that my eyes ache. Even the tiny ridges and gullies on slopes kilometers away, and the pale ice crumbling at their feet, are as distinct as if they were in my hand. It is like a giant screen displaying a finely detailed painting of the mountains before me.

While the snowstorm erases the northern end of the waterway, the southern mountains, where I am returning, rise so sharp that they could cut my retinas.

As if the resource called beauty were inexhaustible.