34. Just Wish

Aomi turns around in the Lemaire Channel and races back along the valley floor as fast as she can, her sails nearly torn by the fierce wind.

 

The white tsunami—the tidal wave of the snowstorm—chases Aomi, swallowing the valley and burying the peaks on both sides of the channel, one after another, from the farthest visible point.

The black peaks where I turned 20 minutes ago have already vanished. If the snowstorm catches up with Aomi, she will be engulfed in white and instantly lose her sense of direction.

Hurry, hurry—just hurry!

I reach the island of the British Faraday base at the same time as the snowstorm. No! The snow wins. But the island is so close that I could call out and be heard.

Once safely in the cove, I drop a temporary anchor and quickly row the dinghy to shore. Battling the blizzard, I crawl up the slope of the hill surrounding the cove, mooring wire and rope slung over my shoulders.

Even my fingers vanish into the blinding whiteout, and at times, I struggle for breath as snow blocks my nose and mouth. Each furious gust nearly wrenches me from the slope.

Holding onto the rocky cliff, I barely avoid falling into the sea as I secure two ropes to the hilltops on either side of the cove, then rush back to Aomi through the blizzard.

After an hour of struggle, I check my watch—10 hours have passed since I set out this morning. My body feels exhausted, and the air pressure has dropped sharply by 20 hectopascals. Worse, it falls to an alarming 945 hectopascals by the next morning.

 

It was a defeat after a week of waiting for the weather to improve.

Will the weather ever improve? If the storm persists, winter will arrive before Aomi can leave the Antarctic, and the sea will freeze so thickly that escape will become impossible. Worse still, the crushing pressure of the ice could destroy Aomi.

Since the Southern Hemisphere's autumnal equinox passed about ten days ago, daylight has been fading by 50 minutes per week, and the Antarctic night stretches ever longer, swiftly swallowing Aomi in darkness.

Even if I somehow manage to escape the Antarctic coast, Aomi—without radar—will face an increasing risk of crashing into an iceberg in the Drake Passage, which extends to South America, as the nights grow longer.

The surrounding brown hills have turned white in the cove where Aomi remains. The sun doesn't rise above the hills until after 9 a.m., and the glacier's meltwater stream has already frozen solid. Winter is advancing upon the Antarctic, unstoppable and sure.

Aboard Aomi, as snow as fine as powdered sugar blankets the deck, I gather my belongings in the cabin, with the temperature hovering near freezing.

That includes a passport nearing expiration after five years of validity, traveler's checks that are nearly exhausted, a diary full of memories, stones from Antarctica and Cape Horn, and photographic film—perhaps more precious to me than life itself, though I never had enough money to buy as much as I wanted.

I pack them in my backpack so that I can take them with me in an emergency or, rather, so that even if something happens to me, the photos and diary will survive.

I have never prepared for anything like this. When I landed on Cape Horn, even when I broke the mast and drifted alone on the ocean, I must have believed—somewhere deep inside—that I would survive. But now, I don't know. I can only pray for luck.

Once the snowstorm subsides, I will row the dinghy 400 meters to the base—and somehow ask for help.

The next evening, Martin, the base commander and a physicist, greets me at the entrance to the main building. The hallways and dining hall are as silent as a school during vacation; the team of 24 has shrunk to just 10 since the base's wintering period began.

I sit on the couch in the warm lounge and reach for the recommended late-night meal of hamburgers. I chat with him, exploring the possibility of asking for favors.

"The world will change rapidly during your two years of duty in Antarctica, won't it? Don't you worry about being left behind in social progress and having difficulties when you return home?"

I am also worried about myself—I have been traveling for about five years.

"The world is constantly evolving in many ways, and the pace of change is rapid. But these are only short-term fluctuations. The core structures of human society transform gradually over decades."

Martin will leave Antarctica and return home in a year. His contract with the British Antarctic Survey expires at the same time. The cooks, mechanics, radio technicians, and other staff working at the base are also on short-term, two-year contracts.

"What kind of work will you do when you return to the UK?"

"I'll decide my path when I return. Being away from society has significantly changed my perspective, and I anticipate that returning to the noisy city will change me once again..."

I stare at his face for a moment, perplexed, and then turn the conversation to winter life.

"It must be a special experience to live with the same team members from morning to night in a small base, isolated from the outside world for about six months—until the ice melts in November and the supply ships return."

"That's right. I learn a lot from others."

"……"

"I mean, about myself."

After a short break in the conversation, I steer the discussion toward my real purpose as if to ask more questions.

"This base is understaffed during the winter months, isn't it?"

Martin looks at me, stunned, as if he has just read my mind.