God Jul / Frohe Weihnachten / Feliz Navidad

Christmas in Antarctica originally posted by Linda Lou Burton December 24, 2005  from Discovery Bay, Greenwich Island, Antarctica – I’ve never had a Christmas Eve like this one. A morning landing in Admiralty Bay, a meeting of the penguins, a talk with Mario, who is stationed at Poland’s Arctowski station for the next year. “I learned English from the TV,” he told me, apologizing frequently when he couldn’t remember a word he wanted to use. He is studying glaciers, sedimentation. “But travel is my passion,” he confessed. He told me of all the places he has already been, this slender young man of no more than twenty-five. We talked about our Christmas traditions. “The Americans from Copacabana Station are coming tonight for a Christmas Eve party,” he said. “Today, we cannot eat meat, only fish, but tomorrow we will have turkey.” We stood on the deck of the tiny wooden hut under the lighthouse, whale bones strowed around, penguins waddling by, icebergs floating near.

It was time for me to go. “Can I hang onto your back?” I asked when I spotted my shipmates passing by. Pamela was having no problem walking, so John offered his arm to help me over the rocks. “Goodbye Mario,” I said, “Merry Christmas!”

Back on the ship, I slept for hours. I missed the briefing, missed the stop at Aitcho Islands. The Aitchos were named for the British Admiralty Hydrographic Office, or, H. O. In the English Strait between Robert and Greenwich Islands, it’s a beautiful spot with sheer cliffs and spires, huge, green moss beds, and nesting Gentoo and Chinstrap penguins. I was sorry I missed the trip ashore, but glad I was rested for the evening.

Yuletide celebration on Dekk 7 at 7:15, the announcement said. Wearing red and green, I arrived on time. Mulled wine, Christmas carols sung in German, English, Silent Night; then sung all languages together; O Tannenbaum! I knew the makeup of the guests – 51 Germans, 42 Australians, 24 Americans, 11 British, 9 Dutch, 9 Norwegian, 7 Italian, 5 Swedish, 4 French, 3 Austrian, 3 Chilean, 2 each from Belgium, Denmark and Israel, and 1 each from Canada, Portugal, Slovakia, and Switzerland. Did the music bring us closer? I don’t know. I know that it was memorable.

From there to the dining room, Dekk 4. At the front of the room, the Captain stood, Bible in hand. “It is tradition,” he said, “for the Captain to read the Christmas story in Norwegian. Then it will be read in English, in German, and in Spanish.” He began to read, the room stilled, the Christmas tree near my table glittered with candles. I pointed the videocam to catch his reading; kept it running through the English too. Icebergs floated by outside.

Then food! Turkey, roast pork, fish of every kind. Salads, Norwegian smorgasbord. A table arrayed with cakes, candies, a yule log with a mouse on top. So much to eat, and penguin decorations too, reminders of our special day.

Then bells began to ring. The children in the crowd looked up as three Santas burst through the door, dark-skinned Filipino crew with stringy cotton beards, laughing, toting bags. The children ran back and forth, laughing too. Our Santa stopped with packages for each of us, wrapped in green. The four of us at Table 2 eyed one another, couldn’t wait. I opened mine, and so did they. Flashlights! The mini-kind, so perfect for your pocket, or your purse. We shined the lights at one another’s faces, just like kids would do.

Tired now, at 10 PM. But light outside, the icebergs morning white. I’m typing now, to you.

Happy Christmas! God Jul! Frohe Weihnachten! Feliz Navidad!

Christmas Eve with Evie

Christmas in Antarctica originally posted by Linda Lou Burton December 24, 2005 from Arctowski Station, Admiralty Bay, King George Island, Antarctica – Today is Christmas Eve, and I have walked Antarctic soil. The first announcement on the information speaker at 7:30 was this: “I will no longer comment on the weather. This is silly!” Our expedition leader was awed by our good fortune – clear skies, calm waters, 41 degrees.

At breakfast, I asked the question. Surely I won’t need my longjohns? Surely not the wool sweater? “Da wetter kud change,” Will admonished me. “Take da swetter!” I was sitting at the table with Will and Paul and Annemarie and their parents, who were chatting away in Dutch with an occasional English comment thrown in for me. I asked Paul what a typical Dutch breakfast would be. He pointed to examples in his plate as he explained it would be sandwich-like, with ham and cheese and vegetables. “What about cereal?” I inquired. “Yes, corn flakes, with sugar already on.” “Frosty flakes?” I said. “Yes!” he laughed. “And chocolate too,” threw in Annemarie. “Cocoa puffs?” I replied. “Yes! Cocoa puffs and chocolate milk!”

I finished my omelet and sausages, said goodbye, and headed for my room. Time to waterproof. Long underwear, check. Fleece pants, check. Wool socks, check. Wool sweater, check. Waterproof pants next, zipping right, zipping left, Velcro at the bottom. Waterproof bag for cameras into the pack. Fleecy hat, scarf, gloves. Waterproof mittens. Now I rattled when I walked, screech screech, screech, screech. I could not be a spy.

I headed for Dekk 7 to watch the first group leave. The crew had gone first with supplies — set up with enough water and shelter to keep those on shore safe for 24 hours should a sudden storm arise.

We were divided into six groups, names posted on the wall like a playground list at school. Group 1 is first on the first excursion, followed by Group 2, and so on. Next excursion, Group 2 is first, followed by Group 3, and Group 1 will be last! So, everyone gets a turn to go first. This was explained to us carefully, watching our faces, hoping, I guess, that we wouldn’t be quarrelsome and whiny. I was in Group 6, this was the third excursion for the trip, so, hence, therefore, I would be on the fourth boat today??

“Group 6 may proceed to the Departure Dekk!” was finally called. I scurried down to the boot room, filled with stacks and rows of black rubber Wellies, size clearly handpainted in yellow on the back. I found some 8’s, hoping the fit over the wool socks would work. Puff puff pant pant struggle on with the boots. Into the next room, blop blop blop blop. I was handed a life jacket, helped to adjust it over my Nordic blue Antarctica Voyage of Discovery waterproof, windproof parka. Then fumble through all the layers to find my ID card. Beep, scan me through, officially checked out. Next onto the disinfectant sponge (no germs allowed on shore in the penguin rookery), through the spraywash for the boots, to the ship’s door. Narrow steps, rope for railing, blop blop blop blop to the PolarCirkel boat. I was the last one in.

It was a beautiful ride, five minutes across to Arctowski Base, the hillside above our landing site covered with penguin rookeries. We were not allowed anywhere near the rookeries; our orders were to stick to the path to the Base and allow penguins to come to us.

Landing, grab the PolarCirkel rails, step to a metal step perched perilously in the rocky waters. “Jump!” I was told. I jumped, splashed in clear water nearly to my knees. Aha! My well-baptized feet are in the Southern Ocean! But I cannot reach my camera, cannot even walk. A gentleman behind offers his arm. I take it, gratefully, and climb the rocky bank. On shore, I realize I will not be able to walk to the Base, a mile or so away. The rocks are too big, too rough for my uncertain hobble-walk. My feet are slipping inside the Wellies, blop blop blop. I analyze my options.

“Manuel tells you there are 17 species of penguin,” our leader had said in an earlier briefing, following a lecture by our resident penguin researcher. “But I say there are two. Black penguins, and white penguins. If you see penguins, and run towards them shouting Look Look Penguins!, then you will see nothing but black penguins. If you see penguins, and stand very still, patiently waiting for them to come to you, then you will see white penguins.”

OK, I decided, as my eyes scanned the rocky shore, I will stand very still. Maybe the penguins will come to me. Patience pays.

A single penguin came around a rock, hobbling, wobbling, struggling even more than me on the uneven ground. Balancing her flippers sideways, left, right, left, right, she reached the top of our little ridge and looked around. More rocks ahead. An uneven walk to the beach, and lunch.

Evie looked up at me. I looked back at Evie. We looked at the hateful rocks together. “ohrmmph” she said, with a shake of her head. “That’s a long walk!”

I knew what she meant. She looked at me again, her white-ringed eyes unblinking and clear. Then she shook her head, flapped her flippers in a get-started motion, and hobbled across the rocks to the ocean shore.

You go, girl.