Antarctica - To Boldly Go Where No One Has Gone Before (part 2)

The Ocean Endeavour floats in a quiet bay along the Antarctic Peninsula

My roommate on the Ocean Endeavour has a weak bladder and a weaker sense of propriety. Thanks to him I’ve been up since 5:30 AM. The 27th of February is dawning dark and ephemeral on the tip of the Antarctic Peninsula. Outside my cabin’s porthole is a grey mist. Snowflakes melt on the little pane of glass and mountains materialize magically through the haze. I’m poring over a map of the 7th continent — Scott, Amundsen, Ross… explorers from centuries past spill over the atlas’ pages. They’d boldly gone where no one had gone before. Now there are parts of the planet named after them. “Immortality’ is a concept and not unending life. It lasts as long as a name is remembered. How long will your immortality be?

I can’t decide what this landmass looks like — a spinning blade? a swirling cloud? a boar’s head? It looks like continents should on maps, but none that I’m familiar with. This is the first time I’ve actually paid attention to Antarctica.

The Antarctic Treaty was a diplomatic triumph and the first arms control agreement of the Cold War. The Treaty set aside everything below 60 degrees south latitude as a peaceful neutral zone and scientific preserve and banned all military activity on the continent. I find the coldness of land and war an apt association. The goodwill the treaty spreads is warm irony.

The 7th continent has no indigenous people. A 1930s horror novel will tell you there’s an ancient race of aliens buried At The Mountains of Madness. But Antarctica belongs to no one, and now with the treaty, belongs to everyone. There are no buildings and no infrastructure here except tiny scientific stations spread few and far across the massive landmass. The Treaty expires in 2048 unless renewed. In an age of aggression and earth-exploitation, this is not an ideal scenario.

At 8:00 AM, the side-hatch of the Ocean Endeavour opens to a Star Trek episode. In a space-age, yolk-yellow parka, I look out at a strange icy new world. It’s ominously quiet and brooding at the moment. An inflatable black Zodiac boat hovers below a metallic ramp, and a gunmetal ocean reflects an iron sky. Jagged snow-white peaks rise out of the sea, circling around the bay and surrounding us like silent sentinels.

How to un-park a Zodiac

In a world of organised tourism and tripadvisored holidays, it’s comfortable to fall in love with every picture perfect scene. What sort of images did early explorers take back with them? Did hardships deepen the shadows, or did the highlights outshine even death and loss? Most places in the world have been discovered, but not all paths have been walked. There are many firsts to be had here, if not for the world, then for oneself. It’s easy now, to boldly go where we haven’t gone before. We simply must just go.

There are delicate white flurries falling over the whole scene — feathers from a flight of fancy over an eerily beautiful landscape. There’s nowhere I’d rather beam than here. I’m glad I made it to Antarctica.

Mountains from the Sea