farther south into Lemaire than any vessel in this thaw
we trawl through brash ice
seeking activities for the afternoon
(as if wonder needs our doing to be real)
the argentine islands are iced inaccessible
but the captain calls a pit stop
to deliver reparation tools
to faraday base
(now under ukraine management)
to refurbish a ramshackle
but, i’m assured, historic
hut
watching a leopard seal
i miss the hut’s significance
entirely
it’s a north wind, says Kim
that blisters us off our feet
on booth island where we
are first boots off-boat this season
to the left we lay the year’s new trail up Charcote’s Cairn
the gale so fierce that hugging the hill
i finally feel expedition-worn, scott and shackleton worthy
hoary, weather-beaten and, at the edge, the first true fear of fall
Charcote took two ships south last century’s turn
wintering deliberately, frozen in fast ice
chosing his crew for fortitude to last
through tunnel of perpetual night
some scientists, some explorers and a novelist
his transmission post today a fallen crucifix
swept downhill, we skirt the roiled bay
whipped into black ungruent gruel
yet a family of crabeater seals frolic unimpressed
among the feather-tailed penguins
`
the gentoos at Port Luckroy have nested
dated, consumated
gestated
4 lasses and a lad cultivate them and the tour boats
visiting the station’s museum and gift shop
where limited edition commemorative
jackets of Scott’s southern grounding
go for u s dollars 375
it’s a sought-after posting
to summer this way
advertised annually by the trust
now tasked to preserve
this secret spy base
circa second world war
in the library old copies of
reader’s digest and ice station zebra
make me nostalgic for cosy childhood
(not to mention the bottle of bovril)
i remember them later
when i squeeze in an hour
crunching through brash ice
on a kayak
it would appear (after all the big talk, slick walk)
that only today do we touch Antarctic proper
no islandic rock no more
it is continental shelf we tour
a glacier so frail
with a rumble and a roar
it sheds a slice
as we scale its shoulder
to perch near its eyes
before we take the tobbogan down
at the top i stayed a while
napped in warm snow
atop continental plinth
lapped in fortune’s gift
just before bedtime, we drive into
killer whales in two pods
from different origins
having met to mate
(two to three dozen in all)
they take a break from copulation
and stay an hour to play
criss-crossing under-bow
belly sometimes up, sometimes down
curious as our squeals are of them
so many their spouts rival wave-caps
seeing a super-pod is patently such a rarity
that even our usually unflappable expedition leader, Lisa,
hops from starboard to port muttering “it’s insane”
other journeyers generally less restrained to start
issue an unending stream of excitations
no matter
this night
this sight
is so awesome
one condones
inevitable americanisms
what’s a few more penguins among friends?
this must be where sea-farers come
to draw their last breath
to sink into death
to rest
to rest
in the ice canyon
where we berth
whalers, oilers once thrived
drunk at the font of enterprise
harvesting fine cetacean fat
supping from the glacial slabs
till fire or foe sank their bones
to frigid stony graveyard
humans being one of a few
species that outlive their breeding years
another being whales
larry wonders if
this be to permit elders
transmit their wise to young
the tanker rearing
only bow above water
rutting, rotting rusting body
an undergirdle
for our craft
tells a seerer tale
the tern sky-dives for krill
the harpoon for the kill
the skua pries
the limpet dry
greed repeats
nor do we
stop our eyes
from our feast
mid-afternoon, we return north-west
squeezing through narrow Antartic Sound
named not for the Continent
but the first boat that slipped
between the tiny gap
that keeps our footprints
on east weddell secret
a while longer
after taking so many photos
i miss the one just outside my porthole
three penguins on an ice floe
dash madly
fleeing us
crossing bosphorus
antipodal 2011 