Chapter 26

New Zealand, new life

As the Qantas 747 clawed its way into the air above Heathrow, I could feel the angst leaving me. It was all down there on the ground behind me, not up here where I could do nothing about the events of the past few days. Within 30 hours I would be back in the most wonderful country in the world. I had an approved budget from which to work, a modest Greenpeace consultancy fee to sustain me and a campaign to organise and execute over which I could exert maximum influence in the company of people that I appointed. The challenge was as thrilling as it was daunting.

I had agreed to start work in September which gave me three months of absence in Wellington, a period of leave I had never before contemplated. Fiona and I spent the days wandering on beaches and mooching around the campus at Wellington University at which she was a student. As the New Zealand winter turned to glorious spring and early summer, I began to steel myself for the coming weeks of preparation and the long voyage to Antarctica.

Arriving in Auckland, I was greeted by the caucus of people who between them would be responsible for the success or failure of the second million dollar attempt to set up a permanent non-governmental base in what hitherto had been viewed as the preserve of an elite of national governments. We had two and a half months in which to prepare the trip and I had made it clear to McTaggart that I did not want any interference from the Marine division 24,000 kilometres away in London in terms of personnel recruitment: we would do everything from Auckland and only ask for help when it was absolutely necessary to do so. I walked onto the ship to be greeted by the ‘gang of four’ who, with me and the skipper (yet to be appointed), would made up the New Zealand ship-based Antarctic Division. They were Ken Ballard, first mate, Kevin Conaglen, base over-wintering leader whom I had already interviewed and appointed during my sabbatical, Martini Gotje, the NZ marine division representative, and Davey Edward, chief engineer. The appointment of the base over-wintering team was largely a matter of choosing those people whom I had identified the previous year but who had then been unavailable for one reason or another.

I had visited Kevin in New Plymouth a month previously and appointed him on the spot. He had wintered in Antarctica with the New Zealanders at Scott Base and was a dog-handler and field expert, having climbed just about every difficult peak there is to climb in the world. Kevin was very brusque in his manner but totally dedicated to the cause. Standing about 5’ 9”, he was stocky and lithe. He had an easy manner and was quick to joke and laugh at others and himself. I could not have found a more competent or qualified leader. Between us, we sifted through the piles of other applicants before agreeing on a three man/one woman team. The woman, German scientist Gudrun Gaudian, was a strong blond woman of around 27 years. Justin Farrelly, a Kiwi radio technician, joined the team early on and Cornelius Van Dorp, another Kiwi of Dutch extraction, became the base team’s doctor. But we needed back-ups for the team to cover the eventuality of one or more dropping out of the team. In the event, we settled for appointing only an understudy base leader who would accompany us on the trip and, at Kevin’s recommendation, I called an American called Keith Swenson, with whom Kevin had worked.

I spoke to Keith for no more than three minutes before asking him to fly to New Zealand.

‘What d’you mean, Peter?’ he asked me.

‘I mean I want you to come here and meet me, dummy.’

‘Yeah, but I don’t want to come all that way to have you tell me I’m not suitable,’ came his reply.

‘Hey, Keith. I’m employing you as of now, ok? Now get down here.’

It was as simple as that. I felt so comfortable with Keith on the phone that, together with Kevin’s recommendation, I knew he was the guy. Keith and I became good friends and hung out together a lot during the preparations for the trip, during subsequent years in New Zealand and indeed in the Antarctic where we managed to get into all sorts of trouble together. Happily, after recent long years in which I have not heard from Keith, we are now in touch with each other.

The problem of the skipper arose very early on. Pete Bouquet would not sail with us again and to be honest, although we are now good friends, I didn’t at the time want to sail with him. Ken’s suggestion for skipper was Willem Beekman, a very experienced Dutchman with whom we had both sailed previously although he had never sailed in ice before. I liked Willem and he was a highly respected member of the organisation. What was more, he was keen to do the job. We called him and asked him to come to Auckland.

Work on board began to hot up. Graham Woodhead, another Kiwi, had a long history of involvement in Antarctica and when I appointed him as logistics co-ordinator, I felt I had made a significant breakthrough. Graham was very experienced and knew the New Zealand Antarctic division personnel so well that eyebrows in official circles were raised at his association with us, but he brought much-needed credibility to the project. The sniping from official sources was muted this year and that was largely due to the fact that we were trawling their own ranks. Then Willem arrived. I moved out of the skipper’s cabin to facilitate Willem for the duration of his stay. Being busy on deck for much of the time, I had to insist that Willem and I made appointments to meet: I couldn’t simply drop everything to accommodate him and this he interpreted as a snub. When we did eventually sit down to discuss matters, I was astounded by his arrogance. He told me that he would come as skipper on one condition: his girlfriend would come too as my campaign assistant.

I looked at Willem with ill-disguised astonishment. After explaining to him how unreasonable that request was, he turned it into an ultimatum. I told him, ‘There’s a plane back to London in two hours. You can catch it if you hurry.’

I walked out of the cabin. Willem left the following day but my brush with him was to have the most serious of consequences a month later. Martini had heard of a master mariner called Jim Cottier, living in the Bay of Islands to the north, who had previously offered his services to Greenpeace. The thing which attracted us to Jim was that he was totally untainted by the politics of Greenpeace and ground no axe whatsoever. We invited him to come down to the ship. He was in his early 50s and was an archetypal mariner with long white beard and a sailor’s gait which evidenced years at sea. His eyes sparkled with enthusiasm and he soon became enamoured with the ship and the task in hand. We asked Jim to skipper the ship and to shoulder the burden which only last year had so nearly broken Pete Bouquet. He accepted.

A bombshell arrived a few days later to shatter our buoyant mood. I picked up a telegram from the central Post Office addressed to Ken Ballard. It was from Maureen Falloon, the London-based head of the Marine Division and on the way back to the ship, I opened it as it was clearly related to campaign matters. I could barely believe the words I read. The letter told Ken that as he and I formed a ‘potentially disruptive partnership’, he should leave the ship. It seemed that, since Maureen couldn’t fire me, someone outside her jurisdiction, she chose to fire the person over whom she did have authority – Ken. To add insult to injury, she asked Ken to ‘leave the ship without any fuss.’ This was pure vindictiveness, in my opinion, and represented payback for the mutual support Ken and I had demonstrated during the previous trip for staying in the Antarctic and doing our damnedest to succeed in our task against the wishes of some powerful media people on board. I was sure that the dismissal of Willem over his unacceptable demands also had some sort of impact on Maureen’s incredible and outrageous instructions to Ken.

I walked onto the ship and into the saloon where most crew members were exchanging banter and taking a breather.

Davey Edward looked at me and said, ‘What’s up, cocker? Seen a ghost?’

I handed the telegram to Ken who read it and handed it to Davey without a word. Others crowded round Davey to read over his shoulder. Davey spoke first. ‘Well, fook it, mate. Let’s have the bastards on. What do y’say Wilks?’

‘It’s Ken’s decision, I reckon. If he wants to comply with the ‘instructions’ in the telex, then he must do so and we must all act according to how we individually feel. I’ll tell you all right now that if Ken goes, I go. But if he wants to fight it, then I’ll help him fight it. That’s my reaction. Ken?’

‘I just can’t believe it,’ said Ken. ‘It’s so full of shit. They’re accusing me and you of being fifth-columnists. All I can think of us ever doing is to work our bollocks off for Greenpeace. Christ, apart from last year, the only time we ever sailed together was on the radwaste dumping campaign on the Cedarlea in ‘82. That’s four years ago! I’m for having them on.’

There was a general murmur of agreement and I walked off to the radio room to draft a reply from the crew: Ken would send his own response. We went on strike and refused to lift a finger towards preparing the expedition until Ken was reinstated and until a full apology was forthcoming from Maureen. It took a week to resolve the issue in Ken’s favour but left a stink which wafted around the ship for months to come and gave strength to the feeling that the organisation was divided in that the Marine Division itself – the division within the organisation upon which we relied in a case of emergency or any difficulty – was fundamentally hoping that we would fail or, at best, succeed without its two most committed crew members.

More crew arrived. Hugh Sterling, builder of last year’s helicopter box, took charge of erecting and renovating the base camp. Gary Dukes, a cool and measured Kiwi helicopter pilot of unsurpassed skill was in charge of helicopter operations and clucked around the Hughes 500D which we had bought for the next attempt. On the aft deck, a brand new helideck glinted in the sun and as the sections of the base camp were returned from the warehouse after inspection, they were packaged and stowed in the ‘tween deck aft. Ironically enough, Hugh Sterling and the construction team reported that if we had had the good fortune to make a landfall the previous year and attempt to erect the base, it would probably have proved impossible as parts were missing, warped beyond use or broken. We dispensed with the outer shell of the base camp, designed as a secondary wind-break, and saved ourselves a great deal of space and four tons in weight at a stroke.

We trawled the world for the best people to join us. The bridge crew were: Jim Cottier, skipper, Ken Ballard, first mate, Bob Graham, a dour and thoroughly likeable Kiwi as second mate, Lennard Erhard, a burly Swede, third mate. The engine room was headed up by the irrepressible Davey Edward as chief, Nolan Loveridge, a thoroughly good-natured Kiwi, Brit Bob Wallace, second engineer and Dane Hanne Sorensen as third engineer. The deckies were myself (part-time), Welshman John Welsh-Thomas, Chris Robinson, our redoubtable Aussie sailor into whose hands I had committed my life in the Atlantic during the radioactive waste dumping actions years previously and Spaniard Xavier Pastor, a veteran of Greenpeace even then. Henk Haazen, our big hearted, big-boned and thoroughly likeable Dutch colleague was convinced to join us for his all-round skills and small boat handling qualifications along with Grace O’Sullivan, a veteran Irish activist. Kiwi Phil Durham was employed as the electrician. Austrian Werner Stachl, even then approaching his late forties, was another tireless and invaluable addition to the deck crew. Graham Woodhead was logistics co-ordinator and worked closely together with Hugh Sterling on the base camp construction side and with Ken Ballard on the ship side of events. Keith Swenson acted as base leader understudy, but also put in some grunt on deck.

The helicopter team, led by Gary Dukes, included Justin Farralley who acted as base team radio and communications technician while doubling as the second helicopter pilot, and Alex Geddes, another Kiwi who serviced the helicopter and acted as mechanic. Soon, the base team itself – Kevin Conaglen, Gudrun Gaudian, Justin Farralley and Cornelius van Dorp – was finalised, signed up and in training. Dave Woolan, another chirpy and happy-go-lucky Brit, took care of the ship’s electronics and worked with Justin on base communications as well. Ian Balmer, an Aussie, was the ship’s radio technician with specific responsibilities for establishing, along with Justin, the base communications. Our indefatigable cooks – the most important people on board – were Irmi Mussak, a German and Natalie Maestre, a Swiss. We reviewed the requests from film crews to join us and settled on a two person Kiwi team, headed by cameraman John Philpotts. Bruce Adams, the sound recordist, proved to be such a hit with the crew that he sailed time and time again with Greenpeace and eventually married Maj De Poorter whom I had asked to come as my campaign assistant. No doubt she and Bruce, not to mention myself, were glad that she accepted the invitation. A Kiwi journalist called Stephen Knight also joined us to file written stories and German Jochen Vorfelder came to cover the European press. We appointed our own photographer, Swede Andi Loor, a gentle and thoroughly personable man.

So there we were. Thirty five souls from ten different countries all squeezed together on a small lump of metal which had no right to be going into treacherous pack ice. We worked hard and partied harder. We played football against teams from other ships in port, and drank beer in the Glue Pot at Ponsonby and the Bird Cage on the other side of the market. We lived a life under the microscope as newspapers and radio stations and TV companies created a caravan of correspondents to the ship. It was a wonderful life and the knowledge that we were off to the most amazing place in the world brightened our days of hard labour.

There was one last rite to perform before we headed off south. The Rainbow Warrior, war wounds patched up and refloated, still redolent of the early, care-free days in Iceland and now far from her traditional cold-water haunts of the Arctic and the North Sea, had to be laid to rest. Some of us argued that to sink her in the clear waters of Matauri Bay, while creating a valuable underwater reef for marine life, represented a sad and unfitting end to a warrior of her pedigree. Alternative plans to somehow power her back to Muroroa were dismissed by the international board as implausible. We sunk her as planned.

With anchors fore and aft laid out to keep her steady, hundreds of small boats and a few helicopters buzzed around the manacled ship. Hoses from attending boats played across her decks to settle her lower into the water to the point where access ports cut into her superstructure would then swamp her and she would sink into 70 feet of water. But she didn’t go quietly or as planned. As she settled more deeply in the water, the bow dipped and she began to slide beneath the surface before her bow dug into the bottom and she shuddered from stem to stern. Now only the boat deck was visible – the deck from which we had launched the inflatables in seas far less hospitable than those around the New Zealand islands. Soon, this too slipped beneath the waves and she was gone. Old and grizzled campaigners hugged each other and cried tears for a lost innocence, for the loss of Fernando and for the loss of the ship which had for eight years acted as the symbol of hope and faith for a generation. ‘You can’t sink a rainbow’ read the slogan on hundreds of badges and banners sported by the thousands who had turned up to see the Warrior’s last hours. I wasn’t so sure that sinking a rainbow wasn’t possible.

The Antarctic preparations were finally over. The equipment was stowed and the gangway was lifted from the quayside as friends and family waved us good bye from the packed jetty at Western Viaduct. It was time to lay the ghost of the previous year and demonstrate that we could accomplish what we had set out to do. It was Cape Evans or bust this time. I wanted to make it this year for myself, of course, but also for the organisation, for its supporters who had paid for the expedition and for McTaggart. Without his help, support and confidence in me, I would not even have dreamt of being here, en route again through the Southern Ocean to Antarctica. For a boy from Deptford, I knew I was blessed. These are my diary entries for that trip.

29 December 1986

Called this morning at 0700 after only 3 hours sleep. Hectic from then on with press on the quayside and lots of well-wishers to see us off. I steer from the quayside to the Rangitoto beacon. Beautiful day with flat calm seas. Tiny swell off Coramandel but the sun is hot and ‘long white clouds’ – the English translation of the Maori name for New Zealand, Aoteoroa – hang just beneath the horizon. All on board in fine spirits and relieved to be at sea. Fire drill at 1300. Making 10.5 knots, northerly 10 knot breeze. First stop Wellington where we’ll stoke the story, then to Lyttelton before we finally head for the Southern Ocean. After five months of preparation, we are finally away and this time, we’ve been able to concentrate entirely on the task in hand: diversions about the Warrior and nuclear weapons testing have been thankfully few. We’ve stuck to our guns and demanded that the people at the expedition end – me, Ken, Martini and others – have been allowed to make the decisions relating to the voyage and more importantly, on the crew. Now let’s hope to Christ we can establish the base and complete our task.

30 December 1986

Called at 0745 after good sleep. Gentle swell causes the ship to roll easily. Sparkling day until it clouds over in the pm. Northerly 10 knots backing southerly. As we switched from one main engine to the other last night, the ship wallowed a little and 30 gallons of sea water slopped into the mess through an open port hole. Ken had us swabbing the decks on watch and even wire-brushing the jack-staff. Weather worsened gradually until we were pitching heavily. The 8-12 watch this evening became an ordeal for me as my weak stomach went through the old familiar routine of contracting. I lasted until 2130 when Ken told me to stand down.

31 December 1986

Fine day and I awake feeling 100%. Good watch and we approach Wellington heads at 1700. Pilot on board at 1745 and we arrive at the quayside to find only one radio station awaiting us – it’s a public holiday! Great forward planning! But Fiona is there and is a sight for my sore eyes. Party ensues in the evening which gets quite wild and Stephen Knight cracks his head and requires stitches.

1 January 1987

To ship by 1100 then off to the beach at Paraparaumu with Fiona, Ken, John, Martini, Lennard. Great day and much swimming and frolicking on the beach. Back to ship at 2000.

2 January 1987

Steer ship to bunker berth. Load remainder of fuel. Finish by 1630.

4 January 1987

Leave Wellington quietly in the mid-morning for the short trip to Lyttelton. Arrive off the heads at 8am on the 5th. Much to-ing and fro-ing as we wait for Dave Walley to arrive with the Hughes 500 which he has flown down from Auckland. Pilot on board finally at 1630 and we’re alongside by 1730. Just the one night here and then it is a final goodbye for a few months as we head into the vastness of the Southern Ocean.

6 January 1987

What a day! Hectic is not the word. Live radio at 0745 and it was all uphill from there. Trying to finalise our departure paperwork is almost impossible. People flying about in all directions. Crew photograph at 0900 has Andi Loor close to tears as people go missing and then refuse to stand still. Everyone wants to be a joker and although it demonstrates fine spirit, it is delaying our departure. Into town with Maj, Fiona, Kevin and Andi to see the DSIR people (Department of Scientific and Industrial Research) at 1045. Arrive at the ship by 1300 after last-minute shopping spree (chocolate is a must!) when all hell breaks loose. As 1700 approached and people are still in the pub, lashing down the cargo or partying on board, I go on a search to various haunts to round people up and we finally single up around 1730 and the final ropes are let go at 1745. This is it. Goodbye Fiona for a few weeks. Goodbye all our good friends on the quayside. We’re now on our own. Just the sea and the ice to come. God: will we make it?A few beers with a relaxed and contented crew as the ship rolls and pitches gently along the east coast of New Zealand’s South Island, the inky blackness studded with pinpoints of light from houses.

7 January 1987

Called at 0700 and breakfasted with the 8-12 watch (me, Ken, Chris Robinson and John Welsh) on orange juice, tea, eggs, bacon and toast. Fairly uneventful watch and only Cape pigeons and a few albatrosses follow the ship. The picture wire machine screwed up last night and Dave tells me he can’t fix it until he can get a spare part probably not until we arrive at Scott Base! What a great start! Steering 180 and position about 46 south, slight sea with following swell. No land at all in sight by the end of watch.

8 January 1987

Slept too well last night and did not want to turn to this morning. Finally made it to the mess where Ken, John and Chris were breakfasting with my meal sitting there awaiting my attention. Send telex to Roger asking him interalia to check on rumour Stephen Knight heard about CIA backing for a drilling project in Antarctica possibly connected with South African nuclear testing there. It’s a hot story but we only have Kevin’s suspicions and a few off-the-cuff remarks as the source. BBC World Service interview this evening. Gradually settling into a routine but I’m still very conscious of the ship’s movement and my appetite has largely disappeared but I’m still eating what small amounts of food I put on my plate. Crew seem to be ok and walk around with smiles on their faces and a kind word for each other. I resolve to spend as much time as I can with the crew to ensure that any clique-iness is headed off. Gudrun looks ill most of the time: she’s mostly asleep or in a prostrate position although she claims she’s fine. In two or three days’ time, I’ll institute regular meeting with the winterers, with the skipper and mates and with the base construction team then distil the information for the regular weekly crew meeting. How I want to succeed this time! I couldn’t face going back to NZ after a second failure.

Light, northeast winds, following sea but the swell is increasing. Entered the furious fifties today. Three days to the screaming sixties. Still warm although the temperature is noticeably dropping. Weather turns to fog with rain and swells are now around 12 feet in height. Vessel rolling heavily and southwesterlies forecast. Gudrun still very sick which concerns me a lot. Suggested she takes 48 hours off from the constant radio interviews but she insists on continuing. Reading The Last Place on Earth which gives me a sense of history of the place we are heading for. Two beers after watch and chat to Davey Edward. Sleep like a log but the vivid dreams – a feature of being at sea – have begun already.

9 January 1987

BBC World Service again last night – getting to be a regular contributor! This morning is spectacular. Gone is yesterday’s fog and rain and the day is bright and crisp with not a cloud in the sky. The sun is creeping higher and higher every day and soon we’ll have virtually no night-time at all. Stiffening breeze makes us roll heavily by lunchtime. Saw our first southern skua this morning. It’s just so beautiful to be in the open ocean with what Ken calls this ‘open air zoo’ all around us. As Jim gives his navigation lesson to the crew, I reply to a few telexes but there will be nothing of import to report until we’re in the pack ice. We’re at 54 south by 1030 and making a steady southing at 10 knots. Davey reduces revs to counter a clutch-slip. Sleep from 1400-1800 then dinner. Weather worsening until by 2000 it’s blowing about a 7 and we’re rolling heavily. Fridge in galley goes flying and Hugh Sterling’s cabin is a mess of tools, nails and screws after a particularly heavy roll. Eventually, Jim turns us into the weather to take it on the bow and we pitch mightily. Feeling queasy but hanging on in there.

10 January 1987

What a night! Ship rolling and pitching heavily all night long. Most cabins are a mess of clothing, boots and Antarctic paraphernalia. Did not want to get up this morning, believe me. I had to wedge myself in the bunk last night by stuffing life jackets under the mattress to force me up against the bulk-head to stop me rolling about. I stagger into the saloon for breakfast but couldn’t face the fried breakfast Chris had prepared. Steered between 0800 and 0900 when the swells were level with the bridge windows – 20 feet at least. The wind is backing a bit and the barometer is rising slowly but the seas are totally confused and we roll and pitch along at 85 rpm. Position 57 south 174 east, course comes round from 185 to 175. Slept from 1200-1500 missing lunch. Still have very little appetite but I get seized by cravings for exotic dishes from time to time. Big seas still running with swells from the west causing us to roll heavily. A spectacular display of aerobatics from a squadron of sooty albatrosses livens up watch and a group of hour-glass dolphins briefly visit us. Will cross 60 south at 0800 then three days to the Ross Sea. Seas still massive as I turn in. Course 157.

11 January 1987

Awoke to find vessel still rolling heavily. Almost tipped out of bed earlier as the ship rolled more violently than normal. It takes courage, timing and blind faith to make it from the prone to the vertical. Haven’t showered for four days now and feeling pretty grubby. We crossed 60 south at 0700 this morning. Skies are grey and overcast and the swells are bigger than ever. Iceberg look out duties came to nought. Slept immediately after lunch till 1700 when I had my much-needed shower only to find that the water was cold, damn it! Decided it was time to get into my warm Antarctic clothing so out come the thermals, sweaters and boots, not to mention the down jacket. Temperature now only 3 degrees C. Now in the northern reaches of the Ross Sea.

At dinner I’m told that Justin has contacted McMurdo on the radio and despite my annoyance at this unscheduled call which could have serious political ramifications for the trip, I manage to sort it out with Justin in a calm manner and we agree that contact will be made officially at 1245 every day to give position, weather and ice and that we will film and tape the response for the record. Weather thankfully calmer for the first time in days when we spot six elegant fin whales off the starboard bow. We follow and then shut engines down to tempt them closer but they remain about 100 yards away. The old chestnut of video viewing in the saloon reared its ugly head today when Jochen innocently put The Killing Fields on the machine and closed all the deadlights for a better picture. There’s nothing worse than walking into the saloon for a beer or a chat to find it in darkness with everyone gawping at the screen and he agreed, after a sensible discussion, to desist until the issue comes up at the next crew meeting. We’re now at 62 south and still haven’t seen an iceberg. Steering 169 degrees and heading for Scott Island, that phallic lump of barren rock with juts out of the Southern Ocean in such a bleak and lonely position. Air temperature only 1 degree C now. Then, finally, at 2305 we see on the radar and then confirm visually a half-mile long spectacular tabloid iceberg which we circle for 30 minutes while the crew breathes in its majesty in the waning daylight of our southerly position.

12 January 1987

Awoke full of a heavy cold. My head feels like it weighs a ton and my throat feels like a rasp. Surprisingly, I eat breakfast and make it to watch on time where I take the wheel and notice that the sea is far calmer now under lowering grey skies. Another berg on the radar at 19 miles. I call Andi Loor and after getting permission from Jim get him in a boat with Jonathan driving to shoot the ship and the iceberg for the press release I’m preparing. We steam to within 300 yards of the berg and it is a magical moment. It’s not white, but indigo, blue, turquoise and other colours which do not feature on the artist’s palette. Its immovability and stoicism in the face of the battering it takes from the sea is truly awesome. Finally underway again at 1130. Crew in very good humour and Andi and I work through the afternoon to get the pictures out on the now-fixed machine. I write the press release and captions for the pictures and fire them off. Watch was enjoyable but very cold as we stand on the bridge wing looking for growlers. The wind is 25 knots and the temperature is minus 1 degree C. Flat calm sea, 10 knots and Scott Island only 40 miles off now.

13 January 1987

It was a red letter day today. I was excused watch today but at 0830, Ken sent a message to say we were approaching the pack ice (evidenced by ‘ice blink’, a sort of reflected white sheen in the sky) and I got up and rushed to the bridge. The swell from the south was big and we pitched through the brash ice which fringed the pack a few miles ahead. This is the beginnings of the outer pack ice through which we must find a way (Pete’s autobahn of last year) to enter the Ross Sea proper. Last year we spent a week getting through this ice and this year we were through in 4 hours. By early afternoon we’re heading 180 in clear water with a big southerly swell running. We’re pitching heavily again and my nausea returns. We agree to reach 70 south and then head on a 210 course for Franklin Island and follow the pack edge. The mood on board is buoyant and Jim is a great skipper – a pleasure to work with. He does not intimidate the mates and is a diplomat of the first order, always ready with a joke and always affable. Position 69, 15 south, 179 west.

14 January 1987

Permanently light now and the value of the heavy curtain across my porthole comes into its own. Good sleep last night after a Chris special – rum, honey, cloves, lemon and hot water. Flat calm at last and a true Antarctic day – minus 2 C, strong sun and flat, deep blue sea. After sleeping through lunch again, I’m up and shower. Despite feeling better, I look haggard. Deep rings under my eyes and beard sprouting all manner of tufts here and there. 72 south, 176 west. We hear 90 Degree South expedition talking to South Pole and Christchurch Radio. They’re ok but only at 84 south leaving them 360 miles to go to the pole (they are retracing Amundsen’s footsteps) but this means that they’ll surely not make it back to the Bay of Whales by the 28th February. A radio report today indicates that they will have to be flown out and will be forced to kill their dogs at the pole, the bastards.

15 January 1987

Flat calm and after watch we prepare the helicopter for its first recce flight. Although we’re still 50 miles from Ross Island, we determine to fly in as much gear as possible. We can see Coulman Island 60 miles away and all morning, whales have been blowing around the ship. It’s clear weather and flat calm. We are in an area which was ice-covered last week and we are pleased at all the good omens. The ship is a hive of activity as we prepare for a big day tomorrow. Noon position 74 15 south, 173 03 west. Mts Erebus and Terror visible at 1700 hours, 100 miles away! Spectacular! Stupendous! Shimmering above the horizon like some welcome home beacon. Everyone on board is buzzing with anticipation. As we get closer, Franklin Island appears low and flat before us and Beaufort Island stands out stark against the mass of Erebus. Steering at 2000 and the pack appears ahead. Steer off to the east at 2100 and then back west again for Franklin. First penguins seen on ice floes and people begin to wave and shout hello: stupid but understandable I guess. There is great excitement on board as people see their first view of Antarctica proper. It is truly spectacular and despite the ice which is heavily present, we are still making a southing at 2330 towards Ross Island.

16 January 1987

Forced east by the ice on arrival off Franklin and found to our consternation that the ice was much further to the east than last year and seemed much more heavily concentrated. When I steered at 0800, we were heading north and swung in a large arc to head south again to allow Jonathan to give us a report from the crow’s nest. His report was bleak and we consoled each other by shrugging and saying, ‘Well, this is what we expected. And it’s early in the season yet.’ Chopper prepared and after a few crossed wires about who’s going where, Gary did a test flight then took Jim up after lunch. His report changed our perspective and raised our spirits enormously. There is open water further south and access to Ross Island is only barred by a narrow strip of 6/10 ice which should clear in a few days. Headed further south in the afternoon with the intention of carrying out press flights but the wind picked up to force 7 and we sheltered in the lee of the barrier and cancelled flying.

Slept from 1630 to 2030. Crew meeting this morning was incredibly dominated by the issue of videos – a perennial and potentially explosive problem involving morals and personal preferences. I find the incongruity of being in the middle of such stunning Antarctic scenery and watching films about death and mayhem in darkened rooms a bit hard to take, personally. On watch this evening, the lenticular clouds over Erebus were quite breath-taking. The ice barrier is just as stunning the second time around as it is the first. There is a noticeable lack of whales and in general icebergs and wildlife are sparse.

17 January 1987

Eleven days since we left Lyttelton but it seems like 11 years. How can I describe today? There are insufficient superlatives in the English language to describe this place. I can show people the photos and talk to them about the majesty of this place but unless they are here to see it they will never in a million years have any appreciation of it. Awoke at 0815 and on reaching the bridge, saw Erebus and Terror about half a mile way (actually 8 miles away!). The sea was mirror calm and the sun hurt the eyes if it came within even peripheral vision. The temperature was plus eight! We had circumvented the ice tongue and come hard up against the land. Penguins frolicked on the floes and it was a pleasure to steer the old tub around the floes. Ken asked me to keep as close to the ice as possible and we eventually came to a stop at the end of the lead a few miles from Cape Byrd. The ice off to the north formed a lunar panorama stretching and shimmering into the distance, interspersed with large bergs. Position 77 33 S and 163 15 W.

The lack of whales was rectified this afternoon by the appearance of 15 orcas all around us. Two came right beneath the bows. It was a scene out of a travel brochure and it was too hot to stand in the sun without protection. Lunch was served on the boat deck and a holiday atmosphere prevailed. On the radio we heard hat Europe was gripped by a minus 17 degrees cold snap! Recce flights revealed much open water beyond Byrd and deep into the Sound upto Cape Royds. Jim surprised us all by saying, ‘We’ll get to within 20 miles on what I’ve seen.’ Everyone walking around with big grins on their faces and even Davey Edward ventured on deck (surely the first daylight he’s been exposed to for weeks) to mess around and make a few jokes.

18 January 1987

Hot shower! Luxury! New sheets on my bunk. Cleaned my cabin. Andi reported that he had managed to get pictures of the McMurdo dump when he went ashore yesterday and we set about sending them plus press release to keep the story going. They are quite impressive pictures showing a pile of discarded junk casually stashed on the ice in McMurdo Sound awaiting the thaw. There are now estimated to be ‘a few thousand tons of rubbish’ at the bottom of Winterquarter’s Bay where Scott anchored Discovery and the Bay itself is thought to be biologically dead. Three flights today: ice spotting, Graham, Hugh and Ian to Cape Evans to begin preparation of the site and a further trip to the McMurdo dump involving Kevin (for sea ice safety) and Gudrun (for the taking of scientific samples for later analysis). On their return, I began the laborious task of putting out pictures with captions and the press release to accompany them. Finally finished at 2250. Andi makes many demands on the helicopter and I’ve had to tell him that we’re limited in the fuel availability which will restrict his freedom to shoot when he feels like it. I’ve also had to have a few words with him about his use of our precious water supply: we’re down to 100 tons now and we use it at the rate of 2-3 tons a day. The water maker doesn’t operate when we’re stopped which we are most of the time. But we’ve got through a lot of work today and everyone is co-operative and the atmosphere is genial.

The weather is still fine – light winds and thin cloud cover for a few hours a day. The ice conditions improve daily and Jim is confident that we can pick our way through the ice to McMurdo Sound and Cape Evans in a few days. He inspires great confidence although Ken raised his eyebrows at one or two manoeuvres Jim has made going astern which sucks in ice towards the propeller rather than pushing it away as it does when we go ahead. We experimented in pushing a floe out of the way today: after the initial bump, there was no problem. Tried to catch up on my sleep today but a constant procession of people to my cabin for discussions and decisions forced me to give up. Chatted with Xavier, Chris, John and Grace before turning in. Knackered but contented.

19 January 1987

Slept till 1000 when Chris woke me with news that we were making an attempt to get through to the clear water off Cape Byrd. On reaching the bridge, I find we’re already underway. Ken and Bob Graham are up the mast, John’s on the wheel and Chris is aft in VHF radio contact with Jim who struts around the bridge and the bridge wings purposefully. Jim is aiming for a channel of only about 4/10 ice concentration although the rest of the ice field is considerably denser. As we proceed, the engine room commands – dead slow ahead, stop, dead slow astern, dead slow ahead – increase rapidly and the ice begins to move into our path alarmingly. Very large floes – thousands of tons of ice a piece – lie in our path, roll down the side of the ship and swing in towards the stern. The area of open water we were heading for begins to recede and we’re suddenly surrounded by 9/10 pack ice pressing from all sides.

I relay messages from Jim to the helmsperson and watch the engine rev counter like a hawk as the engineers respond to the commands. Jim shouts, ‘Stop engines!’ I work the telegraph to the engine room and then call out to Jim, ‘Engine stopped!’ as the rev counter hits zero a few seconds later. ‘Dead slow ahead!’ comes Jim’s command and after repeating his command and working the telegraph, I then watch the rev counter until it begins to respond and I shout out ‘Going ahead!’ It’s a very laborious process but the ship, not having direct bridge control of the engines, requires such antiquated but very traditional antics.

Jim told me earlier as we entered the ice, ‘We’ll be in Cape Evans by lunchtime!’ At lunchtime, we’re in the soup good and proper and I gently chide Jim to which he responds sharply with ‘Piss off, Wilks!’. Davey emerges from the engine room to ask, ‘What the fook’s going on? We’ve made so many engine manoeuvres we’re running out of compressed air in the bottles.’ He took one look around at the unbroken vista of ice around the ship and disappeared below again, muttering, ‘Fookin’ hellfire.’

Helo away with Andi Loor, Ken and the film guys for filming and recce at 1310 and I go below for a breather and to read the abandon ship notices in the allies just in case. We’re in a tight spot and as I write, I can feel the ship bouncing off one floe after the next. My concern increases as I look out of the ports on the starboard side to see the situation worsening if anything. Then Ken came into the saloon looking very purposeful and told me we were putting the abandon ship procedure into operation. Survival suits are being broken out on the monkey island, rope ladders going over the side, the helo is being prepared and Jim has drawn up a priority evacuation list. I still thought this was precautionary on Jim’s part but then I hear the chopper taking off with the journalists and Maj. Jesus! We’re evacuating the ship!

I’m detailed to sit on the bow of the ship calling out distances to the next floe to Jim on the bridge after gathering all the important stuff from my cabin into a back-pack, collecting emergency rations and sleeping bag, clothing etc. I also check all bunks for sleeping crew and ensure all the deadlights are secured. This is getting too real! Then at 1730, we finally nosed into clear water and the relief all round was very evident. Much back slapping and banter going on and then someone broke out the beers and people began unpacking their emergency gear. PHEW! That was a close one. We’re now all stopped (1850) directly opposite Mt Erebus where we can clearly see the scar left by the Air New Zealand tourist plane which ploughed into the mountain a few years ago, metallic scraps glinting in the sunshine. Poor bastards. As we lie hove to in still water watching orcas gambol in the sunlight, we are in self-congratulatory mood in that we performed without panic and in an exemplary manner. The journalists file mildly exaggerated stories but what the hell?

22 January 1987

Boredom setting in as we find another grey day awaiting us with low cloud making flying impossible, restricted visibility and nothing much in prospect today. Steam to the end of the lead towards Byrd at 0800 and Ken reports from the crow’s nest that yesterday’s blow has merely served to confuse the situation. The ice is more concentrated and has rafted, becoming more solid around Byrd. Cleaned the bridge and after lunch I slept like a baby until dinner. Ken’s off watch tonight and tells me ominously that he ‘feels like getting outrageous’. God help us – and him! Hear that an ice-breaker is to move through to McMurdo tonight and we briefly discuss the wisdom of following in the channel she cuts but wisely decide against it. Time is on our side still but it’s getting tighter. After the late watch the weather cleared marginally and the ice spotting crew report improving conditions. Maybe we’ll have a go tomorrow.

23 January 1987

Woken at 0700 but didn’t make it to the bridge until 0815. Steamed through loose pack for an hours and a half but had to stop at 1145 as the lead disappeared. The 8-12 watch is excruciatingly boring as we lay drifting a few miles from the pack ice edge. Only Ken and I on the bridge most of the time and he’s reading a Dutch book out loud to improve his diction while I sketch the scenery. Two beers after watch, bed at 0100.

24th January 1987

Woken by Chris who brought hard boiled eggs to me in bed the better to encourage me to get up. Jim already aloft by 0700 and reports excellent ice conditions. But before we could get underway, the wind picked up and began blowing 50 knots, reducing the sea to a boiling cauldron with white tops being creamed off the tops of the swells. We could see the line of the squall across the water and as we steamed into it, the wind speed indicator went from 25 knots to 50 knots in seconds. It was a spectacular show and whirlwinds and whirlpools skitted across the sea. The ship was heeled over 5 degrees purely by the force of the wind.

By 2200 the wind dropped enough for us to put the helo up again and Jim’s report is positive. We get underway by 2300 and nosed into the clear water ahead of us hoping we can find the ‘autobahn’ to McMurdo. By 2400 we were off Cape Byrd and penguins were evident in their thousands dotted along the coast. It’s strange to see Ross Island from a different angle and looking back at Beaufort is a novelty. But the ice just moved out of our path and we steamed slowly but with gathering confidence into McMurdo Sound. We’ve made it! Despite all the set-backs, the hurdles and the negativity from everyone, we’ve got through the ice to Cape Evans which is now only an hour’s steam away!! Kevin and I do a mad jig of elation around the saloon. The mood is buoyant and carefree as people swarm all over the deck to drink in the new scenery presented to us. Finally fall into bed at 0300 knowing that when I wake up, we’ll be off Cape Evans!

25 January 1987

Irmi cooks breakfast for everyone this morning by way of celebration and after a hasty meal I rush to the bridge to get my first sight of this place which has haunted me all my life. We’ve anchored 200 metres from the Cape Evans beach and I gaze at this historic site open-mouthed, not just because of its stark beauty but as much for the history in which this place is steeped. John is all toothy smiles and Ken is as inscrutable as ever, wandering around the bridge with the binoculars glued to his eyes. We had planned for helicopter operations from a distance of 20 miles if necessary, but here we are now within a stone’s throw of the beach and all our fuel problems have dissolved. Scott’s hut is a low-lying, almost insignificant grey building melting into the scenery and our brightly coloured tents set up by the advanced shore party make a vivid contrast to the bleak back-drop.

Having read The Last Place on Earth, the hut assumes a menacing and foreboding aspect and the ‘Scott mentality’, which was a criticism levelled at us particularly by Maureen in a negative way, seems to be written all over this beach. It was from here that Scott planned his fateful journey and I am fascinated by the vista before me. The beach is covered with other items which distract my eye, not the least of which is the Footsteps of Scott expedition hut and all their gear – including a Cessna airplane. We can see Inaccessible Island and the stunning coast of South Victorialand in the distance with its glaciers and peaks shrouded in mist one moment, now bathed in the most intense sunshine the next.

The weather is hazy sunshine, cold with snow showers and 30 knots of wind. Ian, Graham, Hugh, Kevin, Chris, Werner and Henk go ashore in the dinghy. Me, Ken, Xavier, Grace and Keith begin the preparation of helo loads on deck, swathed in our Antarctic clothing. To my consternation, Ken authorises Justin to begin sling-loading and while he is a competent pilot, he is a little rusty and his approaches are decidedly unsteady. Xavier, ever the droll one, begins the scary job of hooking loads onto Justin’s hovering machine and makes dry comments about his survival after every load.

We shifted 15 loads today. The store shed is now erected and much positive work was accomplished. As Gary was lifting the tractor off the deck during one run, the tractor slipped sideways and put an awkward strain on the helo. As Gary climbed away, the weight of the tractor took the helicopter downwards a good 10 feet and we held our breath as the tractor wheels skimmed the surface of the sea. We expected Gary to ditch the tractor but somehow he managed to turn into the wind on full power and gain the extra lift he needed. But it was close.

The day ended on a rather sour note between Graham and I since I didn’t want there to be any contact with the authorities ashore until our official visits and Graham insisted there should be another mail run. We compromised: he got his mail run on the understanding that it was simply a dropping off procedure with minimum contact with the Scott Base personnel. I’m still angry with myself for giving in but it’s all in the interests of harmony on board. Ken is harbouring serious misgivings about Graham but I told Ken to keep his opinions to himself until the job is over. Graham can be a pain at times but he does his job well which is all that matters at present. No-one said it would be easy. Pictures out plus press releases. Bed by 10.45 completely bushed.

26 January 1987

24 loads away today. Whales 10 yards from the ship of which I had a grandstand view as I was on the crane most of the morning. I holed one of the inflatables as I put one onto the other with the crane. It’s repairable but I felt such a jerk. Graham even more insufferable today and I know it’s getting under Ken’s skin. Mail drop tomorrow has been agreed. I’m so tired and dirty – no shower for a week now in the interests of water conservation and when the others relax after work, my non-deckie work begins, dealing with Roger who phones every night, dealing with the journalists and the camera crew etc, not to mention press releases and picture captions. The key is to keep the story running and to plan the peaks in the expedition to feed to the press to keep the interest going. OK so far and the reports are that there’s a lot of coverage out there.

27 January 1987

17 loads away today. Weather good but a whiteout at Scott Base forced us to cancel the mail run for the umpteenth time.

28 January 1987

Beautiful day today after heavy snow during the ‘night’. Bright sunshine, crystal clear, unrestricted visibility and breathtaking scenery. We can see every detail of Mt Erebus and I can’t stop taking pictures of this two-mile high peak, it’s so awesome, majestic and imposing. Another 17 loads away today and the work is going very well. Swenson was a great find, easy going and good natured. Graham then sent Ken into near apoplexy by saying that he’d decided to spend a day on board today to ‘oversee the discharging’, a reasonable suggestion as he is the logistics co-ordinator. Ken’s face contorted to the point where I thought he was going to explode but I stared at him hard until he assumed his more familiar inscrutable look. He’s champion, is Ken. He works so hard and we rush around him like worker bees.

Gary had another near miss today when he picked up the trailer (450kgs) and it dipped towards the sea. It was only two feet from the sea at one point. If we’re all not totally grey by the time we get back, it will be a miracle.

29 January 1987

Dog-tired today. Record 25 loads away today which was another glorious one – shirtsleeve weather. The shell of the main building is finished, generator shed roof completed. John and I took the piss out of Ken all day on deck. We had a good giggle at his expense but he takes it in his stride as long as we do the work. Big party being planned for a few days’ time. Lots of people went shore side today to see the erection of the 70 foot high radio mast. Very impressive but of course the guy wires will be a hazard to skuas. Press release and pictures out tonight to keep the story bubbling. Crashed into bed fully clothed at 2200 utterly exhausted.

30 January 1987

So tired I couldn’t sleep. Finally drifted off around 0230 and blissfully allowed to lie in until 0800. I was still heavy with sleep as I ate a huge breakfast and was a little grumpy with one or two jokers. Every morning, without fail, I say to Ken as I slurp the first cup of tea, making suitable pig-like noises, ‘There’s nothing like a nice cup of Rosy Lee in the mornings, that’s what I always say, Ken, eh?’ There follows a silence during which I look at Ken expectantly, John looks away to hide his laughter, Chris doesn’t know what’s going on and Ken looks into the middle distance pretending he hasn’t heard me. Then he may deign to give me a scathing glance and lift one eyebrow to show distain at which point John and I crack up and Chris sits there grinning since he knows something funny has happened although he doesn’t know quite what. And the next morning, John and I can’t keep straight faces as I pour the tea and lift the cup to my lips. It’s all very childish and stupid but it lightens the mood and Ken even smiled briefly this morning.

We wind Ken up on deck as well, calling him Banzai Ballard as he’s always impatient and will move something by brute force with boot, hammer or axe rather than with science. He works at a furious pace and has normally moved an immovable object on his own before John and I can find the slings or blocks. Xavier is probably the slowest of us all on deck and he is hindered by his imperfect English, but he’s a good guy and we love working with him.

Began lifting the fuel out of the holds today – 64 barrels on deck but the guys ashore are not ready for it yet so we closed down for the day on board. Great plans for catching up on sleep were dashed when I decided I had to do my washing and change my bedding and then Stephen Knight asked me to help him with his article. Then the trouble started. As the helo was not employed this afternoon, I decided to get the film guys to the McMurdo dump to get more footage. Kevin told me earlier that he didn’t want any more runs to the dump as the sea ice was too iffy. Keith disagreed with this opinion and, suspecting Kevin was acting out of self-interest as he wants all the effort directed at the base camp construction, I overrode him and asked Keith to oversee the trip. I called Kevin ashore to advise him and he went ape-shit. He didn’t want his decision overturned and he cited his contract whereby I appointed him as chief field safety adviser etc etc.

Graham and I had a chat during which he expressed his concerns about Kevin’s volatile nature and his leadership qualifications, or lack of them. So we’ll meet tonight in what promises to be a tough meeting. In the event, Kevin walked into the meeting and promptly resigned! That’s helpful! He was red with rage for a while before he calmed down and withdrew his resignation but is clearly far from happy at having his authority usurped. It’s my fault, of course, for not making the distinction between responsibilities clearly defined. If Kevin and Keith disagree about ice conditions, I’m left with a recipe for disaster. But it’s all over now and Kevin had the grace to apologise for his over-reaction. I’m just wiping my brow at a narrow escape. What with Andi Loor, the press guys, Maj and Roger all making demands on me almost hourly, I’m feeling the pressure, but it’s a dream compared to last year.

31 January 1987

Another glorious day in prospect. Not a cloud in the sky, brilliant, almost painful sunshine and quite warm in the sun with no wind to speak of. Mooched around after breakfast and then I was recalled to the wheel as we got a few hundred yards closer to the beach to avoid drift ice coming in astern of us. More barrels lifted and stacked on deck and I then discuss the logistics of the McMurdo and Scott Base visits with Maj. Got a fax off to McMurdo asking them why they refuse to give us local weather. Some rumours suggest that it was the involvement of the McMurdo authorities in the offering of weather advice to the doomed Air NZ plane which crashed into Erebus which has prompted this policy; others say that it’s just pure cussedness and their antipathy towards private expeditions.

1 February 1987

Hectic day after the lull in work recently. Sling-loading barrels all day, moving about 90 in the process. It’s very tiring and repetitive work and Justin’s flying doesn’t make it a pleasant experience. He came in once this afternoon to find the ship travelling downwind to get out of the way of ice and decided that in order to keep the helicopter flying into the wind to maintain lift, he’d approach us backwards! I watched all this from the bridge as I was taking a press call and saw Keith, Ken and John dive for cover as the exhaust from the helo fanned across the deck.

We’re hoping to clear all the barrels within two days which will leave only the food and personal effects to be discharged. We may even be able to leave sufficiently early to take in Terra Nova and even Dumont D’Urville, but that’s all speculation. I told Jim that as long as we’re back in Wellington by mid-March or earlier, I’d be happy. The ‘campaigning’ side of the expedition is assuming less and less importance for me now, although once the work of discharging and erecting the base is over, I’ll probably revive. We’re working long hours on deck and the additional campaigning work is a real burden after a long day.

2 February 1987

Very tired tonight after working from 0800 to 2130. Offloaded the majority of the remaining barrels – just 63 left and progress ashore and on board is visible. The base is erected and the internal work is going ahead furiously. People are more strung out now and a little edginess is creeping in. A music tape disappeared from my cabin tonight and no-one admits taking it. Nolan, who asked if he could borrow it, feels incriminated since his request preceded its disappearance. Phil Durham is walking around the ship with the hump since someone has taken his shampoo and Kevin is on a very short fuse. Gudrun is still solid but spends a lot of time staring at the wall, lost in her own thoughts at the prospect of a year in this place with her three male companions. Despite these little niggles, the mood is still buoyant and it would have been too much to expect a totally smooth ride.

The weather broke today. Minus 5 and bitterly cold stuck up on the crane with the wind-chill factor taking the temperature down to minus 20. Snow tonight and wind picked up to 25 knots. Dave Woolan calmly told us that the satcom probably won’t work as there’s not enough elevation to access the satellite above the horizon as we’re at such high latitudes. Getting more and more tired with every day. Decreed Wednesday a day of rest.

3 February 1987

Skip lunch and spend time in my cabin alone with music. The ship is swinging around in 40 knots of wind with both anchors deployed. Gone are the halcyon days of last week. It’s now bitterly cold in the wind and the air temperature is minus five and dropping daily. The helo broke down this morning and we’ve had a few false starts. The pressure is on and we only have another ten days or so before we must make our way out of Ross Island. The sun will dip beneath the horizon in four or five days’ time and the temperature will begin dropping rapidly after that. God! I just want to be out of here now, heading 360 for New Zealand as fast as we can. After a very positive crew meeting, Jonathan and I work on deck filling the extra barrels we have decided to leave here as insurance for the winterers and we don’t finish until 2315. But it was good to spend time with Jonathan who told me that when asked by Stephen Knight what was the most satisfying aspect of the trip for Jonathan, he replied that he was pleased for me as I deserved this success. I was really touched.

After work, it was all downhill. Ken was halfway through a bottle of rum (the dreaded Bundaberg) and I proceeded to help him finish it off. Then Hugh, Chris and Jonathan arrived and I finally got to bed at about 0400, blearily conscious of the fact that it’s a day off tomorrow.

4 February 1987

Oh shit! The mother and father of all hangovers today. Staggered into the saloon at 1230 but couldn’t hack it. Back to bed with a thumping head until 1830. Hallucinated in my half sleep and kept being disturbed by an infuriatingly healthy and lively Justin who must have come in at least 20 times. Did nothing much else in the evening except prepare the work schedule for tomorrow and a telex for Roger to ask him about my air ticket.

5 February 1987

Winterers off for a ‘social’ at Scott Base and return with much awaited mail for the ship. Fiona sent me a pile of press clippings from NZ newspapers which I pinned to the notice board. It’s great to know that our efforts are being reported and I hope a lot of people are choking on their cornflakes at our success. Ken was being interviewed by Stephen Knight in the saloon tonight and I overheard him call Maureen a ‘two faced bastard’. Can’t wait to see that in print!

Most of the food discharged today and by 1800 we were all blasted. The winterers are ferried on board at 1900 and Kevin told me that the Officer in Charge at Scott Base does not want us to go there for our official visit on Monday, is firmly against our ‘intrusion’ here at Cape Evans and refused to give us the key to Scott’s Hut (which the New Zealand wintering team is in charge of) and said that no sampling of waste water, snow or ice would take place on ‘his’ base. Scott was British, I remind Kevin, and we’ll go ahead with the sampling programme despite objections. He has no jurisdiction here at all. And if he wants to tell us differently, then perhaps McTaggart’s wishes will come true.

A good day today, however. The weather’s brightened up and only Kevin’s touchiness casts any sort of shadow over our activities.

6 February 1987

Got the official response today from the OIC at Scott to my letter informing him of our planned activities. It’s a three-page tirade telling us that we’re ‘banned’ from doing anything remotely connected with Scott Base – we can’t go there, can’t fly the choppers there and can’t take any samples. This puts our planned visit on Monday in very interesting light. What will he do when we turn up? Will he arrest us? For what and with what authority? He has put himself in a very difficult position and must be kicking himself for his knee-jerk reaction. I’m now looking forward to Monday and can feel the old campaigning juices rising again. Press releases out and a lot of information to Roger tonight with Maj’s invaluable help and still managed a full day on deck.

The shore party are now making forays into the hinterland around the base to see seals, penguins and to drink in the grandeur of the ice sheet. I’d like to do the same before we leave: I’ve only been ashore once. Only a few days before we leave. Snow showers and 35 knot winds from the south tonight but a good day’s work with food and the remaining radio gear offloaded. Then the satcom phone on the bridge rang and Ken calmly handed me the receiver saying, ‘It’s for you.’ Ian Balmer was on the other end of the phone and after we’d chatted for a few seconds, it finally dawned on me that the only place he could possibly be phoning from was the base. THE SATCOM WORKS FROM THE BASE!! Thank God! He phoned me from 200 yards away via Singapore! The guys had set the cameras up to record my reactions. Jim’s birthday party rounded off a great day and I fell into bed completely wiped out.

7 February 1987

Jonathan and I spent the day going backwards and forwards to the shore with bundles of timber strapped to the dinghy. We then worked on deck shifting and re-stowing barrels of helo-fuel. Crew meeting started to get a little hairy when the old stagers started to come on about their reactions to the Scott Base politicking, an issue about which everyone has an opinion. It was all relatively mild, however, compared to last year, and only Jochen raised any substantial criticism when he proffered that we had ‘picked on’ Scott Base by transmitting a picture of a NZ truck being dropped through the ice on the dump and had thus provoked a retaliatory response. Xavier was great and came to my defence in his faltering English in a nonetheless marvellous delivery. Graham is still proving to be a bit of a pest laying the moral guilt trip on people saying that he couldn’t condone this, that or the other as an ex-OIC himself which gets peoples’ backs up, especially Kevin’s. Unlike Ken who buggered off halfway through, I had to stay the course and felt drained empty at the end. The fact that it was filmed added to the tension and the energy level required to get through it.

Weather minus 8, blustery with 25 knot variable winds. Finished up by arranging the delivery of the notification of our visit to McMurdo and for the reply to Guy’s letter to be delivered. McMurdo refused us permission to land on their helipad (nice guys, eh?) and so Gary had to land off-limits. Despite everything, the work is moving ahead quickly and we’re now entering our last week before departure.

8 February 1987

Nolan has now gotten into the habit of bringing me tea in bed at 0700. Woke to a beautiful day, but it’s harder and harder for me to get moving lately as I’m so tired. Jonathan off today with flu symptoms and as Keith is ashore, it was left to me and Ken to cover the deck work. All the Footsteps gear came aboard today (apart from the aircraft) and we work hard stowing and lashing it. I told Andi to get his arse out of bed at 1130 and I also found it necessary to drop gentle hints to Maj about her habit of sleeping in until 1030, although I think she may have a condition which makes her tired. Shifted 10 loads ashore and received 10 on board and stowed it all before 1400. Then we steamed north for 5 miles to meet the tour ship World Discoverer to take part in their visit to Cape Royds to see the penguin rookery there and Shackleton’s hut. I decided not to go to the hut: I didn’t fancy sharing such an experience with a bunch of tourists although I would jump at the chance to go with just Ken, Jonathan and Chris or at least just a small group from our own ship. So Ken, Irmi, Jim, Davey and I stayed on board while the rest went off to Cape Royds. Graham, who organised the event with ‘old friends’ on the tour ship, came back eulogising about how ‘wonderful’ it all was and Ken’s face was a picture of contempt.

Our expected itinerary is:

Leave Cape Evans 18th Feb Arrive Terra Nova 20th Feb

Leave Terra Nova 21st Feb Arrive Dumont D’Urville 25th Feb

Leave Dumont D’Urville 26th Feb Arrive Macquarie Island 1st March

Leave Macquarie Island 1st March Arrive Auckland Islands 2nd March

Arrive Wellington 11th March.

9 February 1987

Up at 0400 to check plans and schedules for the trip ashore and the visit to Scott Base. Leave ship in Helicopter at 0600 and arrive at the site on the sea ice (known as Little Greenpeace 3 or LGP3) in four waves of flights. Assemble with camera crew, photographer, Andi Loor, winterers, Maj and Swenson. This flight gave me my first ever sight of the Antarctic interior and it took my breath away. The ice sheet reaches the horizon in a flat and desert-like expanse of uninterrupted ice hundreds of miles wide and deep. I imagined the tiny dots of Scott and his party marching their way in hopeless heroism towards the pole. What a place this is!

We walked into Scott Base past a huge, vertical ice sheet to our right, along a dirt track which quickly gave way to the fast ice across which we had to trudge up the slope to the base. We walked into Scott base expecting the grand confrontation but they had locked up shop – it was deserted. We did our sampling and then trudged over the hill to McMurdo. The route took us up a steep incline for about a mile which gave us spectacular views of White Island and Black Island, the tips of submarine mountain ranges poking through the flat ice-scape to the south. As we walked into McMurdo, we entered a small town with all the charm of a mid-west red-neck outpost.

Observation Hill, from which Scott had looked for his relief vessel, stood impressively on our left but its grandeur was tempered by the knowledge that at its base had once stood in the recent past a nuclear reactor (known childishly as Nukey Poo) and which now sported the remains of the 30,000 tons of contaminated soil which had to be removed from the Antarctic after the reactor sprung a leak. Everywhere, including the slopes of Observation Hill, had been bulldozed and the entire base was a haphazard mess of oil spills, piles of junk and an air of total environmental contempt. We did our sampling and photo documentation, receiving a lot of support from the ordinary military grunts on the base. But no-one in authority, except Ron Le Count of the National Science Foundation (NSF) dared show his or her face. All other personnel, according to Le Count, were ‘unavailable’.

The US authorities had asked us not to come on this particular day as there was to be ‘operation of heavy machinery’ which our visit would have disrupted, but there was no evidence of any heavy activity going on. We had exercised our right to the freedom of access to the Antarctic but the confrontation we were hoping for never materialised. A moral victory was declared.

We returned past the spectacular scenery of Scott’s last resting place and regrouped at LGP3 for our flights back to the ship. At 2145, we were invited to the World Discoverer to have drinks with the skipper and I was asked if I’d like to lecture the tourists to which I readily agreed. My speech went down well with the well-heeled tourists but it was plain that my message was not welcomed by the Swedish tour leader, nor, to my annoyance, by Graham, both of whom stood up and made a plea for non-confrontation in the Antarctic, both saying or implying at least, that seeing the beauty of the Antarctic from the comfort of a tour ship was the best way of preserving the Antarctic. I was so angry that Xavier had to physically restrain me from interrupting their tirade of rebuttal.

The weather has been absolutely fantastic all day and a quite magical day was only spoiled when one of the tourist ship expedition personnel, slightly worse for drink, I fear, fell into the water when trying to get into one of our inflatables. No harm done though.

10 February 1987

Press releases and pictures out first thing to cover the visits yesterday and finally got on deck to help Ken at 1400. Spent all afternoon stowing rubbish sacks in the hold and emerged covered in dust and filth. I spoke to the NZ Greenpeace office today to hear that the Germans were coming to the next AGM in a week’s time with a demand that we pull the base camp out next year. I’m stunned at this news and can’t believe they can be so out of touch with what we’ve achieved here. I can’t confide this news to the crew as it would kill the spirit and would crush people who have worked so hard to set up the base. Bed at 2250 but can’t recall actually lying down as I was asleep before I fell into bed.

11 February 1987

Woken at 0600 by the anchor chains rattling in the hawse pipes. We’re dragging anchors in a 50 knot wind. Visibility down to a few yards, minus 12 and the sea is very choppy. No work today! Ken woke us nonetheless and we had an enormous breakfast at 0730. Tidied up and looked out of the bridge onto a bleak, Antarctic scene. We can just about make out the hut ashore through the driving snow. Ice reports are pretty grim and it looks as though we’ll have as much difficulty getting out as we had getting in. Only a few more helo-loads to get away from the ship, the final few days’ work on the base, the party and then it’s get the hell out.

12 February 1987

I hear that the international organisation is planning an ‘assessment’ of the trip on our return. In other words, a lot of Greenpeace administrators will spend huge amounts of money coming to NZ to ‘assess’ the voyage, something which we on board can do quite well in the form of a report which I’m required to write anyway. However, that bit of annoying news aside, it turned out to be a notable day.

Called at 0545 for an early start to make up for yesterday’s loss and promptly walked into a metal upright on deck and gashed my shin badly. Later, the wings from the Cessna came on board via Grace’s inflatable and Ken and Jonathan grabbed the wide edge of one while I was designated the job of picking up the more manageable wing-tip. We were lifting it into the recess for stowage. The hatch cover was off as it had been all day, but I completely forgot about it and, not seeing the open space due to the wing I was carrying, stepped into thin air. I fell ten feet onto a pile of folded cardboard. I was so sure that I had broken something that I laid still, a little stunned, and heard Ken tell Jonathan to call immediately for Cornelius before I could tell him I was ok bar from a sprained wrist.

Then Justin called the ship and ranted on at me about how dangerous it was to allow Graham to marshal the helicopter since he was ‘unqualified’ to do so. He sort of ‘court-marshalled’ Graham and demanded that Jim and I hold an ‘inquest’. Graham and Justin came into Jim’s cabin where Justin lit into Graham unmercifully and then had to eat his words and make a humble apology when it was pointed out to him that Graham had 10 years’ NZRAF experience in marshalling. Ken came up to me and said that if he (Ken) gets out of order at the ‘hut warming’ party tomorrow night, he’s likely to tell Graham just what an arsehole Ken thinks he is. I must say, despite the fact that I told Ken to keep his opinions to himself, I don’t know how Ken has kept his mouth shut. Graham struts around in his trendy, unsoiled Antarctic gear, his hair just so, shades on, and talks down to Ken – filthy dirty, sweaty and covered in shit, often literally – from a position of superiority, a superiority I bestowed on him. However, that’s all for tomorrow. For now, it’s the penultimate day of work on the base and we’ll soon be on our way north, thank God.

13 February 1987

Friday the 13th is not a good day on which to finish the base and I was a little apprehensive that after such a relatively accident-free time, we’d come a cropper on the last day. The last few sling-loads were prepared, another 12 barrels of fuel and the freezers sent ashore. Due to my injuries, I was stuck on the crane which I can still drive, fortunately. We worked hard and long to finish today and even after much-heralded ‘end’ of the work, loads of Footsteps rubbish continued to arrive. It’s bitterly cold (minus 10) and the wind is strong. To lift the Cessna fuselage means that Gary cannot turn downwind to get more lift from the chopper blades and we therefore steamed to the other side of the hummock beyond Cape Evans so that he could take off into the wind and continue thus onto the helipad on the ship without having to turn down-wind. It was quite an occasion and everyone turned out to see the fuselage’s arrival. Gary positioned it perfectly on the ship’s deck and we lifted it with the crane to the port side where it was secured for the journey home.

By 2200 we were finished and I marshalled everyone ashore for the crew photo outside the base. It was the first time I had really seen the base and it was mightily impressive with a very homely atmosphere. Kevin was busy brewing punch, music was blasting out of the stereo and the passageways were littered with boxes and equipment. John Phillpotts had to go back to the ship to get a camera part he’s forgotten and when he came back, Jim was with him. As we all crowded round for the delayed picture shoot, I suddenly realised that the ship was riding at anchor with no-one at all on board. Jim said with incredible sang-froid, ‘If the ship drags anchor now and makes deep water, we’ll all be wintering!’

The picture shoot was its normal chaos and Andi had a hard time trying to control 35 people, all wanting to fool around, using his gentle and almost inaudible voice. When it was all over, we went inside, people taking turns to keep an eye on our precious ship 300 yards away, while the party began. Boots came off and punch was sipped with beer chasers. Then Andi asked us all to go outside again for colour shots! Jonathan refused to go and Hugh got quite angry and no amount of pleading from me or anyone could calm them down.

Finally the party got underway. Ken had been strangely curt towards me all day and I had retorted with a few cutting remarks of my own, but now he came over, gave me a huge hug and apologies. Only now that it’s over do we realise what enormous pressures we’ve all been under and I’m amazed that we’ve remained so cordial towards each other. There was a pause in the proceedings for the presentation of presents to the winterers and a few speeches at which I found myself welling up with emotion. Then we got stuck into the booze and before long everyone was dancing and singing at the top of their voices.

Gary Dukes christened the toilet with a technicolour yawn (he’s now known as Gary Pukes) and at around 0300 Swenson came over and said, ‘Hey, Wilks. Wanna take a walk?’ We walked for miles along the coast, avoiding crevasses here and there, sitting within yards of penguins and seals, standing on a huge ice-floe listening to the creaking of the ice as it rose gently on the swell and watched the seals either sleeping, yawning, scratching or letting off clapperboard farts. We returned via Scott’s Hut and I stood glowing with booze, achievement, with the beauty of the Antarctic coursing through my veins for the first time in front of the Mecca of Antarcticians. I was standing on the very spot where Scott had stood. Behind the hut were piles of his expedition junk. In front of the hut, the mummified remains of his dogs, still chained up, testified to our eternal callous exploitation of faithful and undemanding dogs.

Back at the base, some die-hards were still going as Keith and I crawled into sleeping bags and crashed out. What a day. What a wonderful, glorious and thoroughly satisfying day.

14 February 1987

Ferried back to the ship in various states of distress from hangovers. Most take the day recovering and lying around the mess and saloon: reading, sleeping or listening to music. I have to drag myself to the radio room to pump out yet more pictures and a press release. The winterers arrive in the afternoon for their ‘last supper’ on board as this is the last day we will be with them. We leave later today and the meal is an emotional affair. We are about to abandon our friends to the rigours of an Antarctic winter and to what might befall them in the coming year. I admire their pluck: although the prospect of experiencing an Antarctic winter is incredibly romantic, it’s not something I would choose to do. The winterers eventually make their way onto the helideck at around 1900 and amid much and prolonged hugging and tears, they say their goodbyes.

I found it impossible to stay on deck since my emotions got the better of me. I was briefed to achieve this goal back in the summer of 1985 and the task has finally been completed. We got underway at 2100 and Jim decided to take a final sweep past the base and the four winterers had all climbed onto the roof and were waving their goodbyes. I felt so proud yet so inconsolably sad. They looked so insignificant a group – mere grains of sand dwarfed by Erebus and the majesty of the awesome Antarctic they had come to protect. As they gradually slipped from view, the crew began drifting in from the helideck wiping eyes and there was much staring at walls later as people wrestled with their own thoughts and emotions.

Ken insisted we toast the occasion and I gave up trying to round up Jonathan and Chris (the former is always in his cabin when not working and the latter is reportedly in love with Hanna) so Ken and I downed a few beers then crashed just after midnight, toasting a job well done. The greatest benefit for me resulting from the departure of the winterers is that I have the cabin all to myself and, despite the fact that Justin is a fine cabin-mate, the luxury of a ‘single’ cabin is indescribable. It’s the first time in eight years of sailing with Greenpeace that I have benefited from such unashamed luxury.

15 February 1987

Back on regular watches today. Slept like a baby last night and did not want to rise this morning. Jonathan cooked breakfast – huge piles of fried potatoes, two eggs, bacon, beans and toast – then staggered around the lurching bridge until I awoke fully around 1000. Ken, Garry and Graham flew off to Vanda to lay in Kevin’s fuel depot as we steamed towards the Victoria Land coast, an area we have only admired from a distance thus far. Garry returns to tell Jim that since the weather is so good and since we have a little time in hand, he’d be happy to take a few people sightseeing into Vanda Lake. Jim tells me that it has been ordained that I go along.

Jonathan, Natalie, Davey and I squeezed into the chopper and we headed off towards the coast over the huge and spectacular Wilson Piedmont Glacier. The experience was one which stays with you forever. We landed at Lake Vanda and walked along the shoreline. This place is an enigma even in the enigmatic Antarctic. The mountains which flank the valley are enormous and the silence is all-pervading. It is a stunning place which my pictures will not do justice to. We are in the dry-valley region – not a bit of snow or ice to be seen apart from the ‘hanging glaciers’ which peep over the tops of the colls between the mountains and then mysteriously stop. The river running into Lake Vanda reportedly runs from the sea to the lake. We check out the small weather station here operated by the New Zealanders and find a mummified seal at the doorstep. It is like being in a wonderland where things don’t quite make sense but where the sheer size and beauty of the place knock any other thoughts into insignificance. The trip back was equally spectacular. The surface of the glacier is riven with small streams of melting ice as the gigantic glacier inches its way to the sea.

Lunch on the ship and then crashed only to be woken firstly by Graham who tells me (erroneously) that I’m on dishes, then secondly by Stephen Knight who asks me to preside over a meeting called to plan getting the journalists back to McMurdo tomorrow. The complicated logistics of moving even a small number of people around in the Antarctic is daunting. Personally, I’m anxious to go north now the work is over, but I realise that whatever we do now is icing on the cake and I swallow my anxiety about heading north in the interests of extracting as much as possible from this incredible trip. I’m not looking forward to going to Dumont D’Urville as it takes us west, not north. But getting the journalists to McMurdo allows us to carry out one last post run to Scott Base. But the best laid plans, etc . . .

The wind picked up significantly grounding the helicopter and it wasn’t until 2300 that we could finally get it airborne as the ship now went back south towards Cape Evans to facilitate the flight. Incredibly, the winterers asked us to drop off one final sling-load of gear which they had forgotten and before we knew it we were in sight of the base again. The helicopter flew off and Justin flew the Hughes 300 back to the ship (we had toyed with the idea of leaving it for the winterers to use, but had decided against it) and as we made our final sweep of the Bay for the second time, Jim blasted a few notes on the ship’s klaxon but only Kevin appeared, didn’t even wave.

16th February 1987

This was supposed to be an easy day: waiting for the journalists to return to the ship at 1700, getting Justin back ashore and then heading off. But Ken had other ideas. He got us preparing for the open sea and we were all working on deck from 0800. Jim told us that his ice-spotting trip indicated a clear route out providing we kept away from the coast and as we finally set off north with urgency, us deckies were lashing down deck cargo, moving barrels of fuel and covering equipment with tarpaulins in a gathering swell. By 1600 the weather looked too ominous to collect the journalists and get Justin back ashore so we turned south yet again, and sheltered in Lewis Bay before steaming on to Cape Crozier and the ice barrier for sight-seeing and to ride out the weather. It finally passed and we steamed back amid another round of goodbyes – this time for Justin alone – and as he left he gave me a big hug. Then Garry reported that the weather at the base was bad and we had to wait for snow squalls to pass before his return. Technically, we start north tomorrow but who can predict what the Antarctic will decide for us?

17 February 1987

Garry arrived in the wee hours and I awake for watch as we’re underway, northbound at last. We steamed past Beaufort Island and took time out to do some sounding around the area that the Southern Quest was sunk last year – 2-300 fathoms. We’re constantly frustrated in our journey by long, drifting bands of sea ice which force us west. Strange weather: we’re surrounded by storm clouds, black and threatening and the glass has dropped to 970 mb. Yet the wind never came and we’re bobbing along on a gentle swell, happy to be back in a regular routine. Long telex off to Roger. I hope GP can cough up for another ticket to get Fiona back to the UK with me but I doubt it. I realise it’s a bit of a cheeky request, but after all the work I’ve put in, plus the fact that they seem to find no obstacles to flying unnecessary personnel here for the ‘evaluation’, I feel it’s a reasonable proposition.

18 February 1987

Late for breakfast (my turn to cook as well!) which puts Ken in a bad mood. Now we need to go west, the ice dictates a northerly direction and the day is spent picking our way through bands of ice attempting to close Terra Nova. Slept like a log until 1800 and as I take the wheel at 2000, we’re 15 miles from the Italian base heading directly into a 40 knot wind, taking seas over the bow, water immediately freezing on deck superstructure and port holes. The entire forward end of the ship is wreathed in 3 inches of ice. Finally took sanctuary in the bay from where we can see the aerials of the base. Felt the old nausea this afternoon as we were pitching heavily but OK now. Temperature minus 8. Go ashore tomorrow.

19 February 1987

The wind had thankfully dropped this morning and we all went ashore in the dinghies to ‘make an inspection’ of the Italian base. It’s quite a tidy affair: thirty modules in one unit on stilts. A big roadway runs from one bay over the hummock into a bay at the rear of the promontory. Lots of skuas around with a chick or two and it’s evident that they have come to rely on scraps from the base to supplement their diet. After being shown around by the OIC, a nice guy called Mario, we finally get back to the ship around 1600. Maj has taken charge of the inspection monitoring and has thankfully made copious notes for the report we’ll be required to write for GP.

I confide in Jim once back on board that I am tired and drained from this trip and want to head back with all reasonable speed. Finally get underway for Cape Hallet at 1700 when Ken suggests we stop at Cape Adare as well. I’m getting a bit ratty with people and had to steel myself for a conversation I had with Graham when he insisted on sending a telex to his friends on the World Discoverer. He finally agreed to make it an official telex from the ship but our strained relations were not helped when I called his Swedish friend, on the World Discoverer, a wanker for sending the NZ authorities a telex demanding a public apology from us over the key to Scott’s Hut incident. En route to Hallet now and the swell is increasing, tossing the ship around like a play thing. It’s actually almost dark on watch tonight.

20 February 1987

It gets harder every day to keep my motivation and positivity. I only wish we were setting course for Wellington but Cape Adare is ahead of us on the ‘corner’ of the Antarctic and in all probability, we will head west in the morning towards Dumont. But first it’s Cape Hallet where an abandoned NZ/US base exists which is reportedly being re-colonised by the penguins who were dislodged to build the base in the 70s. The ice was thick in the bay and we had to pick our way carefully through heavy concentrations. We hit one bit which sent me flying across the saloon. Maj, Phillpotts, Andi and Keith go ashore in the chopper promising to land well away from the penguins and they return a few hours later smelling as if they’d been rolling in vats of penguin shit.

Underway by 1600 which means that with deck duties I miss the chance of catching up on sleep again. Only a moderate swell running thankfully but the weather’s still overcast and miserable. Roger called to tell me that there’s no money for Fiona’s ticket and nor for me to change my ticket and I lit into him about the unfairness of dealing with practical problems such as getting me to London when it suits me while finding thousands of dollars to bring a bunch of people to NZ for what will be little more than a jolly. All to no avail, I’m afraid, Then he disarmed me by asking me if I’d sign up for next year’s Antarctic voyage: apparently, the winterers have been lobbying for my presence which is very nice to know.

21 February 1987

The ice reports we get from NOAA indicate open water at Dumont and the weather forecast is for easterlies – much rolling and following seas – and so Jim, amid much moaning from the lower decks, decides Dumont is on. The morning watch is uneventful with grey skies with not a break in the cloud cover – all quite depressing. The boredom factor seems to be flipping a few people out. Ian stands around on the bridge mumbling to himself and then asking inane questions which beggar a decent response. The watchkeepers simply ignore him and continue staring into the mesmeric grey wall before them. Slept a straight four hours after lunch then called a crew meeting after dinner to brief the crew about the outcomes of Terra Nova and Cape Hallet, let Jim outline weather and ice information and to lay the plans for Dumont.

The question of visiting Leningradskaya inevitably came up and thankfully Jim vetoed it on the grounds of the notoriously bad ice situation which surrounds the approaches. It’s simply unsafe in our vessel. Pushing through 30 miles of ice might be possible but the advent of an onshore wind could pile up the ice behind us. A few people expressed regret at this decision, but that’s how it is. We’re en route for Dumont and will not be stopping to see if we can access Leningradskaya. On watch tonight, the ship began corkscrewing badly and I found myself fighting off nausea yet again. But I hack the watch until Ken takes pity on me and sends me below to my bunk into which I fall with deep gratitude. The trip, I decide, has become tedious and boring and I can’t wait to feel the NZ late-summer sun on my face.

22 February 1987

Slept an incredible 14 hours! Ken let me sleep rather than rouse me for watch and I finally rose shortly before noon after Jonathan had kindly plied me with several cups of tea and oranges with instructions to ‘take it easy.’ Feeling so much better, I rose, had a light meal and lay on my bunk reading whereupon I amazingly slept again until 1800. Weather dull and miserable. Heading 317, changing to 275 tonight. Deep depressions ahead, we’re informed. A boring day and a boring evening watch, only enlivened by the need to use the searchlight after 2200 to spot growlers and bergy bits in the deepening evening gloom.

24 February 1987

The ship was rolling heavily in the night with big northerly swells crashing over the bow which caused the cupboard in the saloon housing the TV and video to crash thunderously across the saloon. Excruciatingly boring watch staring into grey seas, grey skies, zero visibility and snow showers. Temperature plus 1 but as we’re turning south in the morning, it should drop to minus 4 or so again. Ship still rolling moderately, the pitching having thankfully ceased with a wind direction change. The mood on board is still remarkably buoyant but people are now openly saying they want to get this visit to Dumont over with and head back to white, fluffy clouds, sunshine and more clement weather. Agreed at the crew meeting that our tactics at Dumont where the airstrip is being built across a penguin colony must be decided as a result of what we see.

25 February 1987

As I write this at the end of the day, I can say with finality, it is over. One more crew meeting, one more press release, tying up odds and ends and we’re through. Same as usual on watch this morning – staring into greys, fog and snow squalls. Rolled along 40 miles from Dumont in an area literally stuffed full of icebergs of all sizes and descriptions. Picked up Dumont on the VHF talking about our visit and then spoke to them directly. They were very accommodating and gave us local weather and ice reports before asking about the size and draft of the ship and recommending a good anchorage. As we approached, the scenery assumed a very spectacular aspect and we nudged between very large floes into a tiny bay from where we could see the sprawling base dotted with hundreds of penguins. Two boats ashore creeping through thick brash ice to the landing point where the OIC was waiting to receive us. We walked through squawking penguin colonies (no way to avoid them) to the reception at the base where we set up cameras and proceeded with the formalities.

The OIC is a scientist, as are the remaining people here at the base (the construction team having left a week ago) and he proceeded to protest their innocence in responsibility for the airstrip stating that he was a humble scientist and their work was in no way connected with the strip. I believed him and argued with the crew that any direct action was out – the uproar there would be if we uprooted scientific equipment would have been rightly clamorous. Furthermore, our scientist friend dismissed the ‘law’ which his Parisian bosses had insisted should be invoked to prevent us from going anywhere ‘sensitive’. He even pointed out the best access sites to the strip and was happy to show us around.

We left in an amicable mood and went to the strip and held up a few banners for the press. Any action against the strip in a more direct way would have amounted to sabotage and I ruled it out, much to the annoyance of some of the crew. Either the OIC was a smooth-talking lying bastard or he was genuinely between a rock and a hard place: I believed the latter and that was that.

The subsequent crew meeting went ok although Jonathan was quite hostile later, arguing that these guys had been just stringing us along. The press release I wrote seemed to quieten things down a bit as did the question I put to the dissenters: ‘Well, what do you want to do? Go and rip out the scientific gear and get pilloried for it?’ This visit is icing on the cake and the quicker people realise that we achieved the objectives of this trip when we pulled out of Cape Evans the better. It’s as though each visit assumes a life of its own and some people (especially Hanna) want to fight the world at each landfall.

26 February 1987

Aurora Australis brought everyone out on deck at 0200. One of the breath-taking and unique wonders of the world – shimmering, vertical sheets of particles bombarding this fragile planet.

28 February 1987

In the night, all hell broke loose. We rolled and pitched with a violence I haven’t experienced before and just about everything not lashed down in my cabin flew across the room. Negative gravity literally lifts your head off the pillow and it is impossible to sleep unless you wedge yourself into the bunk. When I finally cast an eye over the cabin this morning, it was a riot of papers, cassettes, clothes and equipment. Every cabin was the same.

At breakfast we had a good laugh at Stephen Knight’s expense. He came into the saloon from the mess and put a plate of toast and jam down on the table while he went back to get his tea. Sure enough, the plate went flying just as he returned – jam side down, of course. He laboriously went through the entire procedure again and did exactly the same thing with the same result. Then tonight after dinner, poor Stephen was sitting on the floor opposite the bench in the saloon when an empty cup left there carelessly by one of the crew flew off the bench, bounced once on the floor and made a direct hit on a full cup of tea Stephen was sitting there nestling between his legs for safety. His face was a picture and it took about 15 minutes before we had stopped laughing at his misfortune.

The weather has been bad for two days now. Force 9 gales with huge swells which toss the empty ship around like a cork. After morning watch I tried to tidy my cabin but it was pointless as cups, books, telexes and all the campaigning dross I’ve accumulated over the weeks just fly across the cabin at every heave of the ship. People hanging on for dear life at dinner as chairs slide across the room as people sit with raised and charged forks to their mouths. Still rolling very heavily this evening and Jim reduced revs and turns the ship more to the west to ease the motion, but turned NE again just before evening watch so spent it riding the bridge like a cowboy. ETA Mcquarie Island is the 2nd March.

The wind turns southeast at last and we’re taking big, big swells on the port quarter before watch end, threatening to poop us. But it’s quite exhilarating and I find the motion comforting after two days of pitching into big seas with the ship slamming and jarring from stem to stern. But the trip is nearly over, thank God, and we have done what we set out to do. It’s strange on board. People just biding their time, speculating about what they’ll do on landfall.

Ken paces the bridge like a caged tiger muttering to himself almost constantly. Jonathan drums out a musical beat on the binnacle and I pick it up and sing along. Ian’s almost gone now and I thank God he didn’t winter as was the possibility for a time. Dave Woolan has taken to speaking in a high-pitched voice for some reason and Lennard talks on the phone to a Swedish journalist in his native tongue. The bridge is a cacophonic mix of weird noises and weird people. Christ! We’re all going round the bend as the vessel rolls along through a big swell, a ship of fools indeed! Watch off in the morning. The prospect of a lie-in is sublime.

1 March 1987

Blissfully lie in until 1130. We’re still rolling and pitching crazily and I make it to the saloon and slurp a wonderful, life-saving cup of tea. Staggered back to my bunk, gave lunch a miss and slept again until 1430. Sat and read in the saloon during the afternoon and watched the floor show of people trying to move about the ship as it rolled at crazy angles sending the furniture skidding across the floor crashing into bulkheads. Dinner was very unappetising but watch made up for it.

Pretty spectacular on the bridge this evening. Hove-to heading 330, just riding out the storm. From the bridge, the swells were absolutely magnificent, bows buried deep in the troughs to rise like an express lift out of the following crest. The wind increased again and it was hard to credit the size of some of the swells – at least 40 feet some of them, towering over the bridge, as the ship’s bows rose until nothing could be seen forward except the sky and then only to plummet – free falling – into the troughs when you’d think she’d just keep going down. A thump as she hits the bottom of the trough, a shudder through the ship as she jars from stem to stern, then the procedure is repeated again. Incredible!

In the middle of all this, we’d get side-swiped by a cross swell and we’d roll in the middle of this crazy motion. We’ve lost about half the crockery so far, I’m told, and even the most trivial of events – like pulling on a pair of socks – can become a major drama. Changed course yet again to 050 which eased the motion a bit and as the swell went aft, thankfully, Jim increased the revs and we went surfing at about 10 knots.

2 March 1987

Morning watch was a delight. The ship moves more easily today although we’re still rolling heavily. Sunshine at last! Crisp and sunny weather lifts everyone’s spirits. Steak and chips for dinner after an afternoon of finishing off paperwork and I hearten myself even more by listening to some loud music in my cabin which I share with no-one. Crestfallen, miserable and worried after trying to call Fiona to no avail. Being confined on a ship like this, contact with loved ones and any reference to the real world out there assumes proportions of gigantic importance. Now all I have to look forward to is a crew meeting and watch this evening. Crew meeting was brief and positive and then I’m called to the bridge to see Macquarie off the port beam. Paralleled the eastern shore and I stood on the bridge wing watching the surf cream along the ship’s length from the stern and lift the bows as it raced beneath us.

The stars were brilliant in a cloudless sky and the Aurora Australis promised another show but then faded. I could smell the faintest aroma rising from vegetation on the land, carried on the breeze, and people came on deck just to fill their lungs with the scent of land. Anchored at 2330 just opposite the weather station. Ashore in the morning. The mayhem of the sea passage over the last few days instantly forgotten.

3 March 1987

Roused by Ken at 0815. The ship is a hive of activity as people prepare to go ashore: dinghies buzzing around and Ken shouting and ordering people about on deck. Laughter and joking wafting in from the deck and I get myself together for a day of tourism. Jim clears quarantine with the doctor ashore and the first boat gets away by 0900. While we await our turn we are fascinated at the number of King penguins around the ship. There are at least fifty of the buggers and they swim around and around, clearly curious and unafraid, perhaps waiting to be fed like ducks in the park. I get away at 0930 and arrived on a gently shoaling beach, carpeted with thick kelp. King penguins all over the beach and we all spent the first ten minutes photographing these amazing creatures which will approach to within a few feet once you’re on their eyeline, which for me is easy.

We got taken for a tour by one of the guys at the station. It was a magical walk through lush vegetation which we all wanted to roll in. Elephant seals everywhere in wallows: farting, belching and snorting at our approach. The four-ton bulls are engaged in bloody fights at this time of year and they are given a very wide berth. Our guide gives us a highly informative lecture about the island and tells us that a guy called Hooker in the 19th century knocked off 120,000 fur seals in one year here and used to drive penguins into the vats alive in their droves. It must be ignominious to be named after the guy who tried his damnedest to wipe out your species. We make it to the northern shore where the object of Hooker’s attentions (fur seals and penguins) thankfully have outlived the bastard.

Back to the base for 1230 for lunch after which I give a talk about GP before we head out to the southern beach to see King, Royal, Gentoo and Rock Hoppers, elephant seals and skuas. It was a grand day – cold, blustery but sunny. The weather station team come on board for dinner and leave us to our own devices at 2130. Underway by 2300 and soon leave the comforting lee of the island back to the familiar rock and roll.

4 March 1987

Late again for my breakfast cooking stint and find Ken frying eggs with a grim face. On watch at 0800 to steer and Ken gradually loses his early morning reticence and we talk about the next expedition. He’s very keen and I know it will work well with Ken and Keith involved. I’m constantly tired now and feel that the delayed reaction to the exertions of the trip are catching up with me. Lunch then slept blissfully all afternoon. Nothing much else to report. Routine evening watch during which the base camp calls to tell us that the genny fuel is waxing at only minus 16 (it was guaranteed for at least minus 30). Informed Roger about this problem but there’s nothing we can do about it, obviously. Chatted with Keith and identified him as potential base leader for next year. Bruce turned up at my cabin door with a Clapton tape he had copied for me. Good ol’ Bruce. Drifted off to sleep to the strains of Layla.

5 March 1987

As the Auckland Islands hove into view, I was looking at them from the porthole of the galley as I cooked breakfast. On the bridge, I had the pleasure of steering the ship into the wide Courtney Sound and upto Figure of Eight Island. It was beautiful – calm, green and untouched. The islands were only discovered in 1806 and since then only a handful of sealers and castaways have been here apart from a vain attempt to settle the island which lasted only 2 years. The day became a GP Tours Inc event as we swanned in and out of fiords to see the sights – no landing permitted on this uninhabited island – Hooker seals, cormorants, beautiful waterfalls and lush greenery. The atmosphere is heady and we all had a great time. Failing light dragged us reluctantly away and we headed north for the Snares. Cleaned cabin as we swept along in fine weather. Jochen insisted on an interview and Ken on drinking a couple of beers with me. Saw 11 Russian fishing boats tonight. Welcome back to the real world.

6 March 1987

Huge breakfast after 6 hours sleep and told that the Snares are on the horizon. Steering 011 on watch to approach as the wind backs and the swell increases. By 1100 we’re off the Snares and bucking around in a storm-tossed sea in brilliant sunshine. The mandatory pictures are taken of these jagged outcrops of rocks as we steam past them and then it’s off to Stewart Island only 65 miles away. Ken cracks the whip as we clean the bulkheads and generally prepare the ship for landfall. By dinner, we’re off Stewart Island and the weather is absolutely stunning. Much late-evening pro-tanning going on as the temperature is in the high teens now. I was about to turn in after watch when Ken burst in holding a six pack moaning that no-one wanted to party. We sat and drank and Ken poured out his heart to me about the future, his emotional involvement with the expedition, Maureen and the ‘assessment’ meeting coming up. He finally left and I sank into my bunk and slept for a straight nine hours.

7 March 1987

Awoke to eggs on toast à la Ballard. Sunshine, moderate swell, the coast of New Zealand’s South Island on the port beam! Still on ship-cleaning duties so no watch. Luxury to sit there supping tea at 0830 without having to worry about rushing up to the bridge. Off Dunedin at 1100 and I find it hard to contain my excitement at the prospect of getting back to New Zealand, to Fiona and to some semblance of normality.

8 March 1987

I’ve been unable to eat for the last 24 hours and I’m doing my level best not to burst with excitement at the prospect of sailing into Wellington tomorrow. We’ve been away for 64 days and have travelled 7000 miles. And, what’s more, we’ve given one in the eye to all those governments who had the temerity to assume that Antarctica was their exclusive reserve. We’ve put an NGO toe-hold on the continent and can look forward to years of cut and thrust towards achieving the goal – World Park status for the continent.

We finally sailed into Wellington during the afternoon of Tuesday the 9th of March 1987. There to meet us were a lot of familiar faces holding their banners of welcome. The newspapers ran a picture the following day of Fiona and I hugging, but the rest of the day was lost in a welter of beer, partying and revelry. We arrived in Auckland a week later to another round of welcomes and parties. The ‘international’ mob of Greenpeace personnel turned up to ‘analyse’ the voyage and the coolness between those of us who had actually carried out the job and those who had – certainly in Maureen’s case – done their best, in our opinion, to hinder our efforts from the security of their offices – was tangible. The analysis had few benefits for us: it merely confirmed what we had decided on board months previously. I was asked to lead the expedition again and I made it clear that I wanted a clear mandate to operate exactly as I had before – in collusion with a tight group of people who knew what was needed and with minimum interference from the honchos who presumed to organise us and control events.