Chapter 28

Into the madhouse: 1987-88 trip

I had achieved my goal and met the Greenpeace objective – an Antarctic expedition which established the first ever NGO semi-permanent base on Antarctica, albeit after an initial failure. The opportunity to return yet again was, however, irresistible.

As I packed my battered suitcase in preparation for my third trip, I thought about the visit I had made to Mum’s place, a few days before, when we drank a whisky in toast to a successful trip, and I had cried on her shoulder. She told me that she was glad my father had not been around to witness the break-up of my marriage. Her desperate hope, I knew, was that I would marry and have children before I was too old and, more to the point, before she died. I knew she would have been happy to see me abandon this globe-trotting for a life of domesticity and fatherhood.

But whatever the future held, I was here, at Heathrow yet again, waiting for the boarding announcement. I was then, and still am today, a nervous flyer. While I was excited about the flight, Jumbo jets seemed very reluctant to leave the ground and I always had the feeling that we should have been airborne long ago while still stubbornly stuck to the runway. And in any case, a Jumbo weighs 500-odd tons on take-off. How is that possible? I had also realised that even the faintest glimmer of hope I harboured for an eventual return to Greenpeace UK was fast disappearing. I was, quite simply, not wanted and so long as I kept my distance and did not darken their door, it seemed that International was quite prepared to tolerate my involvement in the Antarctic campaign. It suited me for the time being, and I very rarely thought much beyond the next voyage. Never, for instance, did I think about what I would do when and if the Antarctic bubble burst and how I would earn an income without Greenpeace.

This left me in a peculiar position. I was increasingly critical of the organisation which paid me. The UK office had quite literally nosedived in terms of its profile since we had been ousted and while they were clearly benefiting financially from the post-Warrior sinking, in terms of campaigns and visibility, the organisation had almost disappeared. But for now, I buried these thoughts as deeply as I could, the better to concentrate on the task in hand.

Arriving in Auckland, Ken, Keith and Martini met me in the ship’s van and we drove to the nearest pub for a welcoming pint of ice-cold and almost unpalatable Kiwi beer. Keith, who had been in touch with the wintering team throughout the winter, gave me bleak news indeed. I already knew that things were not exactly going smoothly on the base, but apparently the cohesion had broken down completely and the team had divided into two factions which were virtually at war.

The genesis of this situation were unclear then and remained so even after dissection on board later, but in essence, it seemed that Gudrun had some kind of medical problem during the latter months which required Cornelius to examine her and administer treatment. Gudrun, through the now highly vociferous and table-thumping Kevin, had accused Cornelius of medical malpractice based on what amounted to an assault, a charge he vehemently denied.

The news from Keith got worse. He then calmly told me that the American female doctor we had belatedly appointed, a woman called Lynn Horton, was not, in his view, suited to the task in hand. She was very competent, highly motivated and keen to be part of the wintering team but did not appear to possess the mentality and attitude to the rigours of what would be, we knew, an emotionally harrowing trip.

This was to be the first time we would have to face a retiring wintering team, to collect them and cosset their fragile emotional states when we ourselves were in all likelihood to be in pretty tender conditions ourselves. We not only had the normal run-of-the-mill problems to contend with – the re-supply run itself and planning what were destined to be two very tiring ‘legs’ to the trip – but we were constantly assailed by the need to form an in-going team of winterers who were strong emotionally, physically and psychologically. As the days passed, the tensions, as usual, began to show and we vented those emotions on Sunday mornings by kicking a football around in a park at the back of Martini’s house in Grey Lynn. These games became essential for many of us and were looked forward to and participated in by many of the people from the office or those peripheral to the expedition and the ship. Our photographer for the trip was James Perez, a very likeable, loud and thoroughly engaging American who previously shot official match pictures for the San Francisco 49ers, so his shots of our football games were always eagerly awaited: we were rarely disappointed with the quality.

A month before departure, we learned that Lynn had a boyfriend back in the States. The relationship was only three months old. Despite her protestations to the contrary, we felt that she would not be able to maintain stability over the course of a year in Antarctic isolation without ministering to such a new and fragile relationship. A phone call from McFarlane, the officer in charge of Scott Base via his Christchurch office, alerted us to a worsening situation at the base camp. He advised us that Kevin and Gudrun had been away from Cape Evans for a week without making the necessary radio links with Justin to confirm their safety. They had been seen by a field party from Scott Base, way over in the dry valleys a few days previously, but no word had been received from them since. Keith and I conferred and agreed that the situation demanded a search and rescue request from the authorities. We were not inclined to ask for one at that precise moment since another twenty four hours would not significantly lessen their chances of being found and any search and rescue would confirm our amateur status in the eyes of our detractors, particularly the Americans who were just waiting for just such an opportunity to label all ‘amateur’ expeditions as liabilities and drains on their own facilities and resources.

Kevin was well aware of the need to demonstrate our self-sufficiency. Earlier in the year he had refused to call on the New Zealanders for help, even when he was lying in a tent only yards from their base with broken ribs sustained from a crash when his skidoo overturned. He had chosen instead to spend three days chewing pain-killers rather than succumb to the Antarctic emergency code of mutual help in dangerous situations. But this situation we now faced was potentially one of life and death and we decided to act.

McFarlane, a thoroughly decent bloke, accepted our call with the request to begin a search and rescue mission in subdued and slightly conspiratorial tones since he knew its seriousness, not only for Kevin and Gudrun’s safety but for the credibility of the Greenpeace expedition. Thankfully, they were both found alive and well and in no difficulties before the full-blown operation could get underway but Kevin’s attitude to the episode was one of complete contempt for what he considered our over-reaction. We henceforth initiated a 48 hours no-contact-alert programme which was never abused again.

Ken planned an ice/snow-familiarisation trip for some of the crew who would be most in need of it. He planned to take a party to Mount Cook in the South Island and, despite my protestations, he insisted that, as campaigner and expedition ‘leader’, I should go. We flew from Ardmore airport just outside Auckland in a tiny aircraft crammed full of equipment and vulnerable flesh. Once airborne, our young pilot breezily announced with a grin that he was in fact an aircraft mechanic and was trying for his pilot’s licence. And, oh yes, once we had refuelled in Christchurch, the turbulence we were already experiencing would be severe as we crossed the mountains, so be prepared. I looked at Ken with a startled expression: he was lost in reading a book and returned my gaze with a quizzical look. Over Cook Strait, the aircraft moved around so much that Henk Haazen actually threw up but we arrived safely at the airstrip close to the Mount Cook glacier after a gruelling but spectacularly scenic flight.

After ensconcing ourselves in one of the base huts on the valley floor (provided for idiots such as us by the authorities), we prepared our activities for the following few days. En route to the glacier, we practiced abseiling and after an hour or so of this, we began the march along the track which paralleled the glacier 600 feet below. Between the glacier and the path was a scree slope which had been cut by the glacier over the years and down this near vertical scree we slid and slithered to the glacier surface, followed by a few tons of rock and rubble.

We buckled crampons over our stiff walking boots. Ken had provided me with the cheapest pair he could find and within a few paces on the ice, I was limping and blisters were already forming on my feet. Somehow, I made it to the survival hut, but not before I had literally collapsed with exhaustion once or twice, a spectacle which had us all – including me – helpless with laughter. Despite the pain I was in, I was mesmerised by the glacier. It was spectacular in its scale and implacability, but it was also a mess of rocks and dirty ice pushed every which way by the inexorable pressure of the ice descending from the mountain. At the hut, we luxuriated in the absence of heavy backpacks and, in my case, of crippling boots as we drank tea and soaked up the scenery. I spotted two bright green birds flying up the glacier towards our position. To my amazement, they continued in our direction and landed no more than twenty feet from us as we sprawled on the ground. They were Keas, native New Zealand parrots, reportedly the most fearless and inquisitive of all the native bird species. One simply walked towards me, hopped onto my legs, down the other side and began pecking my wind jacket, as if to say, ‘Is this good to eat?’ I was told that on a previous trip here, Keas were seen to hang upside down from the guttering around the hut to see what was going on inside.

We were now above the snowline on the mountain and began practicing breaking someone’s fall into a crevasse by using the rope which attached us one to another. Then we made snow caves which would protect us from exposure should we be caught out in sub-zero, nil visibility conditions. They were surprisingly comfortable and warm, so long as the cold air sink built into them was deep enough. After four days of virtual rest, my feet were recovering somewhat but the thought of going climbing – our next activity – did not bode well for their continued healing. Nonetheless, I tied the tortuous boots lightly and off we set to climb Aguille Rouge which Keith told me as casually as possible, was a five hour climb, at the end of which we would build an ice cave and sleep there that evening.

As the gentle slope of the snow face steepened we began climbing, line astern and using the footholds of the preceding person to gain purchase. All was going well for a while, although my feet were beginning to chafe quite badly again. Then the wind picked up quite strongly. We continued and I noticed that we were now climbing at a 60 degree angle to the horizontal; it had also begun to snow quite heavily. We had now climbed most of the distance and were in a very exposed position on the mountain face. Guys were being knocked flat by the wind which was driving stinging snow into our faces as well as into every crevice of our clothing.

Keith indicated that it was time to leave, but not upwards, thankfully. He told us all to follow him one at a time and to do exactly as he did. He sat on his arse, facing down the vertiginous slope, kicked himself forwards and let gravity do the rest. The only input each of us had into the descent was to use our ice-axes as rudders to steer with and as an emergency anchor if we were about to die or lose control of the descent. Initial terror at the steepness of the incline quickly turned into pure delight. After a minute of descent, we had cleared the bad weather and emerged into sunlight. The mountain was spectacular and we whooped and shouted like a bunch of schoolkids at the pure thrill of sliding down a mountain at twenty miles an hour. Weight and mass soon overcame gravitational pull and we gathered in a grinning, happy group and made our way back to the hut. What had taken us three hours to climb, we had descended in what felt like as many minutes.

It was time to leave Mount Cook and face the possibly more dangerous task of flying back to Auckland. I told Keith that I could not, under any circumstances, contemplate walking out wearing the boots which crippled me so brutally. Even Werner, who manfully agreed to temporarily swap boots with me, agreed that they were excruciating to wear for more than a few minutes. I had an idea: I asked if anyone had had the foresight to bring a pair of trainers with them. Peter Malcolm had and I asked if I could use them. Keith snorted his contempt at this idea, saying that while trainers would be ok on the descent to the glacier as it was a mainly grass and rubble surface, I would need crampons to walk out of the icy glacier. No-one, he said, had ever used crampons with trainers. Well, I did, and I walked out on them, much to the amusement of most and to Keith’s chagrin, although to his credit, he asked me to pose for his camera as proof of the event.

We now had to climb up the 600 foot scree slope to the roadway which led back to our base camp, showers and relative comfort. We were told to ‘tread on the rocks as though they were eggshells’. Rock falls were regular occurrences. It took us maybe two hours to reach the pathway at the top of the moraine. Only one minor rock fall occurred but at the top we were all exhausted and grateful to be only an hour’s march away from our base camp, showers, hot meals and beer. We drove back to Christchurch and I flew from there to Auckland, the sooner to continue the preparation of the expedition while the others drove back, arriving the following day.

With Lynn out as an overwinterer due to fears of her emotional strength over the course of a year, we decided that she should make the trip and act as an understudy but it meant that Keith had to do some fast footwork to line up his team. Two last minute appointments brought his team up to full strength. He decided, with our blessing, not to take a doctor at all. He would act as paramedic, a position which he was qualified to fulfil. He beefed up the science programme by appointing a Polish marine biologist, rotund and jovial Wojtek Moskal, and dragooned Dutchman Sjoerd Jongens in as the electronics/communications expert. With only days to go before we left, we were set and everything finally clicked into place. We had many of the old salts from previous trips on board: Ken was to be my 8-12 watch mentor again and we were skippered once more by the redoubtable Jim Cottier. Bruce Adams was with us again, directing an American camera crew, Ray and Frank. Two journalists accompanied us: an Italian called Massimo and an American called Lesley Roberts. Maj De Poorter came again as the campaign assistant/environmental impact assessor.

Christmas 1987 came and we celebrated it in port before leaving a few days later on the third trip to Antarctica. It was to end, quite literally, in tears.

28 December 1987

Left the quayside in Auckland at 1410 bound for Wellington with sixty people cheering us off. NZ TV and four other media crews present. Hectic morning spent lashing down cargo and preparing for sea, sending off messages and generally trying to survive the chaos of well-wishing friends and supporters clambering all over the ship as we try to get ready for a long sea passage. Mixed feelings as always as we leave good friends and friendly Auckland but it’s good to be finally on our way in good weather as we pass Rangitoto, sipping well-earned beers on the foredeck. Swell increases during the evening watch and I take a pill – here we go again. Starboard poop deck barrels come loose within ten minutes of rolling and the fuel pump was found to be unlashed.

30 December 1987

As we’re early for our planned arrival in Wellington, we anchor at Castle Point. We rescue people in a small dinghy seen to be in trouble off the coast and hear later that we made it to the front page of the local rag. Leave Castle Point at 2130.

31st December 1987

I proudly steer the Black Pig, as she’s now affectionately known, into the harbour capital. Only a few press here to greet us.

3 January 1988

Had the Antarctic Association on board this morning who complain that our base is ‘too close to the historic site’ of Scott’s Hut at Cape Evans. They deliver a letter of complaint to me and I asked them if I could see a copy of the letter they (presumably) must have sent to the US authorities making a similar complaint that the huge, polluting and totally unsightly McMurdo base is too close to Scott’s Discovery Base at Hut Point, to which there is an embarrassed and awkward silence. I hand them the letter back saying that I’ll accept it when they can show me a similar letter to the US. They leave red-faced and so they should. Finally depart port for Lyttelton at 1545. Sit in my cabin with Sjoerd (Dutch base radio operator and electrician), Peter Malcolm , Maj, Henk and Martini and drink far too many beers.

4 January 1988

Jim became a grandfather today and he’s roundly congratulated. Arrive Lyttelton at 1030 to a very good reception and a lot of local press on the quayside. Press finally away by noon only to be followed by hoards of people who swarm all over the ship. It’s great to see such interest and there’s a lot of goodwill here in Lyttelton. To the British Hotel tonight with Jim in fine fettle. The pub is a biker hangout and these Mongrel Mob Maoris – six feet wide, tattooed and clad in ripped leather – turn out to be a great bunch. Peter Malcolm has them in stitches with his fluorescent socks and multi-coloured jumpers, not to mention his very British accent. Great night all round.

5 January 1988

On deck until lunch with Ken. Afternoon spent on the computer until I go for inflatable driving test with Ken which I apparently pass. Lots of messages from all over the Greenpeace empire today, most of them garbage and most of which I commit to the bin without responding. It seems as though people in the ‘new’ organisation have to justify their existence by sending out hundreds of facile, lengthy messages which generally contain only one pertinent piece of information – if that – hidden in its midst. Wojtek and Keith into Christchurch to outfit Wojtek. He’s now officially a winterer.

6 January 1988

Much activity on the ship today. Bob Thompson (NZARP) arrives during the afternoon with an MP in tow and we have a good discussion centring on mining. Attitudes seem to have mellowed but I still feel that Thompson presents one face to us and another to the Antarctic Division about us. British Hotel in the evening after a visit to see an Irish band at Warners in Christchurch. God, they were bad!

7th January 1988

Routine day for the most part, working on deck and receiving a constant stream of visitors and well-wishers. Presents, gifts of food, wine and beer arrive regularly and the people here, renowned for their hospitality, have taken us to their hearts and vice versa. The British Hotel staff and clients insist on throwing a party for us tonight (we didn’t need much persuading) and the party continues back on board the ship until 0430, a very traditional way to mark our last night in port.

The local Mongrel Mob showed up on the quayside and we were warned by the locals that they should not be allowed on board as they would start trouble, at which point Jim ordered us all up on deck to stand there looking as tough as we could while he told them to leave. I’m impressed by Jim’s firmness and refusal to be intimidated as just one of these heavy dudes could surely have taken Jim, me and about three of the others out single-handedly.

Later, one of the Mongrel gang waltzed into the saloon as calm as you like and asked to use the loo. As I was escorting him to the forward head, Jim came down the alleyway and asked me what was going on. I told him this guy needed the loo at which point Jim exploded, ‘Jesus Christ, Wilks! I’ve just spent ten minutes telling these guys they can’t come on board and now you’re taking one of them to the bloody loo! Off! Off! Get off the ship!’

I fall into bed at 0300 and let the party continue. As I drift off to sleep, I wonder how the winterers feel at this moment, their last few hours ashore for 12 months.

8 January 1988

Departure day and I take the opportunity, caused by the last minute delay in the arrival of parts for the satellite communications, to sign an affidavit in support of the court case currently being heard in the UK between the Dutch branch of GP and BNFL for the pipe-blocking action by Hans and his crew. It looks ominous for Hans and I fully expect him to get banged up. Back on board by midday when there’s a lot of rushing around on deck preparing to get underway. Then off to Christchurch airport to see the Deep Freeze US outfit where Bob Harler of the National Science Foundation meets us. He and other officials are very cool towards us but do indicate that the practice of dumping metallic waste through the ice at McMurdo (tide-cracking) has been abandoned (that’s one little victory for our presence there) and that the policy towards non-governmental organisations has changed due to a NSF directive. We can now expect to receive local weather and ice information.

We finally slip our moorings at 1915 before a good-sized crowd. By 2100, I’ve got the press release and photo away and I go on watch for the first of over 100 four-hour stints on the bridge. Moderate swell running which picks up by 2400 as we come off watch and there’s a lot of sickness on board as people feel the pitch and roll of the vessel in deep water for the first time. One particular roll devastated the cabin. By 0500 the ship is heading back to Lyttelton as the engine room reports that the rings on some of the pistons on the starboard main engine have disintegrated. We’re anchored in Pigeon Bay, just 12 miles from Lyttelton by 0600.

From the 10th of January 1988 to the 23rd January 1988, the Black Pig was immobilised in the port of Lyttelton while repairs were made to the ship’s starboard engine. The engineers occasionally required our assistance in cleaning up oil or hauling parts through the hatch cover, but in the main, the engineers worked round the clock without needing our unskilled labour, leaving the majority of us free to enjoy an unexpected windfall of thirteen days ashore.

As we cruised into Lyttelton on the port engine, Annie, the landlady of the British Hotel, called us on the VHF at 0700 to tell us that she was opening up the pub! While the enforced stay started out in a reasonably subdued manner, within a few days, we newly adopted sons and daughters of Lyttelton were being endlessly feted by the hospitable townsfolk. We went to countless parties and sojourns into Christchurch and we spent our time as though every day was our last. We organised a half-decent football team which played a quite brutal game against the crew of a Russian stern trawler, leaving us bruised and battered but victorious. People began to compete to invite us to dinner and on just about every evening we’d find ourselves entertained by different folks in town after which we’d invariably end up in the British where Annie would prepare us gigantic late-night snacks of hot-dogs and chips for which she refused to accept payment.

While all this hedonism was in progress, I tried to keep sane by attending to the administrative demands of the expedition and spent most of my days at the computer or driving the crane for the engineers as they pulled out massive pieces of metal from the engine room and lowered replacement parts into the bowels of the ship.

One of the most important decisions we had to make in the light of the ship breakdown was whether or not to cancel the second leg of the voyage to the Peninsular. Based on my experience of previous trips, together with the enforced delay we were experiencing and the fact that the crew would be wasted after even the first leg, I argued with Kelly Rigg that we should abandon the second leg, a view to which she reluctantly and, as it turned out, only temporarily agreed. All this discussion was swept aside on the 22nd when the engineers announced that we could leave whenever we felt ready. In order to get us out of Lyttelton, to which many of the crew were becoming very attached, Jim and I decided we should leave the very next day.

Our final day and night in Lyttelton will remain with me for a long time. It was traditional ‘birdman’ day in the port when all manner of weird costumes and designs were worn by an endless line of townsfolk as they propelled themselves off the jetty in attempts to ‘fly’. The party atmosphere on board was infectious and soon the ship was jammed with literally hundreds of people taking advantage of its close proximity to the action. By mid-afternoon, Ken had rigged up a stereo system on deck which was belting out Talk Talk across the harbour and the mother of all parties was in full swing on board.

I had dinner with some well-wishers that evening and in the early hours of the morning we sat in the long grass at the side of a charming little house on the steep slopes, overlooking the harbour and our little ship beneath a sky studded with a million stars. As we sat there, looking down on the ship and discussing our imminent voyage, I was startled by the arrival of three sheep, kept by the owner of the plot of land, which came and nuzzled us like so many cats. On the 23rd we finally steamed out of the famous harbour from where so many expeditions had set off in the past. Our departure was attended by all the good people and friends we had met who showered us with gifts and presents of food and hooch – as if we hadn’t had enough over the previous two weeks. Lyttelton will always have a place in my heart and I will never forget those two weeks or the warm hospitality shown to us.

23 January 1988

Leave Lyttleton at 0900 and I steer out of port (always a bummer as you miss out on all the farewells, but it does mean that you avoid the arduous job of securing the mooring lines in the lockers) and don’t get off the wheel until 1030. The sea is flat calm and the engine noise has changed totally – none of the familiar chuff-chuff which so characterised the ship hitherto. Pull into Port Levy Bay to allow the engineers and the helo guys to finish their last minute work away from the slight swell which has developed and finally away by 1330 as we hug the coast to allow a few hours of acclimatisation. Keith a little pensive tonight. Albatrosses all around the ship and three or four big sharks seen. Two beers with Ken then bed by 0100.

24 January 1988

Dog-tired when called at 0700 but make it to breakfast at 0740. Seals, albatrosses and another shark seen during watch. The NZ Royal Navy cutter Taupo steams around us during the watch and then shows us her turn of speed as she careers off to the starboard and for the coast. Bruce interviews me in the afternoon and I then prepare a long telex to the base to outline re-supply practicalities. Laze in the beautiful late afternoon sun as I doze on the foredeck. We leave the NZ coast today and head for the 180 meridian on a slightly west of south course (188). Swell increases in the afternoon but still very calm and hot in a gentle southeaster. Talk to the base at 1915. Tensions evident in their voices. Beautiful evening on watch and when it grows dark, the sky is studded with millions of glittering stars. Two beers with Ken and Egon. Bed at 0040.

25 January 1988

Still calm but swell picks up mid-morning. Overcast and foggy after a bright start. Crew meeting planned for tonight to discuss Cape Evans ops and ice safety. Seas still remarkably calm as we pass 52 south at noon. No response from the base to my long telex. Sun disappears as the weather claggs in. Temperature plus 11. Surprise fire drill has us all up and jumping and the muster on the poop deck is in good time.

26 January 1988

Dull, grey weather. Noon position 54 30 south, 176 30 east. Prepare an update for the Greenpeace offices after lunch. In the afternoon, I pack my emergency gear for abandon to ice. This backpack will stand sentinel by the doorway for the rest of the trip in case we are forced into any sort of emergency evacuation. Do the campaign accounts and then ask Dave Woolan for any response from the base to the telex – still none. Still calm but a northwesterly swell is now gathering which corkscrews us along form the starboard quarter. Uneventful watch during which the highlight is making contact with the yacht bearing the ridiculous name of the Alan and Vi Thistlethwaite in honour of the couple who bought it on behalf of the Australian Bicentenary expedition, whose five-strong crew is to climb Mt Minto as a celebration – quite what they’re celebrating is lost on me. They’re off Cape Adare. The temperature at the Greenpeace base is reported to be PLUS 8! There’s also apparently more snow around than last year and the store shed is still buried beneath a drift. Strange familiar routine descends on the ship. Not much going on in the saloon at night but the atmosphere is buoyant.

27 January 1988

Weather still overcast, drizzling and generally miserable although wind is still 10 knots from NNE and the resultant gentle following swell makes life bearable. Antarctic Convergence in the small hours of tomorrow and we reach 60 south in the morning. Two beers and a rum with Ken and bed at 0100 after sending a hopefully comforting reply to Kevin.

28 January 1988

Comet day today. Up at 0745, grab some tea after a wash down at the sink and take the wheel at 0800. Grey, lumpy seas from the port quarter, light winds from the NE. The Greenwave (US supply ship) reports she’s reduced to 4 knots in heavy weather to the east of us and southerlies are predicted for us which thankfully don’t materialise. Felt achy all day and I resign myself to the fact that I’m coming down with my seasonal bout of the flu. Feel very tired again and after a long talk with Kevin, (he’s marginally more conciliatory) I fall asleep in the saloon and arrive late for watch. 62 south now but still no bergs. Twilight all night for the first time. Should be in the pack ice on Saturday and arrive Ross Island on Monday.

29 January 1988

Saw our first berg at 64 south at 0935 and a school of whales come and feed around the ship a little later on, confirming that we are in the Antarctic proper now. It’s so good to be back. Weather still good to us and more predicted southerlies only blew for an hour or so before backing. Crew meeting today at which I bring the crew up to speed with campaign news and Peter Malcolm goes into re-supply details; Maj talks about environmental constraints on our activities. We then get a tour around a spectacular ‘becaved’ berg, courtesy of Jim and in lighthearted mood we descend to the daylit saloon at 2400 for a party to celebrate the fact that Ken has engineered a day off watch for the 8-12 tomorrow.

30 January 1988

What bliss and luxury to lie in bed until 1230! Brief messages off to Kelly and others and we enter the pack at 2000. Jim takes his first ice-spotting flight and reports loose pack all around the ship. Ken sends me up the crow’s nest and I see the same scenery from this lofty vantage point. We are forced to head NE and even N once or twice to access the southerly leads. First contact with McMurdo at 2200. They kindly give us a 24 hour weather prognosis ‘at our own risk’ in their peculiar, drawling tone which has the pitch of Mickey Mouse, over the UHF. But the fact that they have agreed to give us weather information is a moral victory of sorts; they now at least recognise us as a legitimate, if unwelcome expedition. Keith and I on the helo deck for fire and marshalling duties and then bed by 0200.

31 January 1988

Clear of pack by 1000. Heading 180, overcast, light NW winds, gentle swell. Confronted by strips of brash ice and pack throughout the day, but in clear water by 2100. Tidy cabin and do my dobying and then Lynn comes to my cabin asking if she can be treated as press which I find laughable. Her justification is that some obscure US magazine has apparently asked her to write an article on her ‘US female doctor in Antarctica on Greenpeace ship full of gung-ho males’ experience. I tell her ‘no’ and deny her any special privileges reserved for the press. Can’t sleep tonight as I contemplate the coming events of the next few days and my cabin-mate Swenson’s snoring does nothing for my ability to drift off into a much needed sleep. Large pod of orcas around the ship this afternoon and the light was quite extraordinary as it was reflected from a huge iceberg which sat implacably on the horizon this evening.

1 February 1988

My restless night left me tired and grumpy and I awoke with a feeling of foreboding at the prospect of the reunion with the winterers. Although it will be a memorable occasion – the first time we’ve seen them in 12 months – it will, I know, be a traumatic affair as all the pent-up emotions and grudges of the last year come tumbling out. Another flat calm day with snow showers – some heavy enough to encourage a brief snowball fight between me and Ken. Watch was mundane and no wildlife chose to grace us with its presence. Work on deck with Ken in the afternoon shifting the gangway and filling fuel tanks on the inflatables. Interviews with Bruce and Lesley. Strategy meeting with Jim and then retire to my cabin to sketch and listen to music. Re-supply planning meeting in the evening which involves the helo teams, Ken, Jim, Keith and the logistics guys more than me but the sense of impending activity – the first ever re-supply and relieving of our wintering team – is strong.

2 February 1988

Wind too strong at 0600 to permit flying so we’re stood down for an hour. At 0800 we’re off Cape Royds and the wind is dropping all the time. We’re back in this very special place which has grown so familiar to us over the years. During the night, we steamed from brilliant midnight sunshine into a depression visible off the ice-shelf and now that depression is giving us snow squalls. Gary fires up the helo and as planned, he flies me alone to the base at 0830. It’s quite a sight from the air and memories come flooding back as we fly the short distance from the ship to Cape Evans. There they are, all of them outside the hut, jumping and waving.

Gary drops me off with a quick wave before he lifts off again and heads back to the ship and then I’m engulfed in arms and bodies clad in bulky down jackets as people greet me with hugs, slaps on the back and the odd tear or two. Justin is a bit subdued. Gudrun’s hair is long and golden, Corny’s beard has grown long and his hair is tied back in a ponytail. I hand them a sack full of mail and tell them we’ll meet in an hour after they’ve had time to skim the precious news from friends and loved-ones. I take off for a wander round the base. As I walk, I ponder what their reaction will be to the decision Kelly and I have already taken that these guys should not come on the ship for the second leg of this expedition. There is no way they can stand the added stress of such a long sea passage.

We finally sit together and talk and the first thing they do is agree that our decision is wise, although Justin expresses his reluctance in accepting it. Then I bring up the hoary subject of Kevin and Gudrun’s trek which took them out of contact for a week and which almost prompted a full scale search and rescue. This immediately brings out the latent hostility, especially between Justin and Kevin, and Justin walks out of the meeting almost beside himself with inexpressible bile and angst. I follow him to his room where he is in a fit of sobbing. He hugs me and completely breaks down telling me I have no idea what hell he has been through in the last six months. I feel so responsible for these guys, especially Justin, who has been so unselfish during the whole episode of the expedition organisation from the very first day I met him. We gather as a unit again after Justin has been consoled and it is clear that my intention of lancing the boil before the team are back in the bosom of the crew is not going to work – there’s just too much anger which needs to be purged and I can’t do it in a few hours.

The ship appears in the bay at midday and the helo lifts off with the press on board. As they step out of the helo on the Cape Evans beach, tensions are relieved somewhat as they are greeted by a hail of snowballs. The next flight brings in Keith, Sabine, Wojtek and Sjoerd, the in-coming wintering team, and there’s another round of hugging and tears. The press fuss around the two teams for a while, getting their shots, and I leave them to it, getting back to the ship around 1400. I now have work of a different kind to do and spend the next few hours with Maj getting a press release out together with James’ pictures of the reunion. We’re finished by 1700 and I go to my cabin to collect my thoughts and muster my emotions.

By 2000 after dinner, everyone’s back on board for a ‘homecoming’ party which doesn’t actually get going with any sort of oomph until 2200. I enjoy it for an hour, watching people renew old acquaintances and letting their hair down after an arduous voyage, but I’m so tired I have to hit the hay at 0030. Quite a day. Many problems still to resolve and I’m sure it is not going to be an easy passage from here on in. But at least they are all alive and in one piece, at least physically: what more could we ask?

3 February 1988

Up at 0730 raring to go. No-one else seems to be in a hurry to begin the re-supply and Ken finally wanders into the saloon at 0830, coffee in one hand, roll-up in the other, jeans tucked into Wellington boots, pile jacket unzipped, exposing the electronic equipment with which he’ll keep in radio contact with the bridge and the helo on the air band, headphones slung around his neck and a balaclava hanging down the front of his chest. Hardly the sort of get-up you’d expect to see an Antarctic expeditioner in, but then Ken knows from experience that within the hour, he’ll be sweating buckets and heavier gear would be uncomfortable and impractical. We finally begin sling-loading at 1000. 15 loads away including the satcom tower base sections and the wind generator tower. 30 barrels discharged this afternoon plus the incoming genny and the Apple survival hut which will be used to sleep some of the shore-side people during the re-supply.

Bruce wants to do another interview with me outside the hut so I’m excused deck duties for a couple of hours. Back by 1600 and continue on deck until 1800 when dinner is a welcome excuse to break. Five more loads away after dinner, after which I call Jim, Ken, Keith, Peter Malcolm, Maj and Gary together to plan the next few days. Watch Bruce’s video which he shot today and by 2300 we’re all sat down relaxing with a beer. Bed by 2400 after a good day. Lots accomplished and took a good bite into the cargo. Weather perfect and I can’t resist taking half an hour to sketch Erebus before I turn in.

4 February 1988

After a Ken breakfast, we’re on deck at 0845. Wind gusting to 30 knots and a slight swell and more marked chop are evident. Only five loads away before lunch and then I’m required to work on the computer on ‘campaign’ work until 1400: I send an update to the offices, a message to Kelly and to the OIC at Scott Base informing him of our intended activities and asking for the keys to Scott’s Hut since we’d like to look around. Jim lifts the hook and steams around as a result of ice being blown in from the north and we get a spectacular view of the Erebus ice-tongue and the Barn Glacier – absolutely superb.

Kevin, Gudrun, Keith and I spend a couple of hours chatting and I begin to get a fuller picture of the harrowing year they’ve experienced. Kevin is remarkably forthcoming and accommodating which I hope bodes well for his attitude to this drama. Bed at 2300.

Well. Those last few lines were premature – and how. Wandered onto the bridge just before I turned in to find Cornelius talking on Ch 6 VHF to a woman he’s been fraternising with at McMurdo – Vicky Getz. She has apparently been fired for associating with Greenpeace personnel. She is prepared to fight the National Science Foundation to expose their petty attitude and I discuss with Corny and Jim what we should do. I favour the idea of bringing her to the ship and releasing a story that we have offered sanctuary to a victimised and perfectly innocent employee – or better still as a defector – but it’s clear that Vicky has been the cause (or one of them) of the tensions between Corny and Kevin during the year and that her presence on board would complicate the situation considerably.

We finally agree to ask Vicky to accept her fate, go home to the States and then to fly to Washington from where the US Greenpeace office can handle the story. This will distance her from the ship and the conflicts brewing and get one problem off my back. The group dynamics are just too complicated on board to handle this from the ship.

Finally get to bed at 0200 and agree to finalise decision at 0700. I’m tired and wrung out by the constant emotionally charged meetings, deck work, desk work, planning and press interviews, all of which are complicated by the need to keep the crew informed of what’s going on to avoid the charge of being secretive or elitist.

5 February 1988

0700 meeting agrees that I should meet Vicky today to put our plan to her. Light morning on deck before Keith, Corny, Maj and I go to LGP3 (our little outpost comprising of a wooden shack and tent just outside Scott Base) to get film away to NZ via contacts at Scott Base. The flight over the hummock is stunning – literally breathtaking as we soar over the base, the ice and on into the interior for a few miles. Beyond stretches the plateau across which I could almost see Scott and his party trudging ant-like on their fateful journey to the pole a mere eighty years ago.

Vicki arrives – a small, determined and very vocal woman – and we agree that she should get to Washington after she’s been shipped out by the NSF where she will spill the beans on the incredibly aggressive attitude they adopt to anyone fraternising with scum like us. We arrive back at the ship at 1800 whereupon Kevin berates me for leaving Cornelius alone at LGP3 as he fears Corny will be a target for the NSF corruptors. This sounds like paranoia gone berserk and reminds me that these guys – Kevin in particular – are not in the real world at the moment.

Cornelius is very accommodating when I explain why I want him back on board and he arrives full of good cheer at 2330, only to run into Kevin’s antagonism again. Kevin and I sit drinking beer for two hours as he details the year from his perspective. It is a grim story indeed if even ten per cent of it is true. I pass on the warnings their experience has thrown up to Sabine in the most gentle terms I can find. Jim cracks the rum to celebrate his birthday and I crash at 0130, leaving some of the more hardy souls to continue. Christ! What a job! Psychologist, mediator, sounding board, shoulder to cry on, decision maker, crane driver, deckie, adviser – you name it!

6 February 1988

Busy day. Due to the increasingly cold weather, we start later than usual to avoid the biting early morning wind, but work later to compensate. Got a reply from Scott base regarding the keys to Scott’s Hut – no way. It’s almost become a point of honour now and I’m determined to get these guys to back down. Scott was English, after all and there’s no way we should be denied access to one of our historical monuments. Work like hell to get the port locker cleared of the walkway sections and then more heavy labouring bringing the food up from the forecastle store room. Finish at 1830 but then have to get messages away to Kelly. Things are starting to move quickly now and I hope I’m keeping abreast of all the developments.

Ashore, the satcom tower is 75% finished and the Footsteps Hut we inherited is installed against the side of our base. Only the food and the fuel are left on board. Latest ice reports indicate only a narrow gap in the outer ice through which we can travel. Jim seems unperturbed. Kevin bends my ear for hours about how we have not sufficiently discussed the policy on approaching the US at McMurdo. He’s beginning to really piss me off. He uses the discussion to give vent to his pent-up emotions and I feel obliged to indulge him as long as possible. Weather perfect all day except that a northerly wind has conspired to block the beach with drift ice. Jim’s continuing birthday party is still going on ashore and I reach it to find that only six stalwarts are still in revelry mode. Back to the ship by 0130 and gratefully to bed, totally drained emotionally.

7 February 1988

Steam off at 1600 to check out the fuel depots at Butter Point and elsewhere to check for leakages – none found. Back to Cape Evans by 0115 and find that our anchorage is not suitable for satellite connection. Ken and I have to lift the hook again and Jim repositions the ship in a better place. We earn a beer from Jim for our troubles. Bed by 0300, exhausted.

8 February 1988

Work on deck until 1330 when Keith, Kevin and I prepare for our trips to Scott and McMurdo. We land at LGP3 after circling Scott Base and not being able to pick them up on HF or VHF for landing permission. McMurdo came on air with a strange transmission advising us that we land at our own risk. Meeting with Ayers at Scott Base was predictably formal tinged with a little humanity. No mail runs for us, he tells us, keys to the huts possibly before we leave and happy to have our winterers visit for an informal chat. But they all seem pretty reasonable guys and accept the fact that we are here to stay so they might as well accept us.

Ron Le Count is altogether different. He reminds me of a New York cab driver in his appearance and approach but he’s an affable old sod beneath his gruff exterior, even if he is a CIA agent as Kevin would have us believe. I tell him he’s dealing with semantics rather than issues when he complains about what we were quoted as saying last year about NSF’s operation and he quietly seems to accept that. He sticks to the party line that nothing except science is going on at McMurdo and offers us to inspect his files except those which ‘contain information about salary levels’ – oh, come on Ron! Oil spillages? Sure they occur, he concedes, but they’re doing their best to clean them up. He invites me to meet him in Washington and refuses to believe that I’m an ex-lorry driver.

Ron arranges for a truck to take us back to LGP3 from where we try in vain to call the ship to arrange the helicopter to come and collect us. Finally, Swenson bangs the VHF in frustration and it works. We get picked up at 1930 and I send off a flurry of messages from the ship and fall into bed at 0200. My energy level is nearing zero.

9 February 1988

Heard today that the international board is trying to move Maureen Falloon sideways for some reason we can only guess at: perhaps she has become too powerful in her present position. Hard, hard day on deck. We worked 15 hours solid today with only brief breaks for tea and food. Messages off to Scott and McMurdo to set up the informal visits by the winterers for the 11th, messages off to Kelly debriefing her on the meetings yesterday, press release, pictures out, working on deck, talking to Justin about his problems with Kevin and Gudrun, writing captions for the pictures, meeting the crew to run through the remaining work programme and working like a Trojan on deck bringing food up from the bowels of the ship and then sling-loading it away to shore. I should have demanded double the money I asked for! I don’t see much of Swenson these days as he’s working ashore most of the time and I miss the miserable little bastard. Peter Malcolm estimates a further three working days to finish off the base re-supply and additional construction. Message from McMurdo confirming the 11th. Stagger to bed half asleep at 0200.

10 February 1988

Left to sleep until 1000. Greeted on the bridge with an ice chart which shows the outer ice pack closing in all the time. Jim is still philosophical but Ken privately expresses his concern to me. Paperwork is a light load today and I spend almost all day on deck – me, Ken and Roger, the helo engineer – known as the A team. Roger is a real character: quiet to the point of being almost invisible and droll as they come. He was helping us drag the frozen meat up out of the forecastle peak the other day and he emerged from the gloom staggering up an almost vertical flight of stairs pushing a 50kg box before him, sweating and quietly cursing with long lines of snot dangling from his nose. He’s a hero, is our Roger.

Ayers finally agrees to accept our winterers on the same day as they visit McMurdo which simplifies our logistical arrangements considerably. Thank Christ! That’s all the meetings arranged and done with. He even agrees to open up the Scott and Royds huts for us on the 12th. Two crew briefings today – one ashore and one on board at 2200 and 0030. Wind genny is up and running. Sprawl on my bunk at 0100 and pile on the music in some sort of weak celebration about seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. Asleep before the first track is finished.

11 February 1988

Supposed to be up at 0530 to help prepare and steer the ship down McMurdo Sound to the US base but finally fell out of bed at 0645 as we were entering the channel. They had no idea we would accept their invitation so literally – taking the ship to their ice wharf was definitely not expected and as we nudge alongside, Ron is there puffing on his pipe and turning his back to the wind as we drop the gangway. Tied up at 0845 which prompts Ron to say, as I extend my hand in greeting, ‘You’re fifteen minutes late, ass’ole.’ He turns his back to the wind again and says, ‘And you can get that piece of shit outta here as well!’ nodding past my shoulder to the ship.

I grin and tell him as I sweep my arm to embrace McMurdo base, ‘And you can get this piece of shit outta here as soon as you like, ass’ole.’ We both laugh. He’s ok is Ron. He comes on board and together with Commander Fisher, they walk calm as you like into the lion’s den – the saloon on the ship – and seem totally unconcerned that the cameras are present. They stay for more than an hour, fielding questions from me, Maj and other crew members. Bruce Adams tries to provoke Ron for the cameras but he is rounded on by a perfectly eloquent and capable Ron who minces Bruce into little pieces. I have to hand it to him – he’s got some balls. I agree to meet Ron ashore at 1500 and he leaves with Fisher.

Crew are now free to go ashore and Keith, Ken and I go to Discovery Hut which Scott used in his 1908 expedition and which is now surrounded by huge oil tanks, oil spills and the dross of human habitation in this outpost of civilisation. The bay which abuts the hut is contaminated to the point of biological death by the heavy metals and run-off of contaminants from McMurdo. I guess Scott regularly turns in his grave.

Keith and I wander into Mactown and set up a meeting for him with Fisher at 1330. Back to the ship at 1200 to find it seething with people: the merchandise is selling like hotcakes to the McMurdo personnel. Crew meeting at 1400 to brief the crew on the demonstration we’re planning at the open rubbish tip above Mactown and then I go to see Ron with Keith and Maj, thus missing out on seeing the inside of Discovery Hut which the Kiwis finally open for us. On the way back to the ship at 1700 we meet several groups of crew members heading into Mactown despite the briefing I gave them earlier about the demo.

Back on board, nothing is ready – no-one has been assigned to watches, no banners are ready and it seems as though my powers of delegation have reached rock-bottom. I finally assemble what can be loosely described as a group of protesters and we struggle through town to the dump, a straggling line of cold, unwilling and windswept protesters and we finally get the shot completed outside the dump which really is a mess. It’s an open tip in which the waste is regularly burned sending wind-blown rubbish into the air.

On the way back, Keith and I find a lorry battery casually tossed on the roadside and struggle back to the ship with it to deliver to the NSF in Christchurch as a further focus of some future protest. I had hoped that with the ship docked in McMurdo, we would have been able to drag one of the lorry chassis which have been dumped along the waterline onto the ship with the crane, but Ken tells me it’s impractical so that wheeze is out, regrettably. The evening turns into quite a party. The ship is heaving with people and Ron turns up with a bottle of rum. After an hour or so, Ron is surrounded by quite hostile crew and James Perez tells Ron aggressively that he’s ‘full of shit’ and I hustle Ron off to Ken’s cabin to make my apologies to him and have a quiet and pleasant drink with him. Thirty one samples of snow and water taken by Sabine today for later analysis for contamination. We finally pull the ship out at 2200 and arrive back at Cape Evans at 0115. Quite a day, but I’m glad to see the back of it.

12 February 1988

Minus 8 and blowing hard today – 25 knots. It improves by 1000 and Gary flies off to collect Ayers and Colin McFarlane from Scott Base for their visit to the ship. They arrive with the keys to Scott’s and Shackleton’s Cape Royd’s Huts. Lunch on board with Ayers, McFarlane and Jim – all very amicable. Continue with paperwork in the pm and watch the helo take off with crew for Cape Royds. As the waves of crew return in the late afternoon, I notice that Lynn has not logged back on board and it transpires that she’s gone back to Scott Base with Ayers et al with Jim’s blessing. I’m not happy at all with this and tell Jim I think he’s made a mistake. Lynn on the loose in Scott Base is not a good idea and Jim reluctantly agrees that he made an error of judgement. Keith gets to hear about it and arrives back on board at 2200 purple with rage and demands to see me and Jim. I’ve never seen Keith so out of control.

We call Lynn back from Scott Base and as she sets foot on board, Keith ‘bans’ her from ever leaving the ship again during the expedition. She demands to see me to get a second opinion and I have to back Keith. It’s my opinion that Lynne is in danger of becoming a loose cannon. Then Frank the cameraman wants to see me to complain about Bruce who, he feels, is not directing the film shoot correctly. An already hard day turns into a psychotherapy session and many people are left feeling hurt and bruised by the reaction of others. Ship of fools is a phrase which springs to mind. I feel that treading this diplomatic tightrope will crack me up. Bed at 0100 and I don’t even bother to undress. The cabin is a mess of papers, clothes and equipment and I lay on it all and sleep the sleep of the dead.

13 February 1988

Technically our last re-supply day. Work on deck from 0830 to 2330 almost solid, frantically slinging load after load of food ashore and receiving backloads of rubbish from the base. We do our best to stow the backloads before the helo arrives with another sling and the frenetic activity pushes us to the limit at times. I just pray that we don’t have an accident through tiredness and impatience. The last load from shore arrives at 2300 thank God. Then it’s a blissful hot shower and ashore for the party. Exchange of gifts, speeches and much hugging precedes a few drinks only interrupted by the need to take a decidedly drunken Bob Graham back to the ship which I do with Ken, largely to ensure Ken doesn’t deck him or push him over the side on the way back, so low has the relationship between these guys become.

We sit talking until about 0300 when the party breaks up and Sabine kindly allows me to use her room. Tomorrow we will say goodbye to these guys and it will mark the end of the job we’ve spent months preparing for. I lie on the bunk and through the window of the hut I watch the morning sun catching the ship in the bay and a kind of magic descends on me. I wonder how much emotional energy I’ve invested in this place over three years. Too much probably, but I love it deeply and I hope I can hack what remains of this trip without going completely ga-ga.

14 February 1988

Up at 1000 and straight back to the ship to plan departure. I can foresee chaos unless I nail people down to specific tasks. People on board the ship say their farewells to the winterers at 1400 and then both sets of winterers, incoming and outgoing, come ashore with me with the press for the farewell shots ashore. It’s a complete nightmare as the demands of the cameramen clash with the carefree attitude and emotional nature of the occasion.

Wojtek is clowning constantly and Kevin simply refuses to co-operate. After 25 shots, James is losing his patience and begins screaming at them to stay still. All this mayhem is being filmed by Bruce and his crew and I can feel my hair turning grey. I quietly say my goodbyes to Sjoerd who tells me selflessly that I’ve been a good, strong leader and then to Sabine and Wojtek. I avoid Keith for a long time, not trusting myself to stay dry-eyed when I say goodbye to this character. Eventually we face each other and hug mightily. I won’t see this guy for a long time and over the years he has become like a brother to me. I can’t hold back and have to wander off to hide my tears.

To regain my composure, I start organising the boats back to the ship and the people who will occupy them, in what order. After the first boat has left I clamber into the second one and sit next to Gudrun, Kevin and Bruce. As we run towards the ship, the winterers look so lost and forlorn on the beach, four tiny figures in front of the hut, itself dwarfed by Erebus and I feel drained and empty as I see Keith give a final wave and then turn his back. Gudrun is openly sobbing and can’t take her eyes off the base. It must be so much harder for her to leave this place which she loves and which holds so many strong memories for her, both good and bad.

Back on board, the anchor is weighed and Jim gives five long blasts on the horn which signals the end of the re-supply and seems to turn my legs to jelly. Then James remembers he’s left some camera lenses at the base so we have to prolong the agony by putting a boat down again and taking a big sweep past the hut with the ship as we retrieve the dinghy. All the winterers are sitting outside the hut side by side on the settee in the sun – the idiots. Then we head north and gradually the hut becomes a smudge of green and the Cape recedes into the distance. Goodbye, my good friends. Will I be here next year to pick you up? Goodbye Keith, you stupid ass’ole. Who loves ya?

My reveries are cut short by a call from Ken to help on deck and as we steam through the beautiful and tranquil waters of the south Ross Sea, Werner and I work hard for a punishing two hours before watch at 2000. Steer the ship for three hours as others are engaged in deck and helo work and then I start the process of sending out the pictures and press releases with Maj and James. Everything finally away by 0100 and then asked for an interview by Leslie and Mossy as we head for Terra Nova. Finally crash at 0300 totally exhausted. Again, I don’t even bother to undress.

15 February 1988

Allowed the campaigner’s rare luxury of a long lie in and someone finally wakes me at 1200 otherwise I’m sure I would have slept all day. Stagger around for an hour and then begin preparing the messages for the Italians at Terra Nova, our next port of call. Before I get too deeply involved in that, however, I look at the cabin and realise it is in a disgraceful mess and that I must do something. I start by doing my dobying and change the sheets on the bunk. I then confront the chair which is piled three feet high in working clothes, all of which smell of diesel and rubbish, a fetid smell which reminds me of the butcher’s shop I worked in as a kid. Finally get the room tidy and sweep the carpet for the first time since we’ve been at sea. It feels so good! 1800 and time for dinner. Expect to anchor at 0400 and I rush off the messages to announce our arrival before going on watch at 2000. Watch is quite exciting as we close the coast and negotiate ice – I’m up and down the nest like the proverbial Tower Bridge. Bed at 0100.

16 February 1988

Confused morning. We steam into Terra Nova at 0820 after hanging around for three hours due to bad ice conditions and I contact the OIC on VHF. We get ashore on the first boat to see a quite dramatic landscape. It’s snowing heavily and the sea is icing up by the hour. Visibility is very limited and it’s approaching minus 10. As we get ashore, we’re greeted by eight people including the OIC, a guy called Mario, who seems to be nice enough but who doesn’t stop talking in broken but perfectly understandable English. James drops his camera as he steps from the boat and I retrieve it instinctively by plunging my arm into the water up to my shoulder. The second boat arrives with Maj for whom we wait before walking to the base itself. It’s a summer-only base at present and was only built three years ago. Good environmental principles have been applied – catalytic converters on the genny exhausts, sewage treatment systems, etc. We sit in the mess and state our positions: the OIC wants no ‘polemic’ and reminds us we are a private expedition enjoying the hospitality of a national programme. We express our concerns about future expansion of the base and the possibility of an airstrip which he mentioned. After lunch, I’m anxious to get back to the ship and leave Maj to conduct the formal ‘inspection’ as we like to call it, since she’ll be writing the report for GP.

My plans for a sleep are interrupted by the need to work on deck with Ken and by the Italian journalists who follow me back from the base for interviews. I call for the shore-siders to be back on board by 1400 to ensure minimum disruption to the Italians’ work schedule and am then confronted by an irate Kevin who berates me for a poor briefing for the crew prior to arrival which has meant that many crew are wandering off ashore on their own. The party we’re invited to ashore is cancelled due to the weather so I invite the OIC to the ship. He arrives on our boat with Mossy (who will stay with them and hitch a ride back to Italy with them) and the chief scientist of the base.

After dinner, a live interview with RAI is set up for me on the bridge but I can’t hear a bloody thing from the interviewer and the exercise proves abortive. After an exchange of gifts, the Italians leave amid much bonhomie and back-slapping. Snowball fight breaks out on deck during which I slip and crack my hip a heavy blow on the deck. What with that and my aching back, I feel 100 years old. Decide that as the weather is improving, we can get Maj and Gudrun off to Gondwana (the German base) tonight to take scientific samples and they get airborne at 2400 as we steam up and down past spectacular scenery – glaciers, bleak, snow-dusted mountains and fast-ice shelves. What a place! Maj and Gudrun back at 0200 with lichen samples and we get away for Hallet at 0300. Bed at 0330 after helping put the helos to bed.

17 February 1988

Clear the ice by 0900 and our northerly course is interrupted by bands of drift ice which block our path, pushing us east. Eventually, we make a north-easterly course as the ice clears and we head 010 and hit quite big swells driven by strong northerlies. Gudrun gets seasick and I take the wheel but by 1100 I’m feeling queasy too although manage to see my watch out. I hit the sack until 1800. The sea moderates later and we continue on 010 with deviations for ice until the end of the evening watch. Pass Coulman Island at 2300. One beer after watch then bed by 0030.

18 February 1988

On watch at 0800 as we steam into Cape Hallet. The crew meeting to plan the day’s events is a bit redundant as it’s blowing 70 knots and whipping up a very steep sea. By 1300 it has moderated and a boat is despatched with shore-siders. The abandoned base looks tidier than last year but fewer penguins are here. The masts of the Alan and Vi Thistlethwaite can be seen sticking up like matchsticks above the ice of the bay in which the tiny ship nestles. At 1500, the AVT’s crew come on board to discuss what to do about their climbers who are now on the descent from Mt Minto – previously unclimbed, I believe – after a successful ascent. They are not overdue but skipper Don Richards is concerned about the lateness of the season and wants to hasten their departure since they don’t want to be the last vessel in the Antarctic and fear that they will be unable to push their way out of the increasingly thickening ice with their crook main engine.

By evening, they formally request that we help to retrieve their climbers with the helicopters and I prepare an agreement absolving Greenpeace of any liability in the event of accident or unsuccessful attempts to retrieve them. The weather is deteriorating but Gary agrees to take an investigatory flight up the glacier to where we believe their base camp has been established. He takes Kevin with him but is back soon having been forced to abandon the flight five miles from his destination by bad weather, high turbulence and low visibility. Gary checks out the ice before he lands and Jim decides to get seaward of the pack for the night. It turns out to be a hairy few hours. The ice has crept up on us during the day and we dump and scrape, turn and dodge, push and nudge until we are clear and after I’ve been up the nest more times than I can recall. We’re finally safe at 0100 and we sit and sink a beer in the saloon. Before I turn in, I take a stroll on deck to see a truly magical landscape. The colours at sunset are breath-taking: golds, pinks, browns and a whole range of pastel shades I’ve never seen before.

19 February 1988

A day of tension, boredom and cursing the weather. Now that we’re committed to helping these people we are hamstrung. We can’t leave without knowing they are safe and we must therefore wait until the weather clears. At the 0845 radio schedule, they don’t come up and we spend the rest of the day chewing over the options. The weather has clagged in with a low cloud ceiling, low viz and a stiff southerly which causes us to hump around in a steep chop. We shelter in the lee of an iceberg for most of the day and I find that I sleep wherever I sit for more than five minutes and the dreams I have are surreal and almost tangible – so very un-dreamlike. At 2045, the climbers come up on the sked, very weakly, but clear. They agree to the pick up and we plan for a flight tomorrow, weather permitting. Roger’s birthday is celebrated with a few beers and a bottle of rum. It is positively dark now at 2300 and we all pray for fine weather tomorrow; it is very late in the season and we must get out of here within a day or two.

20 February 1988

Jim wakes me to tell me the climbers have radioed to say they have perfect weather but here it is still grey and miserable with 10/10 cloud and low ceiling, no higher than 1000 feet. We steam back into the bay but the weather is no better after a few hours. Even at the end of the spectacular Tucker glacier the weather persists in being of the ‘no flying’ variety. Press release out, in which I stress that we are not ‘rescuing’ these guys but merely helping them to make an earlier exit from the Antarctic. Fall asleep for two hours after lunch and then sit about anxiously looking at the weather, hoping for a change.

The AVT crew call us and Jim asks them if they want to revise the arrangement with us since we now know their party is safe and that the weather seems to be lifting from the south. This would leave us free to leave in the morning but I suggest to Jim that it’s a very abrupt about-face in our position and that I’d prefer to give it another 24 hours at least to complete our agreement. Having committed ourselves, I feel we should finish the job. Without our help, these guys won’t be back on board their vessel until the 26th which is far too late and will leave them without any support from other vessels and they may still have trouble getting out of the bay, let alone the Ross Sea.

If we can advance their departure date by 4 days, we will have done the job we have just told the world we are prepared to do. Leaving would be perceived as weird or even irresponsible. Jim agrees and we tell the AVT that the original agreement stands. Bed at 0100 after crib with Ken and a luscious fry up of eggs and chips.

21 February 1988

The weather is the same, dammit! Low clouds, zero viz, lifting occasionally to give us a tantalising glimpse of the glacier and the saddle and the mountains beyond. The morning radio schedule reveals that the climbers are at 1200 metres and they can see cloud below them at 300 metres. Jim and I go to see Don on the AVT, not before Maggie McCaw chews my ear at the crew meeting asking me, not unreasonably, ‘Who is making the decisions around here?’

Shades of 1985 loom over me momentarily before I tell her, ‘I am, along with Jim with respect to ship and crew safety.’

The AVT is a thoroughly cramped and miserable vessel although the skipper, first mate and cook – the only woman on board – are amazingly cheerful and resilient. The conditions they are living under – have lived under for months – are spartan to put it mildly. The climbers spent a month on this vessel on the way down, sleeping side by side on a shelf constructed in the forward part of the boat. Then they climbed this mountain, and have to look forward to a similarly excruciatingly uncomfortable journey home, sleeping in a dark and cramped ‘hole’ as they sail across the unpredictable Southern Ocean.

I am deeply impressed and full of admiration for these amazing people. The skipper releases us from our agreement but hints that he would deeply appreciate it if we’d see it through with him, which we agree to do. While ashore, I take my first look at Cape Hallet. The number of dead chick carcasses is staggering – they are buried in guano and the skeletons of these tiny penguins are several layers thick and in the case of the more recently dead, the bodies half-pecked by skuas. Christ, what a hard, short life these birds lead. Back on board it’s nothing but cards, music and bed at 0100.

22 February 1988

The wind picks up during the night and the tossing of the ship, coupled with my insomnia makes for a thoroughly uncomfortable night. By 0600 we’re pitching like hell in a force 10. On the bridge at 0800 to take the wheel from Gudrun who is looking as green as I feel. We try to shelter in the lee of an iceberg but get little protection. Even trying to shelter behind the massive Tucker glacier doesn’t work as we can’t penetrate the ice. We’re pitching very heavily and I just about manage to keep my breakfast down while on watch. A lot of people lie prone in the saloon. Steering at dead slow ahead is a nightmare – full port and starboard rudder just to keep any sort of course. Finally at 1045, we turn and head back towards the bay. Ah! The bliss of a following sea. Immediately I feel ok and the ship miraculously becomes a hive of activity again. The weather finally moderates and we spend the rest of the day hove-to. Jim optimistically schedules helo ops for 0600 in the morning.

23 February 1988

Woken at 0630 to be told that the first flight has already landed on the glacier! Between then and noon five flights take place, retrieving all the climbers and their gear. They arrive on the ship – five of them, rugged, hairy, tanned and tired – to hot showers and pancakes cooked by Marc. What a great bunch they are! They are naturally beside themselves with delight at their success and at the reception we put on for them. Apparently they planted a flag on top of the mountain calling for ‘World Park Antarctica’ and will be peddling the pictures in the press when they get back to Oz. Great bunch and a great finale to the trip for us.

We transfer their gear to the AVT by dinghy after steaming to meet the yacht in the mouth of the bay. How eleven people will spend a month in that tiny craft, lumping its way across the Southern Ocean, is beyond me. We say our goodbyes after a helo flight confirms to Don the reasonably good ice conditions he’ll be facing as he leaves the immediate area of the Ross Sea and we finally part company at 1500, promising that we’ll keep in radio contact for as long as possible.

I now have to face the task of informing the world of recent events and the next few hours are taken up in sending out messages, press releases and pictures. Despite the fact that I took great care to avoid the word rescue in the press releases, the press calls we receive all want to talk about how we rescued the guys from the mountain.

Off we set into the Ross Sea through a few strips of brash ice. The wind quickly picks up and a big swell begins to run. Soon we’re rolling like hell in a force 9 and my thoughts go out to the AVT. We alter course and now the swells are coming from the stern and we’re picked up arse-first and forced to surf down the face of the swells. The height of the swells must be at least 30 feet – they’re level with the bridge windows and we hear from the AVT that she has already been knocked down and has lost some of her radar equipment. Poor bastards! Turn in after a beer with Ken but despite wedging myself into my bunk firmly, I’m thrown around all night and get no sleep at all. Books, clothes and papers fly across the cabin and I simply don’t have the energy nor the inclination, to get up and secure things. Christ! What a life on the ocean waves!

24 February 1988

The weather has worsened if anything and on the bridge lines of great, steaming grey-bearded swells, topped by wind-lashed spume, can be seen bearing down on the ship from the starboard quarter in serried ranks, all the way to the horizon. The ship lifts from the stern as the wave passes, corkscrews on the top of the swell and sinks into the trough stern first, the passing wave steaming and hissing past us, level with the bridge windows. It is the Southern Ocean in its full awesome glory and my remark to Ken that I am inspired by this display brings his quip, ‘It’ll be interesting if this develops into an eleven or 12.’

The weather requires that we forget the plans to visit Leningradskaya and instead we plough on towards the Bellany Islands on a due northerly course turning to 330. At 1100 this morning on watch, Henk Haazen phoned on the satcom to let us know that he and Bunny had a little baby daughter that morning at 0300 – Ruby. Spend the afternoon trying to catch up on my sleep but I feel periodically queasy as we lurch along. I manage to stagger up to the bridge for my evening watch which consists of 80 minutes on the wheel, 80 minutes on lookout and 80 minutes on stand-by which normally means that you crash out in the saloon although you should, technically, be sitting alert and ready to spring into action. Low viz, grey skies and a lumpy grey sea which is now moderating a bit. Kevin is on my case about going straight back to Lyttelton as Gudrun is getting sicker and sicker and it’s not just the motion of the ship. Lynn puts her medical skills to work and gives Gudrun a physical. She reports that, medically, Gudrun is ok, but needs 48 hours to determine if she’ll be ok on medication or if we should go directly back to Lyttelton. I discuss the matter with Kevin, Gudrun, Jim and Lynn and agree to review the situation in 24 hours. Gratefully to bed at 0130.

25 February 1988

I feel as if I’ve been away from home and what passes for normality for years and we aren’t even halfway through the trip yet. We still have two weeks at sea on this leg then it’ll be in port for a few days and off again on a three week sea-voyage to do what? Photograph and document the peninsular bases with no chance of any action at all. The future time away from home stretches interminably into the distance. This negative feeling prompts a negative message to Kelly asking her to review the need for, and the wisdom of, the second leg of the trip. Twenty miles northeast of the Bellanys at 2000. Six days to NZ from here, eleven if we go via DuDu. Slight swell from astern, force four, feeling fine. During watch Kevin comes and stands on the bridge and spends the next two hours dodging off to see Gudrun and I know he’s telling me with his body language and his actions that he wants me to take the decision to go straight home. After a series of meetings, consultations and phone calls, I finally agree with Jim that we should do just that – ETA Lyttelton 2nd March. Around comes the wheel and we steer 018 for home as I pass the word among the crew before they all start asking questions about why the ship feels different under its new course. So that’s it. NZ here we come.

26 February 1988

Nancy Foote calls me from Washington at 0730 this morning, spoiling my rare lie-in. I talk to her for 15 minutes but what she or I said, I have no idea. As I stagger back to my bunk from the radio room, Jim collars me and tells me Justin wants to talk about the second leg. I give in to circumstances and get dressed. Justin doesn’t want to go – that’s the top and bottom of it, and I tell him that’s fine, he should get home to his family, as should I. I get messages off to GP advising them of the change in plans and then sleep overcomes me and I crash until 1430. Later, talking to Kevin, it’s clear that he’s eaten up with personally motivated emotional attitudes towards Corny over the incident with Gudrun on the base and our conversation reaches stalemate at 2200. He basically wants me to side with him on his opinions of Cornelius which I can’t do and which I wouldn’t do anyway. I turn in shortly after midnight to get away from Kevin’s constant nagging and leave him to Maj.

27 February 1988

Force 4 from the SW, long moderate swells, overcast with occasional sunshine, plus one degree C. Position 61 south. Morning watch is the usual bore: not even a bird until 1100 when a sooty and a black-browed deign to grace us with their presence. Nancy calls again and I still can’t make out what she’s on about. On stand-by, I prepare messages and get an update on the Kevin and Gudrun situation to Kelly. I also intimate to her that the second leg is looking less and less attractive to me. Sleep after a sparrow-like lunch until 1700, then to the saloon for a very unappetising dinner. Music, writing and change the bunk before evening watch. After an hour of lying in bed reading, the ship begins to move around dramatically as the wind picks up and large westerly swells take a grip of the ship. I actually shielded my face against objects which went flying across the cabin, the motion was so bad. I wedge myself in using the old trick of lifejackets under the mattress but I still roll around, flopping from one side to the other like a beached fish.

28 February 1988

Stagger to the bridge at 0750 clutching a life-saving cuppa. Uneventful watch with big swells still running, making accurate steering nearly impossible. She yaws up to 10 degrees either side of the course between the troughs and the peaks of the swells. As the day progresses, Kevin’s attitude towards Cornelius hardens and he finds it more and more difficult to keep his trap shut. At 1830, just after dinner, there’s a set-to in the saloon between the two of them. Kevin and Gudrun want the forms back from Cornelius on which they monitored their mental attitude throughout the year (known as psych forms) on the grounds that they are useless and don’t reflect the real state of their minds at the time. Cornelius refuses to hand them back since they are ‘medical records’ and of great value to the expedition, and asks me to mediate. I intervene and suggest that, under the circumstances, the psych forms should be scrapped otherwise we’ll never send another wintering team south. Then Kevin demands my presence in Gudrun’s cabin where he finally makes his ultimatum – fire Cornelius or he resigns. I tell him to shove it and that we’ll talk it over again in the morning when we’ve all had a chance to sleep on the situation. I fire off a message to Kelly getting her to cancel the lecture tours for all the winterers unless I can sort this problem out in the morning, which I doubt.

29 February 1988

Kevin has pulled out of the 8-12 watch so it’s just me and Ken now until Peter Malcolm comes on at 1030. During this time alone, he tells me of another problem which has surfaced on board – thankfully it’s a crew problem and therefore in Jim’s domain rather than mine – but it appears that one of the male members of the crew has been bothering the women for weeks now and was discovered in his bunk with an – I can’t believe this but it’s true – inflatable doll. I naturally find harassing women a keel-hauling offence, but I have a good laugh about the blow-up woman. I asked Ken if he thought I could borrow it – only joking! Still a fresh westerly blowing and big swells which roll the ship quite alarmingly at times. But a beautiful clear sky and brilliant sunshine at last. Watch is tolerable thanks to the lovely weather and Justin comes and steers for the last third of the watch. I go below on stand-by and immediately fall into a deep sleep.

Peter M wakes me for lunch after which we conduct the ‘last ditch’ meeting in an attempt to settle the dispute between Kevin and Cornelius. The fight is actually between Gudrun and Cornelius – something that seems to have escaped Kevin – and I insist that the meeting is between those people, me and Jim only. Kevin refuses to accept that as he’s the ‘only independent witness’. What followed is not reasonable to commit to a diary – very personal and intimate descriptions of what Corny was alleged to have done to Gudrun as he treated her in the last few months of the year. Kevin sees the whole sordid event as a trial of Cornelius, trying to ‘prove’ his guilt in order to justify his demands that I fire Cornelius.

At the end of 90 gruelling minutes, we’re back at square one. Gudrun accuses, Cornelius exonerates himself and refutes the allegations. Me, Maj and Jim continue to talk as the meeting breaks up, looking at the dearth of options.

Perhaps I should resign as a demonstration of the fact that I am in a totally invidious position. I don’t have the authority to fire anyone since the winterers are employed by International, not by me, and anyway, how can I sit in judgement of someone when the only evidence I have to hand is contested and when the only ‘witness’ – Kevin – can hardly be described as independent and when Justin, the other potential witness, wants nothing to do with the matter?

I feel I can only resort to distancing the need to make a decision by putting the onus on the international office, where it should be, rather than on me, here and now, in the middle of the southern Ocean when the events are so fresh and vivid in peoples’ minds. But this would mean that Kevin would feel I have not met his demands and would presumably therefore resign himself, (not a bad option under the circumstances but he would doubtless feel obliged to make as much trouble for Cornelius and for GP as possible), and also I feel it is wrong of me to offload a situation somewhat of my making (I chose the wintering team) onto someone else. I’m just so tired and fed up with this entire situation.

The ship’s rolling violently as we pass Campbell Island – no stops there this year for the ship of fools – and it’s impossible to sit at a table in a free-standing seat as it just skids across the room taking the occupant with it. Write, listen to music until watch at 2000. Three beers after watch and then I lie in my bunk being thrown from one side to the other all night. Great life on a Greenpeace ship, eh?

1 March 1988

Can’t get up for watch and finally stagger on the bridge at 0820 and take the wheel from Ken, very sheepishly. Still a big swell coming in from the west, overcast skies and squalls gusting 60 knots of wind. Telexes and phone calls galore while I’m on watch, which adds to the confusion. The biggest laugh I’ve had all trip arrives when I hear that the video Bruce Adams sent out from Scott Base detailing the appalling squalor of McMurdo base has been screened in every Communist country in the world, including Cuba. I couldn’t stop laughing all day and we’ve dubbed Bruce ‘Adamski’. Kevin is on my case again from early morning asking me if I‘ve decided to fire Corny yet and I can’t believe the guy’s persistence. I agree to a final pre-arrival crew meeting at 1900 and significantly, just before the meeting, Kevin asks me yet again if I intend to fire Corny to which I reply for the umpteenth time, ‘No, since I don’t wear a wig and I refuse to be the arbiter of someone’s morals, especially based on contested evidence. The decision as to whether there has been medical misconduct,’ I tell him, ‘is that of a medical assessment board, not a Greenpeace campaigner in the middle of the ocean.’

When I arrive at the crew meeting, Bruce has rigged up his camera and sound gear. Unbelievably, in front of the entire crew, and knowing that the meeting is being filmed, Kevin begins to explain in the grossest detail what Corny purportedly did to Gudrun. He also, I learn later, asked Leslie to write about it in a story she was filing for her newspaper. I can’t believe what is going on here: Kevin is talking about intimate, personal events between two people – one of whom was not even him – to 30 people, many of whom are total strangers to him. I begin yelling at Kevin to stop this bullshit and when he continues, I almost go for him, but decide instead to leave. He would have murdered me anyway if I had lit into him since he’s as strong as an ox.

Jim calls me back after 15 minutes and says that a settlement has been agreed – to put everything on hold until the winterers get to Washington, exactly what I suggested yesterday, and which was rejected. So we go about our business again in a strained atmosphere and Kevin avoids me noticeably. I’m in a foul mood and have a set-to with Bruce when I ask him to hand me the film he shot of the crew meeting. He refuses, since it’s ‘human interest’ stuff that will be valuable to his filmic record. I have a stand-up row with him and threaten to throw every roll of film overboard if he doesn’t give me an assurance that the film of Kevin’s outburst will never see the light of day. He thus assures me and I storm off. Having a beer after watch, Bob walks into the saloon and hands me a quadruple whisky. Good old Bob. He’s a diamond.

2 March 1988

Off watch today and attempt a lie-in which is not to be. Ken calls me to take part in the traditional pre-arrival spring clean but before 0900, Kevin asks to see me again. Gudrun is in tow. He goes over the same ground again and again to the point where I begin to lose my temper quickly. Voices are raised which brings Ted Addicott into the saloon to try to cool things down and I tell him to leave. Then Jim comes in and I storm out of the saloon. After an hour, I go back and Kevin is still there with the same monotonous question on his lips.

I look him in the face and tell him, ‘I resign from the position of expedition leader as of now. Take your pathetic demands to someone else’.

He doesn’t quite believe me, so I go and type out my resignation, send it to Kelly and hand him the message. It’s that simple. I’m out. Relieved, sad, confused, angry and happy that an enormous weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I sleep until 1700. I haven’t eaten all day and I feel like shit. I shower, tidy the cabin and have a beer with Ken, James and Justin. I go on evening watch feeling very odd indeed. It’s calm now, almost flat with a gentle northerly swell and brilliant sunset which puts on a spectacular show for us, almost reflecting my mood and the events of the day. We’re 60 miles south of Banks Peninsular. Gudrun stands on the bridge during my watch and tries to distance herself from Kevin, saying that he’s ‘gone over the top’. I grunt my responses.

My diary ends at this point. I didn’t have the energy or enthusiasm to log our eventual arrival the following day, but it was a brief and sad separation I took from the crew in Lyttelton. Within two days, the ship was pulling out of the port yet again, heading for the Peninsular. Maj took over from me as campaigner. Egon, the chief engineer, handed me a package as he clambered on board, hugging me fiercely. ‘Zese are for you, Wilx. It haz been a great honour to sail wiz you. I like you. One day we make strong Greenpeaze action togezer. Aufwiedersehen.’

Inside the package were three beautifully hand-crafted deck knives of different sizes in hand-sewn sheaths. He had made them in his spare time from pieces of ‘scrap’ metal lying around in the engine room, although the ship was forever short of paint scrapers after Egon had been on board. I was deeply touched.

Then Jim came towards me with most of the crew who had disembarked for one final round of bonding with me. Under his arm, he carried a limited edition painting of the Barn Glacier and Mount Erebus by Shackelton, grandson of the famous Ernest. The crew had signed the picture and Jim handed it to me with the hint of a tear in his eye. I burst into tears and hugged him.

Then they were gone. I watched the ship from the vantage point of the hills around Lyttelton. I watched her until she was no more than a speck on the horizon. I watched even after she had disappeared from view. There went my life, my friends, my world. I felt as though I had let everybody down. Sure, we had done the job and we had arrived safely home with a full crew and everyone healthy – at least physically. But I should have pushed myself harder perhaps. I should have been stronger, perhaps. But then again, bollocks to it. I’d done my stint and I had, I decided, nothing to feel ashamed of. It was time to get home and to get my life back in order.