Chapter 29

The gloves come off at last

I flew home. England was dull and cold. I was approached by Greg Butcher, MD of a company called Montagne Jeunesse, marketing similar products to the Body Shop, who wanted me as their green adviser. I was paid a decent monthly retainer which paid the rent and other constants and still left me money to spare. It was a wonderful arrangement and one which gave me a great deal of freedom since some months I was not required to do any work whatsoever. I wrote articles on the Antarctic for a number of journals and was invited to lecture on the subject frequently. My time was occupied and I was enjoying the freedom of independent consultancy work, yet I could not keep my mind off the Antarctic and what was happening to the Greenpeace crew in the Peninsular. Within three months I could think of nothing other than getting back to the Antarctic. The truth was that I wanted to put the icing on the cake and round off my Antarctic interlude with a memorable expedition which went beyond merely re-supplying the base and documenting the impact of the bases we visited. I wanted to put into practice the things McTaggart and I had spoken about in 1985: in short, to carry out direct actions in defence of the Antarctic environment rather than just ‘bearing witness’.

As I carried out my consultancy tasks in the summer of 1988, I constantly tossed ideas for Antarctic activities around in my mind and fired them off to Kelly Rigg if I thought they had merit. She asked me if I was up for going again to Antarctica and as usual I moaned loudly but privately I was thrilled at the prospect. I told Kelly I would only consider it if I was given an open brief on how to operate the expedition in its entirety. I wanted Greenpeace to flex its muscles in a region and on an issue it had earned its spurs. She told me that if I went I would have a free run at the tactics we employed, so long as the final plan was agreed by her and the other desk-bound bosses we were required to doff our caps to. It sounded a good deal to me but I had one other demand. If Maj was not available as campaign assistant as she had indicated earlier, then I wanted Bogart, my US friend who was, after all, working on the campaign in Washington. She agreed that he could come on the voyage. Now I was really excited. We were going to finally kick ass in the Antarctic and undertake the first ever direct actions there to make the world sit up and take notice about what was happening to a back yard which belonged to us all.

Friends and colleagues could not believe that I was volunteering to do another trip to Antarctica. Every time I went away, the work I was gradually building up for myself in the UK took a nosedive and clients were never really sure if I could be relied on to be around to see the end of a job.

I plunged myself into finding the next wintering team with every ounce of energy I could muster, after telling my long-suffering benefactors at Montagne Jeunnesse that I had succumbed yet again. I had to find a base team leader who was experienced and who would, through his or her nationality, attract interest in a country hitherto largely unaffected by the gathering exposure of Antarctic matters. One person stood out from the lists of potential leaders like a beacon. Bruno Klausbruckner was something of a celebrity in his native Austria. He had led many expeditions to the Antarctic before and was celebrated for his larger-than-life status in Vienna where he worked for the City Council as a tourism promoter and guide.

Bruno came to see me in the UK. He was very definitely a man’s man. While he recognised the need for a wintering crew of mixed nationalities, gender and skills, he was not enthusiastic about sharing a winter in difficult – and potentially dangerous – situations with women. Despite this, he readily accepted that, should he be appointed, he would be required to lead a team which would include women. As I pored over the applicants, an ideal team was there in theory at least: Bruno to lead it, an Italian nurse called Liliana whose nationality alone qualified her since we needed to boost the interest in that country, an American (to ensure interest from the country which had the largest potential for change in Antarctic matters) whom I identified as a female scientist Liz Carr, and a Kiwi, to keep local Antipodean interest alive, technician Phil Doughety. That was my ideal team on paper and I set out to piece it together. I had met Liz in the USA when I attended the inevitable and, to my mind, pointless, ‘Expedition Review Meeting’ in Washington and liked her. She was a small, energetic and thoroughly likeable woman with a great sense of humour, a prerequisite for the expedition in my mind.

I interviewed Liliana in Rome along with three or four other Italians who had applied.

Liliana walked into the room. She was beautiful. She explained her belief in the wilderness values of the Antarctic in fiery, faltering English which I found endearing. I told her I’d let her know as quickly as possible if she had been successful in her application. Three days later, I was waiting on Vienna train station with Bruno Klausbruckner for Liliana’s train to arrive from Rome as I wanted them to meet to see if there was a measure of compatibility, or at least, acceptance.

As the passengers disembarked, I saw her casually and languidly stepping out of the carriage, the last person to alight. She walked slowly up the platform, a shoulder bag casually slung over her shoulder. I muttered to Bruno that this was she and his eyebrows rose to the point where I thought they would leave his forehead. Bruno asked, ‘Are you sure she is the right one, Wilks?’ It was the opening gambit in a war which was to be openly fought between Bruno and Liliana for months to come.

We had, as usual, room on board for only a couple of selected journalists, plus a film team, and I set about snaring the best journalist in the UK, the Guardian’s Paul Brown. Paul had become a close friend and colleague over the years, had covered many of the Greenpeace stories and was himself a campaigner. He knew the organisation, he was sympathetic to our goals, was a good friend and knew many of the crew with whom he would sail. The Guardian syndicated to over 200 newspapers around the world, giving us significant added value in taking Paul.

For the second journalist, I needed someone who would cover the USA directly and I asked the Washington Greenpeace office to recommend someone. They eventually suggested Mary-Ann Bendell who was freelancing for USA Today, the only truly national US newspaper. The film team consisted of two guys, Sean Leslie and Tim Fraser, who had been appointed by the Communications Division. The stills photographer was to be an old contact of mine who had covered previous actions in which I had been involved, Steve Morgan. The crew were identified, the campaign assistant, the press, film and photographers too. We were all set – on paper, at least. I now had to put it all together in reality.

It seemed that no sooner had I completed the work in Europe, choosing the wintering team, than I was packing to leave for New Zealand once again. This was to be my fourth consecutive Antarctic expedition as leader.

*

Paul ‘Doglips’ Bogart arrived in Auckland. I was delighted to see him and despite his jet lag, we decided to celebrate our reunion and the coming trip. We headed off to the local bar and soon found ourselves in the ‘Floating Restaurant’ moored alongside the fishing dock, only a short walk away from the ship.

The ship was, as usual, a constant hive of activity, both in the work and social sense. Henk Haazen would be coming with us on this trip and he was appointed the head of logistics. We had a new ship arriving for this expedition which I had previously seen in Amsterdam where she was undergoing her refit. She was an ocean-going tug, quite modern, a fact which did not endear her to many of the crew, and she had been renamed the Gondwana. But for the time being, we worked on the old stalwart of many a Greenpeace voyage, the Black Pig of a ship named Greenpeace. Henk immediately tacked a picture of Munch’s ‘The Scream’ on the door to the small space we used as an office and dubbed it the Nervous Centre.

Since this was to be a special trip – and definitely my last – I lobbied Ken early on for a single cabin on the new ship which was soon to arrive in Auckland. He pondered it long and hard while I pointed out that if he accepted, as did we all, that the mates and the chief and second engineers all deservedly expected their own cabins, then surely the campaigner and expedition leader, given that his job was just as exacting, if not more so, than the key members of the crew, I deserved – no, damn it – I demanded my own cabin. Ken rubbed the sparse stubble on his chin while he pored over the cabin lay-out on the new ship. ‘Ok. You take this one . . .’ he jabbed at the lay-out with his pencil. ‘It’s strictly for two people but with the new accommodation block aft, I think we can stretch a point.’ At last! After eleven years of sailing on Greenpeace ships I was to experience the unadulterated luxury of occupying my own cabin.

A few weeks later, the Gondwana arrived in Auckland and we all clambered into dinghies to roar off into the bay to greet her. She had been sailed across from Europe by a skeleton crew including Davey Edward who had found her and overseen the refit. He was standing by the rail on the bridge wing, pointing to the ship with one hand while holding his nose with the other – a self-deprecating gesture since he was very conscious that the ship would come under critical review by all the Greenpeace salts waiting to occupy her.

She looked ‘all up front’ to me: the bridge was almost on top of the foredeck and what had once been a long and empty aft deck now sported a hangar and a helideck on the stern, rather than the hawsers used in her tugging days. A new accommodation block had been extended from the wheelhouse aft, capable of sleeping twenty people. We noted wryly that she was shedding paint from her hull quite liberally as she cut her way – bulldozed her way, more correctly – across Manakau Harbour.

The Gondwana had to undergo a serious and lengthy period of further alteration in Auckland to rectify the failings of the original refit which her sea passage had brought to light. She had one overwhelming advantage over another other ship we could have used for the Antarctic runs: she was fully ice-strengthened.

While we carried on working on the Greenpeace, the Gondwana resembled a building site as welding and painting went on night and day to prepare her for the voyage, now only a scant few weeks away. We literally had to watch out for falling lumps of burning metal as we made our way around the ship and so much building and welding litter was scattered around the ship that I put a sizeable nail through my foot one morning which had me limping around for days and put a temporary halt to footballing activities. But as the work neared completion, it was time to transfer personal belongings and campaign material on to the Gondwana – the Greenpeace had other campaign fish to fry and we watched with affection as she steamed out of Auckland and out of our lives.

Meanwhile, the unlikely wintering team of Bruno, Liliana, Liz and Phil had taken off for the mountains to carry out their survival training. The reports which came back were at once hilarious and disconcerting. Apparently, Liliana and Bruno had been at each other’s throats the entire time. Liliana had reportedly told Bruno to ‘Fuck off!’ more times than they’d had hot dinners and their relationship was at rock bottom when they arrived back on the ship. It was clear that Liliana was not going to make it in the team. We agreed that she would be replaced. She was genuinely upset by this decision but finally accepted the inevitable. She would stay on the ship to help us prepare but she would not travel with us.

I went to the local hospital to give a lecture to the nurses one evening and as a throwaway line at the end of my talk, I asked if anyone wanted to spend a year in Antarctica as part of the winter-over team. No-one responded, but the following morning a phone call came from a Danish nurse who had not been at the lecture but who had been told of my appeal. She was interested and available. Her name was Lilian Hansen and I met her in a restaurant in town where she was having a meal with her parents. She was a bright, energetic and thoroughly charming woman and she immediately became the first choice in our short-list of alternatives to Liliana.

Despite yet more misgivings from Bruno, to the point where one of his old Austrian climbing mates was flown in to Auckland for an interview – and dismissed from our thoughts on the grounds that he would form too tight a bond with Bruno – we finally appointed Lilian Hansen, much to Liz’s delight as she had grown close to her in a very short space of time.

I instituted a regular Friday evening gathering of anyone who wanted to attend, to discuss direct action tactics on the upcoming voyage. Dumont D’Urville was relatively simple to address. We would simply block, with tents, the survival hut (known as an Apple) and ourselves, the hard rock runway the French were constructing in the middle of a 75,000-strong penguin colony , to prevent the French from gaining access to it and continuing their work. The whaling fleet which would be operating in the Southern Ocean at the time of our transit was a different matter. Traditional tactics would be employed, of course, but if we were to sustain the action – assuming there was an opportunity for action since we would first have to find the fleet in 160,000 square miles of ocean – then we needed to be able to build the story day by day and employ a range of actions to sustain interest. We discussed clamping banners across the stern ramp of the factory vessel, throwing nets over the harpoon, dousing the harpoonist with water and molasses and using the helicopter to dangle a banner in front of the harpoonist in order to obstruct his field of fire.

The final direct action would involve the giant US base at McMurdo. We agreed very quickly that we would block the outfall pipe which carries cadmium waste into Winter Quarters’Bay which was now biologically dead from heavy metal contamination run-off and direct discharges from McMurdo. Having agreed in broad terms our tactics, I set about ordering the eighteen banners we would need as visual support for the actions.

We were almost ready. The final days were a frantic round of goods arriving at the ship to be hoisted on board and stowed below in a cacophony of shouting and milling around of sweating bodies. We checked off list after list: equipment, stores, deadlines, campaign material, personnel. I constantly tried to catch Henk out on his ability to remember everything, rounding on him to shout out the name of an item, but he had everything covered down to the finest detail. I could fault no-one. We were all raring to go and all we needed now was to agree on the picture to accompany the press release about our departure. I decided to let the picture reflect our mood and hired a third helicopter from which Sean and Steve Morgan shot their stills and footage. The Gondwana steamed out of Auckland escorted by the two Hughes 500 Ds flying close to the ship on either side of her bridge and preceded in a V formation by all the inflatables. The caption read: ‘The Greenpeace navy and airforce sets off to protect the Antarctic’. Our intentions could not have been made much clearer.

Our first port of call was Hobart, Tasmania, where we would wave the Greenpeace flag to drum up support in that Antarctic-important country and to collect our final passenger – Mary-Ann Bendell, our second journalist.

Crossing the Tasman, the weather was spectacular and I wrote in an early diary entry: ‘The sun is just setting as I come off watch. Cloud banks on the horizon some twenty miles away provide a dramatic foreground to the sun’s final curtsey and it leaves a dazzling pink etch to the extremities of the cloud formations which are so evocative and surreal it almost makes you believe in heaven. Maggie (McCaw) comments, ‘We must have done something good to be privileged to see such a beautiful sight.’ How right she is.’

30 December 1988

As we took on fuel, an airlock in the system caused an estimated 50 litres of fuel to ‘blow back’ and spill onto the deck from where it quickly ran into the water. Despite our efforts to disperse what is after all a minor slick, the water around the ship is a patchwork of rainbow colours reflected through the oil. We can’t contain the news and Arne called me from the bridge to tell me that we are the lead item on the evening news. The ship was crawling with journalists by the early evening and I just had to tough it through.

By 1830 we’re underway and passing the Harbour Bridge. Outside the heads, we heave-to in a slight swell to allow Davey to tie up the tail shaft on one engine to prevent it turning in sympathy with the one we intend to use on the way down, but incredibly he reports that ‘the spanner doesn’t fit’ and we’re forced to continue on two engines until he can make a suitable tool. Now Henk reports that the inflatable engines are running rough as well. Maybe we should start the entire day over again. Watch is tolerable. Two beers with Ken and Maggie. Bed at 0100.

31 December 1988

Weather picks up a bit today but it’s still remarkably calm. Nothing much to report apart from the occasional feeling of nausea and a half-hearted attempt at a party after watch to celebrate New Year which had Ken pouring very generous measures of rum for people. Bed and out of it at 0200. Happy New Year.

1 January 1989

Felt rough on watch with cold symptoms and heartburn and hoped Ken would tell me to crash, but no such luck. Then the giro packed up. At 1230, I caved in and went to bed and didn’t rouse myself until 1800. The luxury of my own cabin cannot be overstated. I can go in, close the door and listen to what I like, read, sleep, doze all without having to worry about a cabin mate and disturbance. It is situated as far forward as you can get on the port side main deck, directly opposite the mess, so it’s a natural stopping off point for the crew and I delight in entertaining in my bolt hole which is wired up to a terrific sound system and looks very homely.

Two downsides though: it’s right on the knuckle of the ship so I’ll be getting a severe battering from the ice in this cabin and if I don’t want visitors then I have to close the door and put a sign up to that effect otherwise people just assume it’s a neat place to hang out for a chat and a beer. But all that pales into insignificance compared to the luxury it affords me. It’s noticeably colder now – only plus 6 – and the sea is treating us gently thus far.

2 January 1989

Werner calls me gently: ‘Your watch Wilks.’

I mumble ‘Thanks, mate,’ and immediately go back to sleep, only making watch at 0910. Meeting at 1630 with Bruno, Mark, Ken, Paul to discuss DuDu timing. I interview Bruno for Sean. Bruno did a good job – very succinct and passionate. Evening watch was spectacular with a cloudless sky and the beginnings of a weak aurora. Read for a while, sleep at 0030.

3 January 1989

Busy all day doing interviews to camera and interviewing the winterers for the benefit of the cameras and realise that while others sleep when off watch, I’m flat tack. But that’s pretty usual I guess and I knew all this before I accepted the position. Ate the last of my chocolate this afternoon! Position is now 58 South and the weather is still remarkably calm. We still roll heavily but I’m off the pills now and feel ok, despite the usual feeling of being not quite 100%. Carried out a trawl at the convergence twice today, looking for marine litter, at which Davey caustically remarks, ‘Aye. Anything to keep the boys and girls amused.’

4 January 1989

The crew meeting at 1100, to discuss DuDu tactics, was filmed and during it the reply from DuDu arrived saying that a peaceful demonstration would be in order provided it was planned and executed in accordance with French law (en metropole), confirming the view that they consider their base as part of their French territory. I transmitted the text to Remi in the Madrid office for his comments. Dinner and then dishes again with Pierrette and I get to the bridge for watch with seconds to spare. At 2130, the visibility is reduced to about 200 metres and we reduce revolutions, peering into the gloom from the bridge wing. Ken spots the first iceberg on radar and we go to port to see it. By 2330, we can see it clearly and the bridge is crowded with people. Ken’s like a kid at Christmas and Dog, a little the worse for a few bourbons, is close to tears as he stares at the berg, drinking in its majesty. It is castellated and becaved and looms awesomely out of the grey. We celebrate after watch and my bottle of rum goes quickly between five of us. Bed at 0200.

5 January 1989

Low viz again and we’re making 7 knots, 80 miles from DuDu. More bergs around but mostly hidden by mist. 65 South now but it’s still plus 2 until a sou’easter takes it to minus 1. Ken revels in the cold and in his glee opens both bridge wing doors and tried to freeze us all. After lunch I’m occupied sending messages and meeting the journalists to go over times and places and story lines. Mary-Ann has been sick for the entire trip, poor love, and Dog has taken her under his wing a little to protect her from the increasingly barbed jibes she attracts. She just has a very unfortunate manner about her which is abrupt and naive to a fault. She’ll come to dinner and poke the food around, commenting to the general assembly, ‘What is this? Is this good to eat? Wouldn’t eat this in California.’

In the pm, I tidy my cabin, discuss things in detail with Paul and then send out another update/press release. Ken comes around before watch handing out our one-piece Mustang survival suits – very flash! Arrive DuDu 1830. Lots of bergs crowd us as we nudge closer to the station and anchor. Ken takes a sweep around the bay in the inflatable as a recce for tomorrow. Bed at midnight.

6 January 1989

Up at 0930 and Tim immediately wires me up for the meeting with the OIC at DuDu, planned for 1100. We get ashore to be met by Houssein, the youngish and spiky-haired OIC who apparently speaks no English. We converse as well as we can in French, using Pierrette as interpreter where necessary. We amble along to his office at which a guy called Engler, a few of their scientists and the base doctor all sit in on the meeting.

Engler is a big guy, pretty brusque and is head of the construction team. He’s been here since the airstrip project began five years ago and clearly dislikes a bunch of greenies telling him it is an unacceptable development, built as it is in the middle of breeding colonies of penguins which the French originally and ironically came here to study. His arguments are predictable: no alternative site for the runway, minimal damage created, penguins in fact ‘benefit’ from the airstrip as it makes access to the rookery easier(!) The discussion predictably broke no new ground and as it progressed I got more and more agitated, using Bogart as the voice of moderation as he weighed in with his scientifically-based arguments.

As we sat in the office we could see the impact of the construction work for ourselves: penguins running and scrambling everywhere before bulldozers and heavy machines and the helicopter overhead was low enough to scare us, let alone the penguins. Back to the ship at 1325 by which time Henk, Bruno, Ken and Marc have recced the site to establish where best to erect the hut for the most impact. Meeting at 1400 where I debrief the crew. Crew are given shore leave for the afternoon and I retire to my cabin to play the mournful Tracy Chapman whose song Sorry brings tears to my eyes.

7 January 1989

By 1030, the airstrip site is heaving with tractors, diggers and heavy machinery moving rocks from the quarries they are creating by blasting with dynamite and dumping them in 12 ton loads into the sea. This work proceeds at both the northern and southern ends of the strip, extending it into the sea in both directions. At noon, we land a party of people who stand at the neck of the strip stretching off to the south holding placards and the banner we prepared in Auckland – amazingly it is exactly the right length!

The workers stop work and sit around watching us with open contempt and Henk sidles up to me to suggest that we allow work to resume and then stretch the banner out again to trap as many of their vehicles in our cul-de-sac as possible. I agree and after a few minutes of truck movements, three of their huge dumpers are at the southern end of the strip and we quickly stretch out the banner again. This results in another period of idleness during which Ken and Henk begin lugging the sections of the Apple hut ashore and furiously begin constructing it.

At first, the workers simply look on with curiosity but as it begins to assume a recognisable shape, they become agitated and Engler rushes up and orders his drivers to start up their vehicles to extricate them from our little trap. A huge digger noses up to our picket line. Bruno and Dog stand firm. Thankfully, the driver stops and switches off the engine, giving us precious time to finish the construction of the hut.

By 1300, the hut is completed and the workers seem to have accepted defeat and have left the site and their three dump trucks blocked in by our picket line. The hut is secured by driving pegs into the permafrost and it is wide enough to leave only a few feet of space between its sides and the steep incline at the edge of the airstrip. We spend a quiet afternoon lazing in the sun and revelling in our victory –work has stopped all over the strip.

I contemplate sending out a press release but something tells me I should wait. At 1900 my intuition is rewarded. A clanking of machinery and the sound of engines heralds the arrival of a huge digger surrounded by a menacing crowd of scruffy workmen. Engler is at the head of it, looking bigger and angrier than before. Houssein calls me on the VHF and asks me to allow the removal of their trucks. I reply in the negative to which he replies, ‘C’est un dommage.’

Engler waves forward the digger which lowers a wicked-looking scoop on the front of the machine and ploughs into our line of defence. All hell breaks loose. Werner jumps into the scoop and people clamber all over the machine. Meanwhile, behind us, drivers are firing up the engines on the immobilised trucks and they move towards us from the rear. Our people are throwing themselves under wheels and being unceremoniously dragged away and dumped on the ground and sat on by the workers. This mayhem goes on for twenty minutes. We’re hauled out of the way and thrown bodily to the floor. All the time, the digger is attempting to move the hut to one side, using the scoop, to make more roadway available for the lorries. Having bundled us up and sat on us, the dumper trucks squeeze past our blockade, narrowly missing flailing arms and legs.

The lorries force their way past and, to the cheers of the French, make their escape. Our hut, however, if a little battered and askew, is still more or less in place and still guards the access to the southern end of the airstrip. As we regroup and survey the cuts and bruises we have sustained, I call Houssein on the VHF and, as best as my limited French will allow, I complain about the aggression shown by his men. He immediately invites me to his office. He says he will come to the ship later to view the video our reporters shot. This he does, but by then I’m busy sending our pictures and press releases. In the saloon, he views the videos and admits to Dog that he has ‘uncontrollable elements’ in his workforce, that it was a violent reaction and he accepts responsibility. He agrees to stop work on the strip immediately and to ask Paris for instructions. Bed at 0300 after pix and press release out.

8 January 1989

Crew meeting at 0900. Telex arrives from Houssein at 0930 containing the wording of a telex from the French Antarctic Territory chief which says that we are not abiding by the ‘code of conduct’ required by French law and that we are therefore ‘intruders’ who should be ‘dealt with accordingly’. I reply that the ‘code of conduct’ is not binding as this is not French territory and that we’ll continue our action: the hut is still occupied and is still preventing work on the southern end of the strip. Now it is time to concentrate on the activity at the northern end of the strip.

At 1800, I inform Houssein that we are to carry out a direct action there by positioning our people directly in the path of the rocks which are being dumped over the eight foot scree slope. We cross to the site in inflatables and climb onto the rocks. Our presence forces the workers to desist from dumping over the edge of the scree, but they begin dumping their 12 ton loads on rocks and huge boulders on the flat, to be pushed over the edge later when we have left. We decamp and climb up onto the flat area ourselves and stand directly behind the trucks as they dump. They ignore us and just keep on dumping on the assumption that we’re not going to kill ourselves by standing in the path of 12 tons of falling rocks. Henk seems to have nerves of steel. He simply won’t move out of the way. He leaves it to the last split second before moving and I scream at him to get out of the way. Dog has to physically bundle Henk to the side. The French guys seem completely unmoved by our actions – apart from one guy who genuinely pleads with me to stop this madness – and we are very lucky that we have sustained no injuries.

The party is broken up by a long blast on the ship’s klaxon – the recall signal –Ken has heard on the VHF that while we’ve been engaged at this end of the strip, the French have taken advantage of our preoccupation to make another attempt at removing the hut on the southern end of the strip. Ken, waiting in the dingy off-shore, roars in to collect us. I throw myself on board, falling in among arms and legs as Ken opens the throttle and roars off to the southern end of the strip. As we round the headland at full speed, we can see the digger dragging the hut up the runway. We stream ashore as Ken drives the inflatable nose-first onto the scree slope. We climb the scree in two bounds and run towards the melee of hut and bodies half obscured by a cloud of dust.

The French are unnerved and within a matter of thirty seconds, we have dumped most of their guys to the floor in a less-than-non-violent direct action. I am held by two guys preventing me from getting involved in the central melee and then Ken, who by now has secured the inflatable, takes them both out in one flying tackle. As we get to our feet, Ken propels me with a mighty shove towards the hut where Henk is throwing French guys aside like so much confetti. Suddenly, the resistance melts away and we gain the hut entrance. A few more shoves and the French guys are dislodged and we pile inside the battered hut. We collapse in a heap of laughing, sweating bodies on the floor of the hut before pushing it back down the ‘piste’ and putting it back in position.

Still shaking with anger, I call Hussein on the VHF and scream at him. He simply accuses us of ‘violence’. Someone on board suggests we remove the Greenpeace signs from the banners and just have it on with the French. While it’s a wild and ridiculous idea which we discard immediately, it is true that there are no laws which govern Antarctic territory. The French have earned a particularly bad reputation with us since the Rainbow Warrior sinking and the murder of Fernando, so hackles are already up, but we agree to continue in a responsible and – as far as is possible – non-violent manner.

Up till 0330 firing off the press release and pictures and finally fall into bed, resigned to finding a way to extricate ourselves from this increasingly violent situation with grace. Paul Brown apparently interviewed Engler today who said that if Greenpeace wanted to commit suicide that was fine by him: the work will continue.

9 January 1989

No work on the site today as Hussein declares it a day of ‘maintenance’ for the vehicles and machinery. I go ashore early and secure an agreement from the shore party that we should desist from any further direct action on the northern end of the site and concentrate our efforts on the continuing blockade at the southern end of the strip, thereby hopefully removing the cause of further ‘provocation’ and retaliation from the French.

At 1430, Dog and I meet Houssein to tell him we will forego further direct actions in return for a guarantee of no further violence and an agreement to let us stay on the southern end of the strip unmolested, as is our right. He says it is a decision which will have to come from Paris and will depend on how long we intend to stay, the inference being that if we announce we are staying longer than the French want, they’ll physically remove us. I agree to let him know our preferred quit-by date by midnight tonight and spend the rest of the day discussing it with the crew on board the ship and those ashore occupying the hut.

The area around the hut has returned to its pre-French-airstrip-project tranquillity. Penguins wander around and bask in the sun and have an altogether different attitude in the peace and quiet we have created. It is a pleasure to sit around the hut, chat, smoke and drink tea while penguins waddle up to us and eye us with curiosity. A more romantic person than I would hope that they were saying thanks.

We agree, after a lot of talking among the crew, to stick to our original ten day occupancy plan, which, means leaving on the 15th. This seemed to me to be a neat way to keep the crew happy (by sticking to our original plan) while fortuitously being able to make what seemed to be a small concession to the French. I communicate this decision by telex to Houssein at 2350. Drinks and bed by 0200 after sorting out a system for alerting the shore party and vice versa of any nocturnal activities spotted ashore.

10 January 1989

Up at 0645 for interview with CNN. Houssein calls at 0930 to advise there’s still no official response from Paris but unofficial indications are that they are ‘unhappy’ with our proposed departure date of the 15th. Finally, at 2330, the message arrives from Paris and it’s basically, ‘get out by the 13th and we’ll offer you a meeting with the scientists for an exchange of information and a tour of inspection’. This causes a mixed reaction from the crew. Fall into bed hoping we can come to a satisfactory and peaceful conclusion to this campaign, but we are sitting pretty; we can’t lose!

11 January 1989

Up early for a crew meeting on the bridge, at which I manage to steer the decision towards accepting the French requirement to remove the base by the 13th, on the assurance that conditions are met concerning the tour of the site. Send off our conditions of acceptance but not until I’ve had a further meeting with the shore party about the wisdom (or lack of it) of this decision. I argue that it’s time to focus attention on the real issues at stake here rather than on continued French violence, and that we can’t afford to miss the opportunity to get some hard information for once. I get an agreement from all concerned, much to my relief, although not until Henk has soundly trashed the ‘long-winded scientific bullshit’ and has made a pitch for hanging out until the 15th. This upsets Dog considerably and while I’m preparing the telex back on the ship, he’s really down at Henk’s attitude and resolves to have it out with him. Reuters, AFP and AP all call wanting pictures of the ‘return to work’ at the base and Steve duly obliges. Then Ken decides to turn his small cabin into a disco and by 2300 there are at least twelve people in his room, singing their heads off and trying to dance. The party moves to the saloon where it really gets going and people quite rightly let off a lot of steam. Bed by 0030.

12 January 1989

Up at 0630 for interviews with Reuters, AAP, Christchurch Press, German agencies and ABC. A reply arrives from Houssein about 1000. He comes very close to meeting our demands on the conditions of the tour, but curiously talks of unspecified ‘sites’ which we can go ‘around’ but not ‘on top of’ and he also mysteriously calls for a meeting on the 13th not the 14th as agreed. I send off a further telex asking for clarification by midday and then sit around with Dog until Henk calls from the shore telling us they’re landing equipment behind the hut from a landing craft. I call Houssein to ask what’s going on and the rest of the day degenerates into a sort of Brian Rix farce with workers on shore goading us into a reaction and Houssein and I arguing over yards of territory.

At one time I even allow Houssein to move ‘only two’ boxes from the equipment they’ve offloaded and ‘no more’ as they contained sensitive equipment. The most curious aspect of this is that he agreed! Engler is on the airstrip twice during the afternoon and he must be the most chagrined of all, having to bow to the demands of a bunch of peace freaks. Paul, Dave and Albert are sent ashore to boost numbers in case Engler tries any independent action. All quietens down eventually and the evening passes calmly after I send out yet another update to offices. Another party inevitably erupts around 2200.

13 January 1989

Our last day at DuDu. We all go ashore and dismantle our brave little hut, but before doing so Steve insists that we have a celebration picture taken. We all decide to give the finger in the unofficial version and even Paul Brown, our ‘independent journalist’ is to be seen grinning from ear to ear with his middle digit held aloft. Houssein and his scientific entourage come over and escort our team off on the inspection tour, including Dog, Pierrette, Liz and Lilian, crowded round by our press contingency and official French observers.

We continue with the hut dismantling and load the sections back onto the inflatables and ferry them back to the ship. On the last of these trips we go the long way back to the ship to take in the paradise of the as-yet untouched but condemned islands which stand in the path of the airstrip . It is just so beautiful to see penguins swimming and squabbling in the sun and when we switch off the engines the tranquillity of the place, away from the construction site, is quite overpowering.

The science party returns at 1900 after a long and hard day. Paul Brown writes a piece which declares this is the first time the French has actually acknowledged Greenpeace as a bona fide outfit whose interests and concerns are genuine. Late night party in Pat’s cabin at which a bleary Henk hugs me and breathes rum all over me as he declares, ‘You’re an asshole, Wilks, but you’re the best.’ As I wander off to bed, a guy from Paris Match turns up from shore and wants to interview me. I finally get to bed at 0300 but God knows what I told the guy from Paris Match. I still have the presence of mind to put a big sign on the door of my cabin – ‘Definitely no calls at all! Any press or campaign work – see Doglips!’

14 January 1989

Luxuriate in bed until 1120. The prospect of a lazy day has me pottering about the ship until 1400 when I can’t resist another spin around the glaciers with Maggie, Pat, Merriann, Dave and Phil. It’s quite a magical time and we’re all dumbstruck by the majesty of the ice, the caves, the colours and the cascading icicles which hang down from the overhangs in sparkling arrays of tumbling ice, gently dripping in the sun. On a sloping ice ledge, we find an empty box of explosives and later, I send the manufacturers name and details from the box to Greenpeace in Sydney and they make another story out of exposing Australia’s complicity in the ruination of Antarctica. We return to the small cove we visited a few days ago and watch the penguins squabbling, swimming and preening, and having all sorts of fun in the water. Adelies captivate me – so cute, cheeky and with a constantly surprised look on their faces.

Back on the ship at 1600 and I feel moved to take my sketch pad on deck and draw the scene from deck. Prepare emails while Dog sleeps off his night shift, covering for me. Crew meeting at 1930 after the French chopper pilot and his oppo have the temerity to come on board when he spent a good part of his day ‘buzzing’ the penguin rookeries just for the hell of it. He gets a full broadside from me and his smile turns to an embarrassed scowl as he slinks off muttering indecipherable French curses. My bile is intensified by Liz telling me that as she carried out sampling work on the strip today, she was followed by a bunch of French jerks who hassled her and made constant rude and sexist comments to her.

Back on bridge watches tonight as we finally leave DuDu and the penguins to the mercy of the French. Ken tells us watchkeepers to go below tonight as there are so many people on the bridge that the ‘official’ watchkeepers can take a blow. A few drinks with the crew as we head towards Commonwealth Bay. It’s good to sit and chat with people I haven’t had a great deal of time to see over the last few days and the stories all come out as people crack beers and begin to relax after an intense but highly profitable ten days. Perhaps we didn’t stop the airstrip, but we interrupted their work considerably and we put the issue before the public in a major way. We cost them money and we gathered valuable scientific information to use as lobby material in the future.

15 January 1989

Awake to find us stooging around off Commonwealth Bay. Forty knots of katabatic wind whip up long, steep seas from the shore, the tops are snatched into sheets of spray which reflect rainbows in the air against an intense sun. The coast is totally ice-covered apart from a half-mile stretch which marks the entrance to Commonwealth Bay. It was here that probably the greatest Antarctic explorer of all time – Douglas Mawson – suffered such dire privations. During the 1920s, he and two colleagues, Ninnis and Mertz, were left here to complete a scientific and geographical exploration of the interior. Their hut still stands and I was anxious to get to see it.

The three set off with dogs and provisions but Ninnis died after falling into a crevasse, taking with him most of the food and one sledge and dogs. Mertz and Mawson turned around and began the long journey back to camp but Mertz fell ill and died, leaving Mawson alone with hardly any food and only six dogs. He cut the remaining sledge in half and began his tortuous walk home. His dogs were starving and he was forced to feed them on scraps of leather cut from his equipment. Then he began eating his dogs in order to survive. They were so frail and devoid of muscle that he found the livers to be the most nutritional parts available and ate them mostly raw. Eventually his last dog had to be killed and he was alone. As he struggled on, he suffered impaired vision, headaches, blackouts and from hard skin forming the soles of his feet which began literally peeling away like a false sole.

He was suffering from Vitamin A poisoning, although this was not to be established until well after his eventual death. The vitamin was stored in the dogs’ livers and is lethal to humans in concentrated doses. Mawson was so weak that he was forced to begin crawling the final thirty miles or so back to his base, knowing all the time that the ship bringing his relief party would depart by an agreed date if there was no sign of his party. Mawson dragged himself over the lip of a hill which we could see from the bridge of the Gondwana and looked down onto his hut and the bay, only to see the ship leaving. He had literally missed the boat by a matter of hours.

Two men had been left behind, however, and Mawson was forced to spend a further winter convalescing in Commonwealth Bay until the relief ship, unable to be recalled the previous year due to the absence of radio, returned to take Mawson back to a hero’s welcome in Australia. Mawson went on to lead further expeditions to Antarctica before succumbing to the poisoning he had unwittingly administered to himself during that gruelling trip in 1912.

We can’t use the boats in this wind so we heave-to and wait. Davey comes up from the engine room and asks Arne to move the ship under power to keep a flow of water through the engines. Then he reappears to ask us to put on more speed to stop the props from cavitating. . The crew are getting anxious to move on to look for the whalers but I insist that it’s important politically (for the Australian connection) for us to get into the bay and send back reports to the Australian press about our visit. We agree to wait until 2400 to seek an improvement in the weather and by 1430 we put the boats in the water.

Dog, Bruno, Liz and I go in the first boat. It’s a choppy, wet ride but as we enter Boat Harbour the sea flattens and we see before us a wonderland of basking seals and colonies of squawking penguins which seem oblivious to our presence. We radio for the next boat to be sent and wait for 30 minutes, sitting in the sun watching the penguins. There are amazing rock formations everywhere and the entire area has a magical quality about it. Once we’re all assembled, we head off towards Mawson’s hut, some half a mile inland, which we access across a glassy ice sheet resembling a miniature glacier. The rocks which protrude through the ice are crammed full of dead penguin chicks around their base and I ponder the awful death these poor creatures must have suffered as they lay helplessly trapped by rocks and steep-sided gullies between the ice and the base of the rocks.

The hut itself is like new, the wood having been scoured to a shining white by the wind-blown grit. Around the hut lies the usual tip of discarded equipment – boots, wire, fuel drums, wooden poles, empty containers – all of which have, of course, like Scott’s rubbish at Cape Evans, assumed monument status. Amongst the ancient dross I’m horrified to see the litter of those who came here with the express purpose of restoring the hut – modern cans, containers and rubbish left by Project Blizzard. These will form a nice little sting in the tail of the press releases we’ll be sending to the Australian press.

All back on the ship by 2130 after a special boat is sent to take the trepidacious Mary-Ann Bendell ashore – her first such venture. Get underway immediately and set to work on the press releases and picture captions and hit the sack at 0200, not before Paul Brown tells me that Naoko has broached the subject of anti-Japanese attitudes on board, evidenced by racist comments. I promise Paul that I’ll deal with it tomorrow.

16 January 1989

Only six press calls interrupted my day. After watch, despite my promise to Paul about Naoko, I crash out and sleep from 1230 to 1730 – sheer luxury and unadulterated self-indulgence. The discussion about the attempt to get into Leningradskaya is inconclusive and we agree to wait until we get closer to see what the ice conditions are like. On watch we are missing out on Bruno and Liz’s birthdays, but Ken dispatches me to the saloon at 2350 to tell the gathering party to look out of the starboard port holes – Liz and Bruno’s birthday presents have arrived – pack ice! The bridge is immediately crowded with people photographing the amazing expanses of sea ice stretching away to our starboard. Bed at 0130.

17 January 1989

We’re at 64 South and the weather is very mild and the sea amazingly flat. I decide to confront the issue of racism raised by Naoko. I get Paul and Naoko together with Dog to thrash it out. I promise that I’ll have a quiet word with offending crew members whom Naoko names but she’s more concerned with the banners we have prepared which read ‘Stop the Bloody Whaling’ which, in Japanese, translate to ‘stop the barbaric whaling’. Since there is no distinction in Japan between killing cows and killing whales, she feels that a display on TV of banners reading thus will put Greenpeace in a bad light. She also points out, disingenuously, that it’s the Japanese who consider westerners like us as ‘barbarians’. I promise to discuss it with Duncan Campbell, the international whale campaigner in Washington, and change the banners if that is felt to be the right course of action. On watch at 2000 to see a falling barometer, heavy snow and zero visibility. The wind picks up quickly and the ship begins to roll and pitch heavily. Ken alters course to 170 towards the Bellaneys. Bed at 0130 after two beers with Ken, Steve, Liz, Maggie and Merriann.

18 January 1989

The scraping and bumping of the ship negotiating five tenths ice interrupts my sleep. Arne steers us through large ice floes in a flat calm sea under grey, lowering skies and then hands over to Ken. We have decided now to make for Leningradskaya and contact the Soviets to make arrangements. They seem delighted that we’ll be making an attempt at a visit. But this slow progress, despite the Gondwana’s ability to shoulder large floes out of her path with ease, means we’re behind schedule. The Soviets don’t come up on the 1100 radio schedule. At the 2000 crew meeting to discuss Leningradskaya we agree to continue with the plan to visit since it will be the first time a Soviet base has been inspected. On watch after the meeting to see seven tenths ice now and much reduced progress. We’re making only 2-3 knots and hitting ice every few seconds.

19 January 1989

We’re supposed to fly to Leningradskaya today but we’re still 165 miles off at noon – too far for the choppers. By evening watch we’re still over two degrees away (120 miles) and a flight is still out of the question. The ice is getting worse and Arne stayed at the controls for the entire 8-12 watch today. We get deeper and deeper into the ice and the floes get larger and larger – ice-free water is now a thing of rarity. The crashing and banging of ice on metal is severe and sleep is impossible. Finally pass 68 South in fine weather – minus 2 and zero wind.

20 January 1989

We passed the 80 miles from Leningradskya marker today and Bob reports that on the 4-8 he encountered a lot of free water and the log indicates we made 8 knots during the night. I get the helo guys fired up and checking the machines and tell the journalists and film crew to be on ten minutes stand-by. Sean asks, ‘Are you really intending to fly from here?’ Position at 1130 is 68, 31 South, 161, 14 East and we arrive at a more or less solid sheet of sea ice.

The 0800 schedule with the Soviets indicated 2 miles of visibility at their base and we wait until the 1400 schedule for a more favourable report. Both helos are tested and it appears that they each have faults, most notably a ‘dodgy’ compass in TN (call sign). The 1400 schedule indicates 11 miles visibility followed by another report almost immediately of an unexpected and severe weather change at Leningradskaya, forcing us to stand down again. By 2000, the ship is basking in brilliant sunshine and visibility is unlimited, but Ian can’t raise the Soviets to check the weather their end and Dave Walley, sensibly, will not fly until a weather report is received.

There is a brief diversion for a while as we spend most of our evening watch dislodging a giant rock which has become wedged in the anchor, collected at Commonwealth Bay. Sean does some interviewing with me and Lilian. It is quite an incredible feeling being stuck here in almost ten tenths ice with nothing on any side but endless sheets of ice. We feel a little vulnerable and there is muttered talk in the saloon of being beset. Bed at 0200 after doing my long-overdue dobying.

21 January 1989

It’s 0140 and I’m finally in bed after a particularly memorable day. At 0800 this morning the schedule with the Soviets indicated 27 miles visibility, 24 knot winds, minus 5 degrees and a ‘go’ situation. With ill-concealed excitement, I rounded up those due to fly and told them to be on the helideck at 0945 sharp, having previously allocated seating arrangements with Dave and Pierrette. By 1015, people are still not on station and with rising anger I am forced, yet again, to go and round people up. Paul Brown is eating cornflakes in the mess, if you please! I give him such a broadside that he chokes on his breakfast and promises to be there in five minutes. Then I see Naoko strolling around the foredeck with a cup of tea and I bawl at her, ‘Naoko, you’re supposed to have been on the helideck half an hour ago!’ She seems unmoved. Christ what a bunch!

Then Sean comes to me to announce that he’s not coming with us. He’s unhappy to fly 65 miles over ice and possibly water and he’s unhappy about stories which are doing the rounds concerning ‘incorrect maintenance’ on the aircraft. (It also transpired later that friends of Sean’s had recently died in a helo crash.) I can’t believe that he would leave it this long to tell me his fears. We’ve struggled all this way only to be told that we will not be able to have a filmic documentation of the Soviet base. Mary Ann hears this and bottles out too, although her absence will not be a huge loss to world journalism. So now we’re down to seven people and as we’re just about to board the helos, Leningradskya comes on again to tell us the weather has crapped out again. I’m just about to call off the entire venture but Arne convinces me to wait until the noon schedule. Sit drumming my fingers until 1200 when Dave appears on the bridge and says, ‘Let’s go! Weather’s fine now!’

Even our reduced numbers of seven can’t make it on time and the 1215 departure becomes a 1320 departure. We lift off with a back-bearing to the ship our only guide across this icy wasteland until Dave picks up the Leningradskaya beacon. It is quite an incredible feeling to be blasting off into the unknown like this and within a matter of five minutes we are flying over ice-free water to the south of the ship’s position. We fly in tandem and make stupid faces at each other through the windows of the helicopters. After 45 minutes, we can see the coast rising before us, just a hump in the all-pervading whiteness. Bruno picks out the glacier and Dave announces to everyone’s relief that he has locked onto the Soviet beacon. Then we can see it – a cluster of buildings perched precariously on top of a thousand foot high nunatak. I am speechless at the view: spectacular is not the word. We make a circuit to come in upwind and watch the figures below rushing about excitedly waving and slapping backs. These guys have not seen another person outside their own number for 14 months; they haven’t seen a woman in that time either and we have two with us! We touch down and Dave shuts off the engine.

As the rotors slow, the helicopter is surrounded by excited personnel. The OIC greets me with a formal handshake and we spend fifteen minutes just standing there, talking in a mixture of German, English and Russian, trying to decide what to do first. Through translations, it goes something like, ‘Beer first then walk around, or walk around first then beer. Or vodka? While we are deciding, let’s go and have a beer anyway.’ We’re plied with beer as we walk towards one of the larger huts and are ushered into a room set for a meal. Vodka is served to the men, champagne to the women, who have already attracted great interest from the base crew. Much exchanging of gifts and much toasting to nebulous things. A picture of Gorbachev adorns the wall, minus the prominent birthmark on his forehead. I swap my baseball cap with the base commander for a decidedly Russian woolly cap with a cardboard peak. The conversation goes from English to German to Russian, back to German and then finally the answer arrives in English. To a question such as ‘What do you do with your rubbish?’ the answer arrives five minutes later, ‘Two fish’ at which everyone roars with laughter.

It’s difficult to concentrate on the job of criticising cavalier attitudes to the fragile Antarctic environment in the company of such hospitable people and when your belly’s half full of vodka. After the meal, we go walkabout and discover that the base, as predicted, is a complete mess of discarded machines, lorries and containers of all descriptions. All the junk, we are assured, is ‘waiting to be retrograded.’ Yeah, sure. We do our job of logging the answers and the state of the base but it’s hard to be testy with these smiling and happy people. We gather enough information for our report and notice that a recent snowfall has had the grace to cover up most of the junk which undoubtedly lies beneath the snow.

Sanitation is a series of oil drums positioned directly beneath the toilet block which has holes cut in its floor. There is no doubt that once full, they are tossed over the edge of the nunatak onto the ice 1000 feet below: it is littered with thousands of barrels which we mistook for seals on our flight in. Their claims of a recent change for the good in retrograding policies is hard to believe since the base is like Steptoe’s junk yard – but worse. Much to their horror, we announce that we must leave. Beds have been prepared for us to stay overnight, but amid much hugging and exchanging of yet more articles of clothing, we prepare to leave. Our hosts are still waving as we lift off and immediately drop down to the ice to inspect the ‘seals’.

The flight back to the ship has a dreamlike quality, helped by the vodka, no doubt, but the light and the ice formations are simply majestic and breathtaking. We pick up the ship’s beacon with no problem and home in on our tiny speck of metal sitting in the endless sea of ice below. I’m excused watch as the ship does an about turn with some difficulty and after a few drinks with Dave, Bruno, Dog and others to relate our experiences, I crash at 0030, falling into an exhausted but satisfied sleep to the scrape and thunder of ice being beaten into surrender.

22 January 1989

On watch at 0800 to see we’re surrounded by ten tenths ice. The temperature is minus 8 and the sea is freezing. As the bow dislodges a newly-frozen layer of gossamer ice, it skates across the top of the neighbouring sheet with zero friction, to be dashed against the larger and older sea ice some twenty yards away. Fascinating. The sun shines, there’s no wind and I’m captivated by it all. Dog remarks that it’s like witnessing creation all over again. I can’t drag myself away from the bridge wing all morning. I simply stand and watch the seals and penguins and the stunning scenery.

The need to get press releases out brings me back to reality and not until 1600 am I free of such boring work. Onto the bridge to see the helos up ice-spotting and returning with reports that free water is a mere 20 miles ahead. At 3-4 knots in a zigzag line, that could mean another 12 hours. Debrief the crew about Leningradskaya at 1300, after which Henk asks me to stand in for him in helo operations and I agree, not finishing until 1900. Arne pushes the bow between floes, increasing the revs to force them apart, all the time trying to make a course for Sturge Island. Any progress is a struggle. Davey walks around with a disgruntled attitude because the film guys didn’t go to Leningradskaya after all the hard work done in the engine room and on deck to get us within flying distance. Davey feels rightly that they had more of a duty to the expedition. But he won’t bring it out in the open. Bed at 0230 after waiting for Ken to come off an extended watch.

23 January 1989

Mother’s birthday today. Will call her tonight. On watch to see the ice thinning at last and Sturge Island only 12 miles off. The floes are still close together but smaller and curled at the edges, indicating recent origin. We plough through at an increased speed in our red, floating bulldozer. Arne asks Ken to do an ice recce and I’m therefore promoted to organising ‘helicopter operations’ which is strictly Ken’s reserve. So there I am out on the helideck wearing the airband radio and headset, taking and giving instructions between the bridge and the helicopter. Real Boy’s Own stuff. Sean is up filming Sturge Island in HOQ as well, so it gets pretty hectic on the flight control deck, but I love every moment of it. Here I am, an ex-lorry driver from Deptford controlling two helicopters from the deck of a ship deep in the Antarctic. Sturge Island is so dramatic: 3000 foot sheer cliffs topped by huge ice-caps waiting to crash into the sea below.

Weather still calm, little wind but dark lowering clouds ahead which portend heavy snow. Bruno asks me at lunch to illustrate a fairy story he has written for his children. I’m touched at the request and also at the tenderness of the story, so incompatible with the Bruno I am used to. Finally clear the pack ice and only a few growlers and bergy bits remain. The wind and sea pick up considerably and we’re soon moving around in a steep swell. By 2200 I’m feeling queasy after days of working in ice. As I hang on grimly at my watch post the fire alarm sounds, just to add a bit of spice to the day, and we all rush to our positions. Turns out that a small fire in one of the engine room switchboards has taken out the old accommodation lights, so half the ship is without illumination. After dealing with this little emergency we all get back on watch, but by 2230 still feeling seasick so Ken tells me to go below which I gratefully do. I crash onto my bunk which brings almost instant relief from the nausea and wonder why, after all this time at sea, I still can’t finally and comprehensively beat this curse.

24 January 1989

Despite only a slight improvement in the weather, I stand my watch and find Ken in a very strange mood. He’s very hyped this morning and mutters constantly ‘Saturday night at the base camp.’ He doesn’t stop laughing and joking and this is very un-Ken-like. Watch over, lunch is a sad affair with only six of us eating. I’m surprised that so many of the crew are in a worse condition than I was yesterday when the weather has actually improved slightly. Perhaps I am getting my sea legs after all and there is no better feeling than the absence of sea-sickness at sea.

After lunch, I have a campaign/ship meeting, with Dog and I representing the campaign and Davey (as chief) and Arne representing the ship. It’s a ‘cards on the table’ discussion and I ask Davey to spill all his bile. He’s angry that neither the film crew nor Mary Ann went to Leningradskaya, and feels that the considerable fuel, energy and time we spent getting there was wasted, due to their lack of enthusiasm. In addition, he’s furious with Dave and Pierrette for allegedly drinking on the night previous to flying to Leningradskaya and he finally adds that he’s sick and tired of all the criticism he’s had to brook in the past about his choice of the Gondwana as the Antarctic vessel. We all allow Davey to vent his spleen to his heart’s content since I in particular recall what happened on the 1985-86 trip when he exploded after bottling up all his emotions for months. Davey has his say, and I give my justifications. All depart apparently happy.

After the meeting, I prepare updates for the offices, Dog gets on with his report and Steve works in the darkroom. I wander into the saloon at 1600 with a cup of tea and a few minutes later Albert sneaks up behind me and whispers, ‘There’s a ship on the horizon, Wilks. Could be a whaler.’

I’m almost tempted not even to respond to such a wind-up but instead mutter, ‘Get outta here Albert.’

He replies, to my growing incredulity, ‘I’m serious, Wilks. Come and see for yourself.’

‘I’ll be up in a few minutes Albert.’

The likelihood of us finding the Japanese whaling fleet in 160,000 square miles of ocean even if we were deliberately looking for them is remote. To literally ‘bump into them’ would be a million to one shot. But Albert’s words get the better of my curiosity and I wander up to the bridge. I can’t believe what I see: all the mates and Arne are on the starboard bridge wing, training binoculars on a distant speck. The radar sweep shows three echoes – one a very large ship. Arne passes me the glasses and as the ship briefly appears between the swells, the distinctive shape of a whaler – stubby but very high bow, low freeboard and a crow’s nest atop the mainmast, confirms our wildest dreams. We have run slap bang into the Japanese whaling fleet!

Ian Balmer rushes in from the radio room, his face beaming as he announces, ‘Wilks! Wilks! We’ve picked them up on the HF! Naoko and I scanned the frequencies and stopped at the first Japanese language we could hear, and it’s the whaling fleet! They’re saying to the scout boat to investigate and if it’s Greenpeace, they’ll try to outrun us and to watch our boarding tactics. Holy shit, I can’t believe this!’

The catcher ‘scout’ ship came within half a mile of us and then headed back to the factory ship, the 40,000 ton Nishin Maru, which now loomed large just two miles away. She lumbers up to us, her guardrails lined with aproned workers from the bowels of the ship. I call the ship on the VHF and their chief scientist comes on the line. He’s more interested in what we are doing than giving any information away, but he tells us that they are conducting approved scientific whaling and that they have caught 40 whales thus far. I tell him that their actions are condemned universally and that we will be taking peaceful direct action to prevent any further whaling if they resume. Ian, now monitoring the radio constantly with Naoko, reports that the skipper of the NM is contacting Tokyo for instructions and has informed his catchers not to kill any whales while we are around. A victory without a shot being fired! Arne asks me if we should tell them how long we’ll be monitoring their activities. No way, Arne. We’ll keep them guessing as long as possible. Two beers after watch as we all lie a-hull in a peculiar and improbable fleet of two whale catchers, a factory ship and a Greenpeace protest vessel, a thousand miles away from the nearest land.

25 January 1989

The NM took off in the night at 10 knots in a NE direction and as I reach the bridge at 0800 she’s stopped again, the catchers nowhere in sight. We’ve decided to stick to the factory ship because we can just about match her for speed and the catchers must rendezvous with her at some point. We realise this is leaving whales at the mercy of the catchers, but to chase a catcher would mean being outrun and losing the factory ship. We send up the helos for some stock shots of the NM for possible use later. Out goes the press release: ‘GP intercepts the Japanese whaling fleet in the Southern Ocean’ – a bit of literary licence, but never let the truth stand in the way of a good story, as my old mate Bryn Jones would say.

Further contact with the NM, during which the skipper asks us to ensure that we stay a safe distance from their vessel. The helos are up for a full hour, using up valuable and limited amounts of fuel. A shot of two ships at sea has cost us a barrel of precious fuel which we’ll need for the re-supply. This concern prompts a meeting at which I allocate only a further 4 hours of flying time to the helos during this action. At 1600, the NM advises us that she is altering course to 090 and she takes off at full speed for eight hours, leaving us eight miles behind her at 2350 when we increase speed to keep station at that distance where she can be monitored on the radar. At 0100, Arne has ‘cut the corner’ to leave us only 4 miles off her port beam.

As I take to my bunk, I ask that we simply monitor the NM’s movements overnight. The weather is a 10 knot northerly wind, slight sea, overcast with snow showers and minus 2. We saw only one whale during the entire chase.

26 January 1989

Staggered onto the bridge at 0800 to see a furious sea in 30 knots of wind, driving snow and visibility down to half a mile. We’re thrown around all over the place and the crash of plates and equipment drifts up from below as we plunge through huge seas. The NM is clearly taking us through the worst weather she can find in an attempt to shake us off: her course is the most uncomfortable for us – pitching into huge seas – and into squalls as they appear. I take six press calls on the bridge and it’s no mean feat to maintain a modicum of composure and some semblance of eloquence when you’re being thrown around in a rogue express lift.

The NM heads first NE and then N, taking us further and further from where we want to be. Watchkeepers are required to don Antarctic clothing and stay out on the bridge wing looking for growlers through the murk: freezing cold, wet from the spray, going up and down like a yo-yo. What a life! Sleep immediately after watch until 1530 and decide that we’re too busy to send out messages. Phil downloads the comets anyway to reveal 27 messages. He hands them to me and I look him in the eyes as I put them straight into the rubbish bin without so much as a glance. He laughs and I smile. On evening watch, the NM finally turns SW at 2300 and then stops after 30 minutes. The final chase had the ship slamming, rolling and shuddering every few seconds – absolute hell. The ship’s a complete mess below and many have resorted to their bunks in the face of sea-sickness. I haven’t seen half the crew in 24 hours! As we finally heave-to, we slap each other on the back. The NM tried to out run us and failed. No whaling today!

27 January 1989

The NM is still stopped when I go on watch at 0800. The weather has abated a little, although we still roll heavily in a big swell as we lay hove-to, a mile from the NM. At 1100, she moves off to the SW but then stops again after 30 minutes. The phone doesn’t stop ringing and both Dog and I are busy all day, giving interviews to the media. At 1530, the NM moves off to the west with us in tow. By 1930, the NM is moving WSW and we’re all mystified as to her intentions. At 2230, she turns south and heads for some isolated snow showers, for what reason, no-one knows. Does she think we don’t have radar? Crew meeting tonight agrees that we’ll wait until the NM forms her ‘research hunting’ pattern with the catchers before we engage her. By 1400 tomorrow on this heading, we’ll be back where we started. Bed by 0200. Weather calmer but squalls all around.

28 January 1989

Up at 0530 when Mark tells me the fleet is assembling. Blearly-eyed on the bridge to see two catchers to the port side of the NM, the third presumably to the starboard over the horizon. Ian reports that radio traffic indicates a start time for hunting at 0700. I call Ken, Henk and Dog. Ken is as grumpy as hell and refuses to get out of bed until Dog tells him we’re unlashing the inflatables. That gets him up in a jiffy! By 0720, we’re full ahead with one catcher on either side of us four miles astern. They are gaining on us very quickly, and I’ve asked Arne to make sure we do not run the risk of losing the NM. If she gets too far away, we’ll break off any direct action and keep to the factory ship, otherwise we’ll be left in mid-ocean being outrun by the catchers and over the horizon from the NM.

At 0900, a catcher turns across our bows and ducks into an area littered with spectacular icebergs. We slow to launch the inflatables at 2 miles range as whales begin blowing all around us. I drive the crane to lift the inflatables from the main deck but the roll of the ship makes the operation very hazardous. Ken and Ian get away in the 5.2 metre boat, Henk, Mark and Steve in the aluminium work boat. They hare off across a flattening sea towards the catcher as we get under full power to catch up as best we can. The helicopter is airborne with Sean leaning out of the fuselage like James Bond.

We watch through the glasses as Ken gets in position in front of the catcher and the two vessels disappear behind an iceberg. As they reappear, Ken is directly in front of the catcher which is plying high-pressure hoses over the inflatable. Henk in the work boat is also in position and they’re giving the catcher hell. He can’t fire at whales with Ken and Henk there but suddenly Henk falls back: the work boat has broken down – shit! We have to abandon after three hours of confrontation: Ken’s out of fuel and has to return to refuel.

We’re keeping an eye on the NM’s position while attempting to stop the catchers from killing whales. Arne is manoeuvring the Gondwana into a position which blocks off the catcher’s approach to a pod of whales and claxons echo mournfully over the empty ocean. Albert steers the ship by using the extension control, enabling him to steer from the bridge wing. A catcher comes careening along our port side in a chase for a whale which sounds three hundred yards ahead of us. Albert keeps his course and the whaler, making 17 knots and kicking up a huge beam and bow wave, creams alongside us, inching ever closer until only feet separate us.

Albert looks the skipper of the whaler in the eye and shouts, ‘Piss off, you asshole. Leave the whales alone. I’m not altering course for you! I have the right of way!’

The bridge is packed with crew, shouting and waving clenched fists at the whalers. The catcher clears our bow and turns sharply to starboard and a loud ‘boom!’ momentarily deafens us as the whaler fires a harpoon. Dave Walley on the foredeck shouts, ‘Missed!’ and we cheer.

A second shot is fired and this time, the whaler doesn’t miss. The catcher and the Gondwana stop dead in the water. As silence spreads across the scene, the incongruity of the situation is palpable. It is lovely and sunny, with no wind to speak of but the sea is already stained with crimson blood. The whale sounds and the hawser goes taut. The whale is hauled to the surface, quivering and pouring blood from its mouth and from the wound in its back.

In stark contrast to the chaos which reigned a few minutes ago, we now watch in silence as the whale contorts and thrashes in its death throes. I comfort Maggie as she cries at the sight. Two electrodes are passed down to the quivering whale from the high bow of the whaler. An electric shock, designed to finish the whale off quickly, merely prompts another quiver and thrash from the whale. Finally, it is dead. It is hauled alongside the catcher and secured by the tail, head beneath the waterline. We follow it back to the catcher where the whale is hauled up the slipway, mouth agape, spilling the last of the seawater which once sustained and nourished it. It looks tiny on the slipway which was built to accommodate the huge blue whales, but the few that are left are hard to find and are afforded some notional protection.

There’s nothing quite as dead as a dead whale. Dog looks quite stunned and the ship assumes a sombre mood. We give chase to another catcher but he doesn’t have his harpoon manned – he’s only sighting. The hunt is over for the day. Only two whales killed. Some sort of victory for us since we’ve restricted the killing substantially while we’ve been on station. Two releases out in the evening accompanied by three pictures, one of Ken’s action which makes the front page of the Guardian. The other catchers return with three more whales and then the NM heads for Scott Island.

The press calls are coming thick and fast. Dog and I run between the phone and the radio room, writing captions, helping Steve to send out no less than 12 pictures to various media all over the world. Fall into bed at 0230. Just before I crashed I had the presence of mind to get Dave to overfly the NM tonight to get shots of the flensing of the whale on the NM’s deck.

29 January 1989

On watch at 0800 to see the NM still steaming west. She then comes to port and then hard a-starboard with us in pursuit. Ken allows me the honour of steering the ship. Call Dog, Steve, Sean, Arne, Dave and Ken together to plan the action for the day. We decide to use our ship to block the loading ramp at the stern of the NM as a first tactic and then launch the inflatables to get the shots and to be ready for direct action should an opportunity arise. We agree also to get a ‘banker’ shot of the helicopter overflying a catcher, with a banner dangling across the harpoon, just in case the weather changes tomorrow and we have nothing for the press. The rule is: one story a day, one tactic a day.

At last a catcher arrives to offload a whale but we’re too slow off the mark and can’t get in position quickly enough. We have to wait until 1700 before another catcher arrives. This time, Arne times his approach to perfection. We’re stuck on the stern of the NM and he can’t transfer lines to his catchers to transfer the kill. There are now two catchers standing off waiting to discharge. The NM tries to give them sea-room by steaming ahead but Arne sticks to him like a leech, just twenty metres off at most. The NM’s skipper comes on the VHF asking would we please give him at least 2 miles of sea-room to take his catch. We all fall about laughing at that one. Arne sticks to his task doggedly but is clearly unhappy with this tactic since it goes against all his instincts as a seaman, if not the actual letter of sea law.

After an hour, Arne reluctantly breaks off the engagement. I tell him it’s his decision, although I hope he’ll stick at it longer. Many of the crew are not happy with Arne’s decision and rumblings of dissent begin. We get the necessary shots from the chopper and of the helicopter ‘buzzing’ the catcher’s foredeck: all in the can ready for despatch if nothing better turns up tomorrow. But we have our story for today and at 2100 we give the NM a bit of sea-room as the light begins to fail. Ken moans about ‘cliques’ who insist that we adopt a more gung-ho approach without realising the risks and dangers involved. Henk, Steve and I wallop the rum until 0230.

30 January 1989

The wind has increased and we’re rolling and pitching heavily as we chase the NM. Press interest is increasing: the Guardian, Daily Mail and NZ Herald, Today Programme and lots of other interest, particularly in Australia. The catchers can’t operate in this sort of sea so we’re looking forward to a ‘down’ day. Nothing of note on watch and I sleep and doze the afternoon away in the company of Hendrix and Dylan. After dinner, we’re all called to the bridge to see a massive sperm whale lazily swimming off the port bow before showing us his flukes as he sounds – magic! One catcher obviously overcame the inclement conditions and returned with a minke whale along the gunwale but we were too far behind the NM to block the transfer. Lots of press all day long and Dog and I are so whacked at the end of the day we agree not to send any pictures or stories out tonight. Just bed at midnight.

31 January 1989

During my four hour watch I deal with ten press calls this morning. A helo recce tells us that all four catchers are on their way back to the NM and we prepare to continue with the blockading tactics. By 1300 the catchers are approaching and Ken takes us tight on the NM’s stern. The catchers are laying off as they wait for us to move, but Albert, who takes over from Ken, refuses to budge. The usual VHF call comes asking us this time to lay off 300 metres as we are in an ‘unsafe position’ to which we reply that our position is entirely safe and only the actions of the catchers present a threat. The catcher on our starboard side comes closer and closer as we steam at five knots keeping station on the NM.

At one point the NM’s warps were trailing over her rear guardrail lying on the surface of the water and the knot in the end of one of the lines was configured in the shape of a pineapple (known in maritime parlance as a ‘monkey’s fist’). Albert mentions this to Mary-Ann who retorts, ‘Monkey’s fist? Christ, is there any animal these guys won’t kill?’ Eventually, the guardrails of the catcher collide with our hull. Paul Brown writes in his notebook, ‘Collision at 1346’. It’s nothing serious at all but within an hour, the press are calling us about the collision. One UK tabloid calls to ask about the ‘sinking’, to which I reply that we would have a hard job communicating if we had been sunk.

We stay in position for two hours before the catchers finally give up and scatter, their whales still an encumbrance along their rails. As they appear to be assuming a hunting pattern and as whales are all around, I take the gamble of despatching the boats again. As soon as we slow down to create a lee, the catcher turns and offloads his whale.

We’re caught with our pants down and I rue my stupid decision. But we’re committed now and after the terrifying task of launching the one ton work boat which swings around like a demented fish on the end of a hook and line, Henk takes off for the factory ship to try to harass the transferring of the whale. He gets in position while we’re still launching Ken’s boat and we see to our consternation that the Japanese are using grappling hooks on Henk’s boat and hosing it down with high-pressure hoses. As we watch, his boat is almost up-ended.

Both Ken and Henk are eventually repelled by the hoses and hooks and the transfer takes place. Now we have the boats launched they both pursue the catcher to engage in ‘human shield’ activities, but the work boat is simply not fast enough and has to turn back. Henk and Pat the cook are both bruised and shocked by the treatment they received; Pat has a gash across her nose from contact with the bow-dodger bar. Ken manages to get in front of the whaler and stays on station for an hour and we manage to get the helicopter airborne for some more pictures of the ‘classic’ Greenpeace action. What we don’t get, of course, is the picture we wanted: of Henk in front of the catcher in the work boat, displaying his solid banner designed to block the harpoonist’s line of vision, something we worked on for weeks in Auckland.

The work boat returns after having overheated and recovery is just as hairy as launching. We set off after the NM again and collect Ken on the way. The press calls are almost incessant now and I’m on the phone constantly from 2100 – 0230, five and a half hours! Just before I crash, Naoko tells me that they monitored the skipper of catcher Number 1 telling his fleet commander that he was ‘losing his nerve’ and wanted to end this dangerous activity of fighting Greenpeace. Naoko also overhears that the fleet commander suggests that hunting should cease ‘for a few days’ while the more innocuous ‘sighting’ work takes place. Seems we’ve got them on the ropes.

1 February 1989

Call a crew meeting at 1300 at which we agree to continue the whaling action for another 24 hours and if no whaling takes place in that time, we’ll abandon. I ask the crew for ideas about how we can terminate the campaign in style and Ton suggests that we deliver to the whaling fleet the text of a resolution which the British have just proposed to the International Whaling Commission, along with seven other nations, condemning the Japanese hunt and demanding that it be abandoned. This is a great idea and we agree to his suggestion.

Although we agree in principle to end the action tomorrow, we put a helicopter on standby just as a precaution against resumption in whaling. I leave Naoko translating the wording of the resolution into Japanese and crash out. On waking, I’m told that the helicopter was despatched this afternoon to monitor the activities of the catchers when twelve whales began sounding all around them, and not one harpoon was fired. That is a huge victory for us. Follow the NM all day and the press calls are coming just as thick and fast as ever, now also about the Bahia Paraiso which went aground today at the US Palmer station, about which we are inundated with a fresh wave of press calls. Beautiful evening watch with feeding orcas all around us. The press calls finally tail off at 0230, then thankfully to bed.

2 February 1989

Called at 0520, 0615 and 0730 for press calls and stayed up after the last to ensure getting on watch in time. This is our last day of activity on the whaling front and already I’m thinking about the re-supply and the visits we plan to make to the Italians and the Germans. As I stand on watch, waiting for Naoko to finish the translation of the UK resolution, I’m anxiously scanning the activities of the catchers since if they do start whaling again there will be an unstoppable imperative for us to continue direct actions against it. The fleet thankfully sails on without a shot fired and we have undoubtedly achieved a moral, psychological and operational victory. We have reduced the catch of whales from 40 in the ten days before we arrived to just 14 whales since we’ve been on station over a similar period of time.

The plan to drop off the translated text of the resolution condemning the ‘scientific’ whaling by the Japanese went hopelessly wrong during the course of the day. As a humanitarian gesture to the whalers we agreed that, along with the translated text, we would also send the whalers some whale-shaped cookies with a note saying, ‘If you want to eat whales, try these!’ But when the helicopters return from their exercise where every catcher as well as the NM were airlifted a basket of goodies in which, I thought, the text was also placed, it transpired long after we had left the scene that the copies of the resolution were still sitting on top of the HF radio. We had forgotten to put them in the baskets.

The whalers must have thought us an even odder bunch than originally when they received – via helicopter drop – a consignment of whale-shaped cookies. I rush to the bridge and explain to Arne and after everyone has stopped laughing, he agrees to retrace our course and find the whaling fleet again, now some three hours away to the north.

Finally Dave takes off again and delivers the text to bemused crews on the whaling vessels and I try to blot out this embarrassing cock-up from my mind. Finally peep away from the whaling fleet and steer 180 at 1830. Press release and update out, interspersed with a steady stream of radio calls which Dog and I share. On watch at 2000 and I’m feeling completely shagged. What a day, but what a victory too. No whaling occurred at all in six of the ten days we have been here. The ship’s rolling all over the place as I walk into the cabin and I’m thrown across the cabin and crack my shin a purler. Bed and sleep blissfully through to 1300 the next day.

3 February 1989

Snow showers greet my arrival on watch, low visibility, minus 1, NNE force 4 with the barometer falling rapidly. Dog comes to my cabin at 1330 to tell me that the National Science Foundation (NSF) are back-peddling furiously on the reports they gave us yesterday about the consequences of the grounding of the Bahia Pariso. They are now accusing us of ‘sensationalising’ the event. The press calls are tailing off and, thankfully, the weather is improving. Force 7 during the evening abates into a gentle long swell. Evening watch is all peace and light. It’s still quite dark between 2200 and 0300 as we’re still only 66S but a further three days southerly steam will see us in 24 hour daylight. Before turning in I hear that Japan formally complained today about ‘harassment’ of a legitimate whaling operation to the Dutch authorities (Gondwana is registered in Holland). Notified Terra Nova and Gondwana (the German base) of our imminent arrival.

4 February 1989

On watch to see visibility down to 400 yards and heavy snowfall which prompts Ken and I into a snowball fight around the bridge wings. During dinner and evening watch I find I’m particularly lethargic and pensive, not to say miserable. This is what is known as ‘post action blues’ and it affects a lot of people on board. Paul Brown shows me his 2500 word article he intends to file tonight which is good although I can’t resist the temptation to correct his grammar. A pod of seven orcas appears and the bridge moodiness and calm is shattered by swarms of people sporting cameras. We saw Cape Adare tonight and the low evening sun burning gold beneath heavy clouds was spell-binding.

5 February 1989

Note with pleasure that despite a falling barometer last night, the sea is still flat calm. On the bridge to see pack ice ahead, lots of it. Call 1500 meeting – me, Dog, Mark, Ken, Arne and Liz – to go over arrival plans at Terra Nova tomorrow. Crew meeting at 1900 to outline the plans and arrangements. This will be a well-earned shore break for everyone. Drew a few more pictures for Bruno’s fairy story book in the afternoon, including one I particularly liked of a penguin and her chick, beaks touching. I call Terra Nova during the evening watch and they’re happy to receive us tomorrow at 0900. We spend the watch skirting the pack ice and trying to make some westerly progress which we manage at around 2200. The weather is still incredibly calm although overcast and snowing. Bed at 0130.

6 February 1989

Werner wakes me with a cup of tea at 0730, bless his kind heart, and informs me that we’re at Terra Nova Bay. Ken already has the boats in the water and it is snowing heavily. Film crew ashore first in order to capture the meeting and I go in Ken’s boat with Dog and Mary-Ann. Mario, the base OIC, is there, and we greet each other warmly. He begins talking before we even reach the jetty and I swear he didn’t stop all day. He invites the entire crew to lunch and then we go walkabout, specifically to see the seismographic equipment they have installed in a rock face above the base and which caused Greenpeace to protest about the blasting of rock its installation required. It was obviously done with a great deal of forethought and sensitivity and we praise the skill of the work – unobtrusive and clean. Inside the cavern, it’s like a fairy grotto with ice crystals forming all over the walls. We eventually get back to the ship to round up merchandise and the usual piles of gifts and exchange items and already I’m beginning to feel drained. I haven’t been able to move all morning without a camera being trained on me or a microphone shoved in my face. Every word I utter is being taped by someone or other. Get back to the Italian base by early afternoon to find some of the crew have partaken too liberally in our hosts’ hospitality.

Another trip around the base follows and microphones appear at every turn. Then we go to the science labs and finally to the office again for a last discussion and an impromptu press conference. It’s snowing like hell outside and the wind is increasing all the time. Mario accepts an invitation to come to the ship with Roberto and Cristina (journalists from ANSA) and orders the helicopter to be fired up. The last shore party arrives by helicopter and we’re all finally back on board. After dinner the Italians decide to leave and it’s still quite early in the evening. The thought strikes me that we could make our visit to the Germans this evening, enabling us to go straight to our base tomorrow which we agree to do.

Dog calls Gondwana base at 1800 and they’re happy for us to visit tonight, weather permitting. We prepare HTN and begin the reasonably hairy process of shuttling people over to the small base, a little to the north of Terra Nova. All the time the weather is crapping out, the wind increasing and the snow thickening, but we all make it ashore without problem. We’re greeted by Jurgen and Michael, two wonderful, bearded geologists who live in tents while storing their equipment in the hut and who clearly love the Antarctic and the wide variety of rocks found around them. In fact, they can’t walk past a rock without stopping to explain its age and its origin. They are part of the larger German operation currently in North Victoria Land, trying to determine where Tasmania fitted into the original supercontinent of Gondwanaland.

They show us around the new and incomplete base, designed to house ten people, which will be completed in March. We spend an absolutely delightful hour in the base discussing their fascinating work, drinking cups of steaming hot chocolate. Then Ken comes on the VHF to tell us that the weather is seriously crapping out and that we should get back at once. It’s time to go and Dave fires up the helo and we take off into a swirling snowstorm and very low visibility. As we clear what we assume is the coast, Dave asks disconcertingly, ‘Anyone see the ship?’

Very comforting to hear that from the pilot. But soon the indistinct outline of the ship looms out of the snowstorm and we land safe and sound. Call the Italian office, lash the inflatables, stow the helos, do what’s left of my watch (2230 – 2400), send out pictures and press releases and fall into bed, exhausted, at 0200.

7 February 1989

On watch to see that we’ve been pushed in circles through the night and are only 20 miles east of Terra Nova as the ice has been thick to the south and east. We head east through band after band of ice, gradually making as much southing as possible and at the end of our watch, we’re heading 140, better than the 090 when we came on watch. It puts a 1700 ETA at Cape Evans beyond us and we agree to postpone our arrival until 1500 tomorrow afternoon, using the time to sight-see the ice shelf and Cape Crozier. This will also give us time to prepare the ship for discharging as we steam in flat calm seas deadened by the ice shelf and the sea ice to the north. It will also allow us time for a decent reunion with the base camp personnel and a discharge start the following morning.

In open sea by 1930, passing close to the spectacular Franklin Island. Ken has me scraping the ice off the bridge windows while perched precariously on the tiny ledge which runs the length of the bridge. The ship has a good coating of ice all over her now. It’s minus 6 and Beaufort Island is off to starboard. The sky clears to reveal Mt Terror at 10,000 feet. What must Ross have felt when he saw this incredible place 140 years ago? Two beers after watch, bed at 0100.

8 February 1989

Get to see Swenson and other good friends today after 13 months. Deck work is the priority though, and we stow the work boat, unlash palettes, move barrels on the starboard walkway and clear accumulated snow. Walk over to the port side from time to time to gaze at the ice shelf, Mt Terror and then Erebus as it comes into view, all bathed in beautiful sunshine and looking quite spectacular. Lunch as we round Cape Bird – no ice at all here. Clean toilets and stairs as off duty crew crowd the rails and soak in the amazing scenery. The winterers in particular are seeing what will be their home for a year for the first time and are jubilant. Then Lilian and Bruno have a row during which Lilian calls Bruno a liar. I keep my head down: there’s nothing I can do now – they’ve got to resolve things on their own.

At 1445, we enter McMurdo Sound and get the TV crew, Steve and the journalists away to capture the meeting of the incumbent winterers with the relief team and I take the hour or so before we anchor to retreat to my cabin for some introspection. I muse about meeting Swenson again and how one phone call three years ago changed his life – and mine – so dramatically. Dog arrives at my cabin to tell me the US office have been on the phone to advise us that a US Federal Marshall has been drafted to McMurdo to oversee our activities there and the implications of this are left to sink in. We finally put the boats in the water at 1630 and I put a witch’s mask on which Ken has had lying around his cabin for months. As we clamber out of the dinghy, Sabine looks at me in my mask and says, ‘You look a little older than you did last year!’ and soon we’re all embracing and Wojtek is beside himself with delight.

A banner adorns the hut bearing a picture of a graceful minke whale and the words, ‘Thanks, Greenpeace. From the whales.’ It’s very touching and I’m overcome with emotion at being here, at what we’ve done so far and at the uncertainty I feel for the future. Then we’re in the hut chatting away about everything and nothing, touching, hugging and trying to come to terms with the fact that we are in each other’s company again. The winterers seem fine and the beer comes out, the music goes on and soon the party is in full swing. I can’t get over the length of beards and hair sported by the guys. By 0230, there are only a few hardy partygoers left and I finally crash at 0300 on the floor of Swenson’s room.

9 February 1989

Finally start work on the ship at 1000. We make up five helicopter loads and Pierrette is the first to test us out on the familiar but somewhat daunting task of ‘hooking on’ – attaching the chain between the load and the helicopter while the aircraft hovers a few feet above your head. Pierette’s first approach leaves me running for cover after hooking on as the helo bucks and weaves and nearly takes my head off, but she improves as the morning progresses. By noon, it’s minus 10 and blowing 30 knots, but it is glorious weather and a wonderful feeling working in the open with Erebus and Terror as a backdrop. Learn this evening that the Japanese are taking us to court for ‘terrorism on the high seas’ which brings an avalanche of inquiries from lawyer at the sniff of some international notoriety. We receive a deposition which these lawyers have prepared without any reference to us and which is full of inaccuracies: they seem to have taken their ‘facts’ about what happened straight from press reports. Chess after dinner where I beat Mark but Tim wipes me out. Reply to Martini’s message about the Peninsular trip and then talk to the winterers until midnight.

10 February 1989

It’s freezing working on the crane since you’re up in the wind with ears and nose getting frostbite while the guys on deck are sweating buckets, sheltered from the wind while humping barrels and equipment all over the place. It’s minus nine this morning and the wind-chill factor takes it to minus 20 or so. Port hold equipment finished and we begin on the starboard hold timber. Sling-loading is still a bit hairy and Dave and Pierrette will have to improve to meet Gary’s standards of last year. I have a small meeting with Dog after lunch at which we agree that he is the primary campaigner from here on in. I’m very tired after the expedition so far and feel that in order for him to gain experience, he should take charge of the campaign, make the decisions and involve me as and when he feels it necessary: in other words, we reverse our roles, to which he agrees.

Finish deck work at 1745 at which a further small meeting is called (by me, not Dog, which I moan about to him) to discuss Paul Brown’s desire to see Scott’s Hut tomorrow. It’s incredible how complicated such trivial things become as we must invite the NZ official who holds the key to the ship in order for him to open up the hut and that involves using one of the helicopters to pick him up, which in turn denies its use on discharging the ship.

11 February 1989

We are all getting a little tired and ratty with each other. Tonight I stormed out of the lounge after videos were screened for the second night in succession. So much for appreciating the Antarctic environment: they’d rather be inside, in the dark, watching death and mayhem Holywood-style. On top of all that, Paul Brown infuriates me by announcing calmly that since he was ‘peeved’ at not getting permission to visit Scott Base tonight, he felt justified in having Pierrette take him to the gates of the base for ‘a look’ and then ‘buzzing’ McMurdo Base a couple of times just for the hell of it. I got him and Pierrette together and let them know that this is not a private jolly for adventurous journalists and pilots and that their actions would be thrown in my face when we met the National Science Foundation in a few days’ time. Apart from anything else, the fuel they used is precious. They must, absolutely must, co-ordinate things through me (technically through Dog) otherwise anarchy will ensue. I storm out of the room after laying down the law and determine that I want this trip to finish as quickly as possible and get the hell out of here.

We lost a package of Bruno’s skis today when it was caught in the downwash of the helicopter blades and blown overboard. That’s the first bit of equipment we’ve lost in three years and the accident added to my depression. To add to the misery of today, Werner cornered me after dinner and told me that he was convinced the winterers would have ‘major problems in the coming year’. That really cheered me up. It’s taken him half way through the re-supply to tell me his fears. I gave in to depression and listened to Tom Waits after sending notifications to Scott and McMurdo of our desire to visit. Bed by 0015 after what can only be described as a bad day.

12 February 1989

Minus 12, snowing with low visibility. Arne wants all the message traffic about the impending court case with the Japanese and that takes me an hour to get together. On deck at 0900 with Henk and Ken to accept the human waste barrels from ashore in an attempt to clean up the base a little before the threatened visit by the Italians. So, as an appetiser to lunch, we unchain a constant stream of barrels from ashore in all manner of states but all of them smelling rank, despite the frozen nature of the contents.

At lunch, Paul Brown tells me that he, Mary-Ann Bendell and the film crew have had a disagreement over the interviews with La Count tomorrow as she wants an ‘exclusive’, but thankfully, after an hour of discussion, the disagreement evaporates and we decide to send two flights. Barrel back-loading continues during the afternoon but the weather craps out and the Italians cancel their planned trip as a result. Bed at 0030.

13 February 1989

All the arrangements for visits to bases, official visits and meetings between the in-going winterers and officials at the bases are becoming a nightmare to arrange. Paul Brown and Mary Ann Bendell get away for their interview with Ron at 0945 and Dave Walley returns to pick up the film crew for dropping off at McMurdo as agreed. The arrangement is that they will be collected outside the NSF chalet at 1700. Deck work continues as we offload fuel barrels all day which are difficult to discharge; the hangar prevents us lifting them cleanly from the main deck and full boom-up is required to clear it.

At 1530, Dave collects Mark and I assume that Mark is simply required ashore. To my surprise, I see the helicopter overflying the base en route to McMurdo – too early to pick up the journalists. Then Dave arbitrarily decided that he’d use the 90 minutes or so he had ‘spare’ before the pick-up to go walk-about in Mactown and on to Scott base. Since neither he nor Mark had been there before, they have to knock on doors in Mactown to ask directions to Scott Base and this brings Ron La Count out of his hut to berate them for violating our agreement of not entering the US buildings. This really puts us in a bad position and Ron calls me to ask why I can’t control my personnel.

Dave eventually returns with Mary-Ann Bendell on board and she nearly dies at the thought of having to clamber down from the top of the hangar. Henk calls me to admit that the new loo he’s trying to install in the base is too big, as I predicted, and he pays up his bottle of rum as agreed. Bed at 0100 after the bottle is demolished by seven crew members during the 8-12 drinking club meeting.

14 February 1989

Beautiful, still day, zero cloud and warm in the sun. Lift hatch covers and discharge barrels in the forward cement tanks. It was the tomming up in these tanks which concussed Werner back in Auckland so many weeks ago; he was in a confined space whacking a wedge into the space behind a barrel with another piece of wood when it rebounded and hit him on the head. His immediate reaction was to move his head out of the way violently which caused him to hit his head again on the bulkhead. Despite the fact that it almost knocked him out, I was unable to control my laughter at this Tom and Jerry accident.

All the barrels are finally away by 1230 and Dave’s flying is excellent: he averages 90 seconds for one run to shore and back. At 1345, Keith, Dog and I leave for Scott Base and have a pleasant if nondescript meeting with Hugh Logan, after which Dave collects us at precisely 1700. We drop down to LGP3 where a guy known simply as ‘Dave’ meets us and agrees to spirit out 8 rolls of film via the US transport he’s about to catch back to NZ.

Back to the ship by 1730 and a crew meeting precedes the lifting of the hook and the short journey to Marble Point where we plan to install a survival hut (Apple) for Bruno’s future use, slap bang in the middle of the flagged airstrip the Americans ‘do not plan to construct’. The helicopter flights are quite incredible and it’s impossible to describe the sheer beauty of this place. Use the evening to finish filing my paperwork as we bump and bore through heavy ice on our way to Marble Point. Hit the sack at 2300 in a very tired state but happy that we are only days away from completing our task.

15 February 1989

Up bright and early to find Ken already on deck bustling about. We two prepare five sling-loads for the lifts to Marble Point and as Pierrette comes in with the helicopter to pick up, I get an almighty shock from the chain which discharges static from the helicopter to my hand. I tell Ken and he calmly tells me he saw one guy get thrown 20 feet through a static charge once on a ship. I take to whacking the chain with a lump of wood from then on before handling it. It seems to help a little although I still get the odd shock.

Marble Point is quite uninspiring; just a low, flat coastline peppered with snow. The Piedmont glacier which runs from left to right across our anchorage is, however, beautiful. Spend the rest of the day on board stowing the human waste barrels, sacks of rubbish and remaining odds and ends. We’re through at 1530 and after chatting the afternoon away, the helicopter returns at 1900 when I hear from Tim that Dave took them to the top of a nearby mountain for a ride. I’m furious at this news and immediately go and find him. I tell him that if he had had an accident, no-one on board would have known where he was or where to look for him.

Sort out flying hours with Henk and re-do the allocations. Dog phones La Count to confirm the meeting tomorrow and he informs us that a guy called Stovich is in town. He tells us that he’s a US Marshall and has powers of arrest over US nationals. Now this is a poser for us and confirms our earlier information. Coming directly from La Count puts more weight to it. Pictures of the Marble Point installation out with press release, a beer with Phil Durham to celebrate his birthday and bed at 0100.

16 February 1989

No boats in the water today as it’s bitterly cold and the sea is too choppy. At 1330, after a briefing chat, we leave by chopper for McM to be greeted by Ron at the chalet. He claims that the US policy on retrograding waste has changed and the practice of ‘tide cracking’ – letting the summer thaw take waste to the bottom of Winterquarters’ Bay – has ceased. We mention direct action and this Stovich character positively bristles and asks how many US nationals we have on board and if they are aware of US law in Antarctica. He also issues a veiled threat at pursuing a court case if we should use any film in which his image appears in a public manner. I tell him that we’ll use whatever film we damned well want and that we’re not in the habit of bowing to blackmail.

After the meeting we take a look at the pipe we intend to block and arrive back at the ship at 1700. Dog and I snatch a brief chat over our meal in my cabin and agree to simply put the facts before the crew, leaving a final decision about what form of action we should take, given Stovich’s presence, until later when we have more information, especially from the US where the lawyers are looking at the implications of blocking a pipe which is polluting a stretch of water subject to no international law. It’s a long and constructive meeting but we arrive at no final conclusion. Drink a quick beer with Ken and bed at 0030.

17 February 1989

Woken by Ken at 0400 who tells me to dress in my warmest gear and help him on a particularly difficult job. Bleary-eyed, I arrive on deck to see Ken sitting in the inflatable, beckoning me to hurry up: the Footsteps of Scott raft, the aptly named Spirit of Incompetence, has broken her moorings and Ken and I have to retrieve her. She’s drifting about a mile away and we battle through a steep chop and 30 knot winds to reach her. By the time we do, we’re covered in frozen spray and our clothing is stiff with ice. We get her in tow and make it back to the ship where Bob and Albert take the lines.

I fall back into bed at 0600 and immediately dream of queuing for a giant ice cream. Just as I get to the head of the queue, Bob wakes me and tells me it’s time to get up. It’s now blowing 35 knots and the snow is driving horizontally across the sea. No flying in this. I’m scheduled to go ashore to brief the shore party but I don’t fancy another drenching in ice, so decide to speak to Kelly (Rigg) about the dilemma of the action. She reiterates her view that we should not go ahead with the pipe blocking.

By 1100, we commence flying and accept 12 loads of all manner of rubbish from shore. The helos drop the loads directly onto the top of the hangar and we lift directly from there with the crane. It’s fast and the holds begin to fill up quickly. Decide to go ashore at 1900 to brief people about the legal complications of the planned action. Back on board at 2200 after no real resolution of the dilemma and use the evening to sort out the return journey schedule with Arne. We agree on a March 11th return to Lyttelton. Bed at 0100.

18 February 1989

Day off today and I thankfully sleep in until 1015, get a cup of tea and slump back into my pit to read and doze until 1200 when Swenson arrives at my cabin door asking if I want to take a walk to the Barne Glacier. We’re all ready at 1300 – me, Ken, Swenson, Sabine, Henk and a few others – but the weather doesn’t improve: minus 14 with 30 knots of wind and the sea is too choppy to launch the boats. I veto the use of helicopters for fuel economy reasons and at 1500 we have to call it off. Reluctantly drag myself to the office to work on updates and email messages until 1800 when dinner interrupts my work. Later, I work on the report on the Dumont D’Urville action with Dog and Liz and then bed at 0000.

19 February 1989

Having brought all my paperwork up to date yesterday, I can look forward to doing nothing but working on deck all day. Twenty days left until we’re back in New Zealand and today and tomorrow are straight deck work days designed to break the back of the re-supply and retrograde work – 48 hours of bliss at having to do nothing but what I’m told to do by Ken. The tractor and trailer arrive from the shore and we also stow the Spirit of Incompetence after chipping her free of ice to enable us to lift the deadweight of two tons. The sea smoke is spectacular today. The cold air meeting the warmer seas results in drifts of condensation which shroud the ship. More tired than usual today and gratefully to bed by 0000. Minus 14 today and bitterly cold in the wind.

20 February 1989

Spend the day tidying the ship, lashing barrels, covering deck gear with tarpaulins, getting the ropes out and cleaning the mess, lower toilets and the laundry. Go to the base at 1700 (minus 15 today and the sea smoke is very dramatic) and get covered in freezing spray during the short trip. It’s colder than I’ve known it in Antarctica and I marvel at the blasé attitude of the skuas which are afraid of nothing. They even attack the helicopter if they’re feeling particularly grumpy. Two interviews for the cameras with Keith and Sabine and back for dinner at 1830. Over a few beers in the evening, with a decidedly laid-back attitude prevalent on board, Keith, Dog and I rehearse a few numbers from the forthcoming album we intend to release under the band name of The Outlets. Bed at 2345 after having, I hope, finally laid to rest the plans for the action which has been demoted to more of a demonstration, much to some peoples’ annoyance.

21 February 1989

A very bad day started at 0830 when Werner moaned about me lashing a banner along the hangar side when he felt it was his job to do it. Werner has been on my case most of the week for one reason or another and the incident put me in a bad mood. The rest of the day went downhill from there. No-one except me was willing or apparently able to paint the letters on the barrels we intend to use tomorrow, so I spent hours in the workshop doing that myself. Then I had to put a press release together and arrange pictures to be sent out and needed Dog’s comments but of course he wasn’t around as he had gone with Keith and Henk to Crater Lake. Then at 1800, as arranged, the Scott Base team arrived for our social and of course I was the only one available for them to talk to, the other members of the campaign team either deciding not to show or being lost somewhere in the hinterland: their return from Crater Lake was well overdue by now and we were increasingly worried for their welfare. The helo lifted off from LGP3 at 2015 and Dave finally spotted the three of them walking back to their rendezvous point, hours late. We all screwed up badly today and I hope tomorrow’s ok. Keith spent a long time apologising to me but I still didn’t get to the bottom of what had caused their delay. Thank God they’re all safe and that today is over and done with. Thank God also that this is my last year.

22 February 1989

As I write at 1700, the day doesn’t look too bad, although there is no denying that our direct action finale to this expedition was reduced to little more than a stunt due to our fear of retribution from the US authorities in the form of arrests of the US citizens involved, arraignments and future arrests of the non-American nationals should they ever have future cause to visit the USA. We simply judged that blocking an outfall pipe in the Antarctic, thousands of miles away from ‘civilisation’, a blocking which could have been reversed within a matter of minutes, created a risk of retribution that was too great a price to pay. Yes, we bottled it, and the crew are not feeling too good about it, but I’ve tried to point out that we have done more on this trip than could have been expected of us and in any case, we do have a mandate from our campaign superiors not to break any laws.

All that justification sounds hollow now, but we did carry out an equally photogenic demonstration and had a lot of fun in the process. By the time I roused myself at 0700, we were tying up at the McMurdo ice-wharf. There was not a soul around ashore. Not one of the 1000+ personnel was to be seen. We mustered on the aft deck as planned at 1000. The plan was to transport 16 barrels, partially filled with cadmium waste from the outfall pipe, on a trailer pulled by the Kubota tractor up to the NSF hut where we would demand they dealt with the waste responsibly rather than discharge it into the Antarctic environment where it contributed to the gross contamination of Winterquarters’ Bay.

Despite the liberal use of a can of ‘Easy Start’ spray, the tractor simply would not fire. After a set-to between five-foot Davey and six-foot two Albert on the techniques of starting the temperamental machine which had us all trying to stifle a fit of the giggles, we decide to man-haul the trailer up the steep slope to the hut. By the time the filling is completed and the barrels are on the trailer, it weighs at least a ton and even fifteen of us pushing and pulling can barely get the trailer moving. After an hour of hard toil, we get the barrels arranged in front of the Chalet and they make a nice centre piece for the cameras: DANGER! CADMIUM!

As Henk and his team climb on top of the Chalet and drop a banner reading ‘Clean up or shut up!’ Dog begins his speech to Ron Le Count who is, we later learn, watching proceedings from another building. Dog’s speech is fine but as he delivers it to the cameras, his lips are visibly freezing and his balaclava is slipping down over his eyes and he eventually assumes a cartoonesque appearance which has me in stitches. Then it’s all over, our last activity in Antarctica this year, and we pack everything up and load it back on the trailer, only to see Paul Landrigan hurtle round the corner on the tractor which he has finally got started. We hook up the trailer and all clamber aboard with Wojtek at the wheel of the tractor for a tour of McMurdo.

After a very welcome lunch, we heave all the equipment on board, including the partially filled barrels which we’ll deliver to the US Embassy in Wellington, carry out some dredging work from the ship for Sabine’s science project and then steam back to Cape Evans, leaving the winterers behind to go to Scott Base for dinner.

Press release and pictures out which occupies me for another few hours before Dog tells me that Ron Le Count has called him to wish us goodbye and safe journey. He apparently told Dog, ‘I always knew you were a crazy, but why did you push the trailer up the hill and use the tractor to bring it down?’ Dog told him it was in the interests of energy conservation. Agree to sail for NZ in 48 hours. To bed, almost asleep before my head hits the pillow at 0000.

23 February 1989

Last day of the re-supply. We sail tomorrow. Work furiously between 0800 and 1300 before the wind, now gusting to 35 knots, terminates activity. By 1600, we stow the tractor and trailer, coal, rubbish, timber and all manner of equipment and odds and ends and then it’s time for the end of re-supply ceremony at the base, where I’ll make a speech and Keith will officially hand the base over to Bruno. The helo ride ashore is short but decidedly blustery as the gusts are now reaching 45 knots, beyond the safe speed for helo flights.

The speeches over, Keith hands Bruno the tool used to open the fuel barrels – the official key to the hut – and the party begins. Before long, a full-blown hooly is in full swing, people in rugby scrums on the floor, bodies everywhere, laughing and screaming: all great fun and highly therapeutic, but it leaves Liz needing 4 stitches in her lip. Finally we all begin crashing out wherever we can find somewhere to rest our heads.

24 February 1989

The wind is still gusting to 35 knots but we have to risk it and get back to the ship. Dave ferries us back in twos and threes and we muster the crew at 1100 and set a departure time for the winterers back to shore at 1130. It’s goodbye time again and I feel the familiar lump of nostalgia and emotion in my throat which I try to conceal by rushing around getting people organised. As the helicopter warms up, people are hugging and kissing and crying on shoulders and then they’re all on board and Dave lifts off to much waving and blowing of kisses. This is always a sad time and the ship’s horn is a forlorn farewell as the anchor is raised and our stubby little ship turns her head towards the north. The four winterers become dots on the beach and then the majestic Erebus is our only reminder of our location.

We had decided to visit Capes Barne or Royds on the way out but the wind denies us that opportunity and instead we go to Butter Point where Keith goes ashore for an hour to change the location of the fuel and food depot there. Then after dinner, I go with Mark and Sjoerd to Marble Point to erect the solar panel for the survival hut we have erected there. It’s an amazing place – very isolated and very ‘Antarctic’ but our visit is cut short by falling visibility and increasing winds. Back on board at 2000, stow gear and generally tidy up the deck before watch at 2100. Straight to bed after watch, totally shattered.

25 February 1989

The first thing I did this morning was to transfer all the logistics of planning and executing boat launches, helo operations and personnel mustering to Henk. I told him that as far as I was concerned, the official trip was over and that everything else from here on in was pleasure and that he, as logistics co-ordinator, had just been deputised and would he please sort it out with Ken. Apart from doing my watches, I was a passenger from here to New Zealand.

On watch, I can hardly keep my eyes open, I’m so tired. Bob says to Ken as we take over the watch, ‘Everywhere, the sea is freezing.’

Visibility is low, the sea is glassy and the swell is gentle. Ice in the water is forming before our very eyes and we have to slow down due to dramatically worsening visibility and the presence of bergy bits and growlers all around us. But it is a huge relief to be finally back at sea again and although I dread the seasickness which will inevitably seize me at some time, I delight in the movement of the ship and the feeling of freedom and space being at sea gives.

Heading mostly 030 then 065 putting our ETA at Cape Hallet at 2000 tomorrow. Sparse lunch after sending out the final update and then sleep the sleep of the dead until 1940. On watch at 2000 to find that we’re down to one engine (fuel pump has crapped out on the port engine) and Davey reports that the head will have to come off the engine, forcing us to stay on one engine all the way home, although this will not apparently affect our ETA. The darkness tonight heralds the end of the summer and our more northerly position. Bed at midnight.

26 February 1989

On watch to see a very mixed and dramatic weather pattern. Deep black clouds off to starboard down to the horizon, with clear blue skies and intense sun off to port. Horizontal snow lashes the ship in a stiff breeze. Minus 2 and Cape Wheatsheaf glints in the sunshine, 40 miles off. The morning gets progressively more beautiful – sun peeping though light clouds and the Capes off to port wreathed in mists which are gradually lifting. Crew meeting at 1400 to organise shore parties which, despite my declaration to Henk, I end up organising.

The first flight is away at 1520 taking people to Cape Hallet as Arne ploughs the ship through thick ice. Cape Hallet is bathed in glorious sunshine against a deep metallic blue sky with incredible ice formations contorted along the coast and icebergs galore. Final flight away by 1650, all complicated by the needs of the photo/film people. Davey throws another minor wobbly about ‘joy riding’ and all shore personnel return by 1845, all oohing and aahing about the spectacular nature of this particularly beautiful part of Antarctica. It is a very special place – magnificent – and I take a whole reel of film in a pathetic attempt to capture its majesty. While waiting for the helo flights to return, Ken and I sit in the helo safety nets and soak up the amazing scenery in contented silence, both lost in our own thoughts about what we have achieved and what the future holds for us. The scenery is quite awesome, seductive, enigmatic, imponderable and simply breathtakingly beautiful.

Ton’s birthday meal is an Indian – the closest I’ve had to a Lavender Hill Indian meal in months. Music and diary till 1950, then on watch. We steam past the magnificent Possession Islands at 6 knots and adjust our speed to arrive at Cape Adare at 0800 tomorrow. Chat after watch with Keith, Steve, Maggie and Merriann. Ton fixed my glasses today which I sat on earlier, bending one arm and snapping the other off completely. He did a fine job (they actually lasted another two years before they fell to pieces).

27 February 1989

On the bridge to see Cape Adare, ice and snow-covered, towering out of a flat calm sea. It seems as though the Antarctic is laying on its best show for us, knowing that many of us will not be returning. Orcas cavort around the ship as we anchor in the lee of the Cape under grey skies. Borchgrevink’s hut can be seen on the flat spit of land snaking out to sea. Ken, Keith, Mark, Wojtek and I take an inflatable to search for a landing but all along the coast the swell is too great and the beach too steep. We have a great time though and skylark about, taking group pictures and generally enjoying ourselves as we quietly meander through the seas dotted with leopard seals while penguins squawk their alarm from the shore.

Since we can’t land, we agree to take the crew on boat trips around the bay while the deckies make the deck secure and rig a life-line fore and aft along the main deck – a stark reminder that we are about to face the rigours of the Southern Ocean. Agree to sail at 1400. Six days to Campbell Island, a further three to Lyttelton, putting us home on the 9th, too early for the press arrangements which I’ll have to clarify with Arne. Interviewed by Paul Brown for an article on my pending retirement and the establishment of a new organisation Ken and I have been discussing – Greenwave.

To my cabin for a doze, read and music as the sea picks up the moment we’re out of the lee of the Cape. We begin pitching heavily and I feel queasy as I dole out food onto my plate at dinner. The conditions worsen and I’m sent round the ship to ensure all deadlights are secure and screwed down. On watch at 2000. Wojtek is on our watch now and calmly walks off the bridge and honks noisily in the loo at the bottom of the short flight of bridge stairs before returning to his post only to honk again ten minutes later. Ken tells the both of us to go and take some rest as Maggie and he can see out the watch. I throw myself on my bunk just in time to quell the nausea and immediately sleep.

28 February 1989

Sea thankfully much calmer today and the sunshine makes it almost a pleasure to be on watch. Antarctic fulmars and petrels around the ship in their droves. The foredeck is coated in thick ice from the seas we are still taking over the bow which freeze quickly. At 68 south at the end of the watch, ten degrees or 600 miles from Cape Evans.

Radio reports of another ship in trouble in Antarctica reach us: a Peruvian vessel which has struck the rocks at Marion Bay in King George Island. The ship is still rolling heavily and some crew are enduring mal-de-mer. On watch at 2000 to see a most beautiful sunset but by 2100 it’s dark and Ken turns on the powerful spotlight on the bridge front to help us look-outs spot growlers.

1 March 1989

Just three weeks to go until I get home and only 10 days to Lyttelton. Weather is grey and the sea lumpy with a freshening wind. We spot a spectacular arched iceberg and despite telling myself that I have enough iceberg pictures for a lifetime, I expend half a roll on it. Ken, the eternal prophet of doom, predicts a ‘storm of the century’ which he claims is brewing up ahead and the barometer is, I must agree, dropping like a stone. 65 South at the end of the watch. After lunch, I call a meeting in Arne’s cabin to discuss arrival procedures. As we chat, the ship begins to move more violently and the wind picks up to 30 knots.

Repair to my cabin where I decide to take Ken’s storm warning seriously and check the deadlight (which needs packing with a rubber surround to prevent water penetration). By 1500, we’re rolling heavily and a peek out of the access door to the saloon reveals quite mountainous swells. The weather deteriorates further throughout the day and I lash down objects in my cabin which might go flying as the ship moves ever more violently. A westerly wind causes a very heavy rolling motion – far better than pitching at least – and by 2130, we’re staring into the beam of the search light watching huge troughs appear ahead of us into which we roll and pitch headlong.

Two icebergs loom out of the murk, large, impassive and foreboding in the darkness. Ken mutters from the darkness of the bridge – ‘Big depression on its way, guys,’ as if what we’re currently experiencing is something to be dismissed as trivial. The crawl across the 60s is slow indeed: we’re still at 64 south as our progress has been impeded by the weather: we go up and down rather than along. A quick shower after watch then bed by 0045.

2 March 1989

Plus 4 degrees today, but the crawl continues at a snail’s pace. Watch is the normal boredom but Wojtek keeps us amused. Every hour we carry out a deck and fire watch which involves Wojtek and I, in tandem while on deck, due to the weather, checking the lashings, ensuring that the helicopters haven’t shifted from their moorings in the hangar and making sure no fires are smouldering, especially in the engine room. It’s creepy down there, despite the crash and thump of the engine; the ghost of a Swedish engineer who was decapitated by the whiplash of a snapped cable is said to stalk the engine room. Going through the engine room into the aft tween deck is just as creepy and you go from noise into semi-silence and a pitch black space in which lashed-down material groans against its restraints.

Back on the bridge, Ken points out the monumental low ahead of us on the weather chart. Wind speed is force 7 and we’re rolling heavily when at 2200, the Jimmy Young programme calls to interview me live about Paul Brown’s piece in the Guardian announcing the establishment of Greenwave! Then a call comes through from Amsterdam to tell us that Maureen Fallon resigned today and we celebrate with a glass of whisky which Henk ‘found’ in his locker. Bed at 0100.

3 March 1989

We rolled around so much in the night I swear I was nearly vertical at times. Almost impossible to sleep as your head is literally pushed into the pillow when the ship comes up on a wave and then is in negative gravity as the ship plummets down into a trough – your head is literally and involuntarily lifted from the pillow. On watch to see a spectacular and awesome sea in the full glory of a force 10. Serried ranks of combers line up to the horizon, marching forward inexorably, their tops whipped into spray by the wind, to batter the ship.

We alter course to 320 to ease the motion and at 0900 we finally cross the 60th parallel taking us technically out of the Antarctic. We recorded a maximum wind gust of 66 knots on the morning watch, sea temperature plus 4 and the same for the air temperature. NW winds and lots of squalls which whip up the sea locally into even greater frenzy and rain lashes the bridge windows in torrents. It gets worse during evening watch and as I do my rounds, the saloon is littered with prostrate bodies trying to avoid the motion which by 1800 is very violent indeed. Wind speeds are up to 77 knots – hurricane force and for the first time ever on a Greenpeace ship I feel the first flutterings of fear.

On watch at 2000 to see an awesome sight: the bows of the ship rise to meet a vertical wall of water 40 feet high and as darkness falls, the searchlight reveals a chaotic scene of confused seas which rear up and crash over the bridge as the ship freefalls into the chasm created by their passing. Barrels break free of their lashings on deck, one of the banners is in shreds and the light on the hangar front has been torn away by the wind. We twice have to brave the conditions to re-lash barrels and the boats on the boat deck and I call out to Wojtek to hang on as a particularly vicious wave towers above us.

Wojtek and I were halted in our tracks as we rounded the hangar onto the windward side of the ship to see a mighty wave teetering 30 feet above us only yards from the ship. I honestly thought we would be swept overboard if it broke, but miraculously the ship’s stern rose as though on an express lift and the monstrous wave hissed its path beneath the hull. It’s as though the Southern ocean wants to give me a display of what it can really be like as I won’t be seeing it again. It’s an awesome, humbling, exhilarating and a quite unforgettable experience.

We run diagonally across the swell on 290 and are hove-to, just about, making 2 knots. Bed at 0030 and step into a tilting, crashing and thoroughly jumbled cabin which is reminiscent of being in a barrel at sea.

4 March 1989

After a perfectly awful night of being thrown around the cabin and after being pitched out of my bunk twice – despite the use of lifejackets under the mattress to force me up against the bulkhead – I awake to a sense of greater stability on board. Still a big swell runs, however, and the winds are still gusting to 35 knots, but a mere breeze compared to yesterday. At 0500 this morning, we resumed a northerly course on 355, passing 58 south. Luxuriate in a shower which, despite the improved conditions, is still a feat of balance and dexterity. As I go on evening watch, we pass 57 south = 4.5 degrees to Campbell Island = 270 miles = one and a half days. The weather fax indicates we’re heading for another low pressure region and as I come off watch the ship is already bucketing around in familiar fashion. Ken procures a ‘lost’ bottle of scotch and pressgangs us into his cabin for a ‘pre arrival’ drink. Bed at 0130.

5 March 1989

Pass 54 south which puts our ETA Campbell Island tomorrow morning. Lunch then a meeting with Henk, Dog and Ken to discuss next year’s strategy and personnel at which I’m rather reticent as it’s all out of my hands since I won’t be involved and my enthusiasm is at a very low ebb. Sleep in my cabin from 1600, through dinner, and get called for my evening watch to see a weak aurora in the sky. Call a brief crew meeting to discuss the Campbell Island visit tomorrow and then speak to the Campbell Island personnel on HF. They all sound pissed, thanks to the home brew they’re reduced to drinking. Picked up Radio Windy tonight from Wellington which made me so very homesick for NZ and England. Dog and Steve rustle up a huge pile of chips after watch which lifts my spirits temporarily. Bed at 0100.

6 March 1989

I squint out of the porthole to see the green hills of Campbell Island to the accompaniment of the clank and clatter of the anchor being dropped. It is a riot of vegetation, the first such lush greenness seen for 14 months for the winterers and for 3 months for the rest of us. The pungent odour of vegetation is overpowering. It’s blowing 35 knots, overcast and squally.

Ashore at 1245 when Ken, Dog, Ton and I take off on a tour of the island, past drowsy but aggressive and smelly elephant seals, take the wrong turn and end up on a very isolated but spectacular part of the island overlooking the coast and in the middle of an albatross colony. We lie quietly and watch these incredible birds go through their courting routine and watch in awe as they waddle awkwardly towards the cliff edge, spread their 12 foot wings and soar effortlessly into the sky. Superb! Wander back to the small weather station at 1630 where we indulge in drinks and snacks until 1800.

Back to the ship for dinner. Dog approaches me to tell me that Ken is pissed off at me because I ‘withdraw’ sometimes and because I no longer seem interested in when the boats are running or whose going where. I tell Dog that this is true. I consider the expedition to be over days ago and that the Campbell Island stopover is nothing more than a ‘jolly’ which does not need a campaigner’s co-ordination. I tell Dog that I’ve already had a conversation with Henk about him taking over such co-ordination and now Henk is apparently upset for involving him in the argument as he can’t remember us discussing the arrangement.

I retire to my cabin in a foul mood and refuse to go to the party ashore. Instead I take an anchor watch with Ken who makes no effort to broach the subject. In an effort to lift my flagging spirits, I call Fiona who doesn’t answer. I go to bed, thoroughly miserable, at 0030.

7 March 1989

Ken wakes me at 0740 but for what reason I can’t fathom. Wander onto the bridge at 0800 and spend two hours sitting there in total silence with Ken. Launch the inflatable to take Arne ashore (this must be the first time in three months that he’s left the ship). Lunch and away to my cabin to sleep after checking with Henk that the deck is secured and that Ken is not expecting me to do anything on deck. At 1400, the anchors are weighed and we steam out of the bay. I hope that someone other than me has taken on the responsibility of representing Greenpeace to the guys ashore, but, to be honest, this unofficial visit needs no formal representation.

Within seconds of hitting the open sea we’re being thrown around again. 40 knot winds and big seas force us to reduce speed to five knots and head into the weather. It’s a miserable few hours and the ship is deserted as crew take solace in their bunks. At dinner Swenson staggers down the alleyway looking wild-eyed, bearded and dishevelled. His face is a picture of controlled determination not to chuck. Lots of people just play with their food as we hump along in very big swells and then someone foolishly opens the fridge door on the wrong aspect of the roll and the saloon is full of runaway cans of coke and lemonade. Paul Brown appears at the end of the alleyway from where we can see him. His steps towards the lounge are tentative and more in reverse than forward as the ship pitches and gyrates. His face is ghostly white and he is dubbed the ‘Grey Ghost’. God, being at sea is a real trial for many people, myself included. Straight to bed after an awful watch and finally fall into a fitful sleep after being tossed around for hours. What an existence!

And to think, people are queuing up to get on Greenpeace ships, the idiots! (Paul later relates a story in which Albert, the mate who was in charge of Paul’s watch, asked for a piece of chocolate cake which Paul reluctantly went to fetch from the galley. He managed to find the cake, cut a slice (between honking up) and finally began making his way back to the bridge with his prize for Albert. The ship was now pitching so heavily that as Paul climbed the stairs to the bridge, holding the plate and cake before him, the cake would literally be suspended in mid-air as the ship plunged into a trough).

8 March 1989

Weather has improved a bit but the swells are still huge. It’s plus 11, 25 knots of wind and the sun shines which makes it a joy to be on the bridge. ETA Auckland Islands is 1400. Ken still avoids me and I guess apart form a cursory ‘good morning’, I’ve said no more than ten words to him on watch over three days. Lunch with Keith, Dog, Steve and Ken then prepare for landfall, 14 miles away.

On arrival, the Aucklands are shrouded in low cloud; it’s wet and unspectacular. The depth finder is not working so we can’t explore the smaller coves and inlets. We simply lie a-hull, surrounded by steep, lush hills until, after dinner when we steam out into deep water again. To Paul Brown’s incredulity, I suggest to him a final ‘wrap’ story on the Antarctic. When he hears that I’d like to send a telegram to Thatcher demanding from the crew of the Gondwana that she sign the minerals moratorium proposal, he has the decency to humour me and duly files the story, more, I’m later convinced, out of friendship rather than professionalism.

Shower, Sabine trims my hair and beard, do my dobying, change bunk linen and prepare for watch. I calculate: Snares by 2000 tomorrow, lee of Stewart Island by 0500 on the 10th, then 330 miles to Lyttelton at 7 knots – 47 hours – 0400 on the 12th! I hope I’m wrong as this will put us behind schedule to meet our press deadlines. Will check in the morning. Spot a fleet of fishing boats just north of the Aucklands. The swell picks up as predicted as we leave the lee of the islands.

I prepare and send an email message to Kelly in response to her outburst in defence of Lena Hagalin who has been quoted as saying that she refuses to release the footage of the DuDu action on the grounds that it is ‘unfair’ to the French. I can’t believe it. We’ve just been beaten up to bring this story to the attention of the world and now we’re being told that it’s too sensitive to release. Dare not tell the crew.

9 March 1989

My fears are confirmed. On watch I surreptitiously squared off the distances we have to cover and found that even at 8 knots we would not make Lyttelton until the 12th and I, casually as possible, mention this to Ken – not easy under the prevailing atmosphere. He confirms my opinion and then called for Bob who came puffing up the stairs and agreed that an error had been made. Then Arne’s called and the three of them are slightly chagrined by the fact that a mere deckie/campaigner had the temerity to spot such an error. Davey Edward is beside himself with delight and says the only thing that could top it was if I had told him we would not have sufficient fuel to make it to port.

We alter course away from the Snares and head directly for Lyttelton. We have to make 9.5 knots to make it back by the agreed time of 1000 on the 11th and Davey informs us that the second engine is ready for use when we need it. Watch is a bore and I pass it by watching a huge wandering albatross who displays aerial skills of magical dimensions. Lunch, telex off to the UK to Thatcher and then clean the lounge. At 1700, Ken comes to my cabin and we resolve the misunderstanding which has clouded our relationship for the past few days and end up in a bear hug. It’s good to be back on an even keel with the old bastard. Screaming along on one engine, still at 9.2 knots in fine weather and a low swell. An echo appears on the radar at 2330 and Ken allows me to plot its course – the first time I’ve ever touched the radar. This is the last night at sea before we reach NZ. An epic voyage and I sleep deeply in the knowledge and satisfaction of a job well done.

10 March 1989

Ken wakes me at 0630 to come and see the ‘sunrise and the cavorting dolphins’. I turn over and go back to sleep. Then he tempts me with bacon and eggs and I can’t resist. On watch there are dolphins indeed, and the coast of the South Island is 10 miles off to port. We are home at last. Gentle swell, cloudy with rain. Wash down the bulkheads with Wojtek and Keith and then crash till 1600 when I get a phone call. It’s from Time Out telling me that the name Greenwave is already being used as the National Front’s ‘green’ arm which mortifies me. Just our luck to use a name which has already been coined by a bunch of Fascists!

Shower and hang about reading and listening to loud music until watch. Off Tairoa Heads now and both engines throbbing through the ship as we cream along at 10.5 knots.

Meeting at 1830 where the ‘heads of departments’ (me, Dog, Arne, Ken, Henk, Keith, Pat, Ian and Davey) mull over the expedition and have a celebratory drink from yet another ‘lost’ bottle of hootch. Watch is uneventful. We’re off Timaru as we leave our last evening watch before landfall. The 8-12 drains the remains of a rum bottle after watch in a toast to a great trip. Bed at 0030 after receiving my bar bill of $NZ365 – the fourth largest. Ken proudly displays his bill of close to $NZ1000.

11 March 1989

Eighty days at sea are over today. On watch to see the familiar hills of Lyttelton all around – we’re more or less hove-to as we peer at the entrance to the port at 0800, waiting for the pilot, scheduled to arrive at 0845. As we get underway to meet the pilot, we drag the ropes out of the holds. As we approach the wharf, Ken ceremoniously hands me the heaving line to throw to the wharfies, something I’ve never done on a Greenpeace ship before. I’m nervous about making a cock-up in front of a hundred waving and cheering people lined on the quayside, but my aim is perfect and is greeted by cheers from the people behind me and pats on the back.

After clearing Customs, the local schoolkids perform a Hukka in our honour and I’m so overcome with emotion, I can hardly respond as I stand on the quayside, swaying in an attempt to get my land-legs and fighting off a million memories and emotions which crowd my head.

So it was over at last. Wellington next, to deliver the barrels and carry out our final protest against US contamination of Winterquarters’ Bay and then a three day steam to our home port. Lyttelton in March was still blooming in late summer finery and we made the most of our brief stay to renew acquaintances with friends and invade the British Hotel. The short hop across Cook Strait took us into Wellington on the 14th March where the barrels we had partly filled with cadmium waste from the McMurdo pipeline were ceremoniously loaded onto the trailer and this time paraded through the streets to the US Embassy, propelled along by an army of willing volunteers.

At the Embassy, the reporters were gathered in number and the familiar round of interviews took place. Since Dog was in charge of the actual ‘delivery’ of the barrels to Embassy staff, I had to bear the brunt of press interest which was not what I had in mind.

Dog was finally admitted into the Embassy alone and he emerged after a few moments to tell the crowd through the megaphone, ‘Well, we gave the US a final opportunity to dispose of this dangerous waste in a responsible manner and they have yet again refused to honour their obligations. They refuse to acknowledge ownership of the waste so we have no option but to leave the barrels outside their gates in the hope that they will do the right thing.’

Greenpeace were fined a nominal sum for ‘litter’, surely the final and ignominious insult to an organisation which had just spent 80 days drawing the attention of the world to the cavalier way in which we litter by the thousands of tonnes and treat so disgracefully the most vulnerable of environments.

The trip back to Auckland was a pleasure – gentle seas, easy watches and late nights sitting up under a star-studded sky yarning about the trip, laying old arguments and disagreements to rest and renewing friendships which had been put under the most intense strain during the trip. Auckland was a riot of activity and fun, interspersed with hours of work on deck, discharging the cargo which remained after our stops in Lyttelton and Wellington destined for the warehouse where we stored all the essential Antarctic equipment which would be used for the following season’s expedition. Our first night ashore in Auckland, however, was to end in acrimony between myself and a few of the new boys on the block.