Saturday, February 17, 2001

Marooned

At seven o'clock last night, a plane made its way down the skiway and took off. Slowly it climbed into the clouds and was soon out of sight. The sound of its engines slowly faded, then grew louder. Suddenly appearing again, it broke through the cloud base, heading straight for the Poleys gathered outside by the South Pole passenger terminal. It zipped overhead only a few hundred feet in the air and dipped its wings from side to side. It was saying goodbye. The plane flew off again and was now gone for good. It was the last flight of the season and final opportunity for anyone to leave the South Pole until October.

The short but busy summer season has flown by and all the "tourists" (summer workers) are gone. Now it is for real. It is winter. Technically the Antarctic winter solstice doesn't begin until June 21, but for us that date marks middle of winter, the maximum amount of darkness.

South Pole winter is synonymous with darkness. Not seeing the sun for nearly six months is certainly the stark essence of the season. And of course the cold goes along with that. But there is much more to it. More than the dark and the cold, winters here mean complete isolation from civilization. There are very few places that people live anywhere that are more cut off from the rest of the world than here. Technology certainly bridges this gap to some degree with email and the Internet and other satellite communication. However, for the next eight months, all real human interactions will be among the fifty people now stranded here. And there is no way out.

All of this may sound scary, but I'm quite comfortable with the idea and look to the winter with little trepidation. I have known this day would come since I got here and I have even been looking forward to it. Many people here have been in similar spirits. "Okay, I'm ready, let's do it!" is the attitude of most that are wintering.

To be sure, I am used to isolation. I spent the last four years of my life on a ship-- I know what it's like to be stuck in a small place with no real chance of leaving. Actually, my biggest fear about winter was that I might not get to stay for it. I was afraid of falling and breaking my leg or something and getting sent home or losing my job for some other reason.

Once winter starts, those worries are gone. Well, getting hurt might be worse in the winter, so it is certainly still a worry, but most problems here can be taken care of.

Another comfort to me is the changes in attitude (but not latitude, of course.) There are no longer higher-ups or "distinguished visitors" that people will be compelled to impress. Yes, there are still supervisors and a winter station manager, but in most ways, we become equals. There is no need or place for masks or subterfuge. Everyone knows that eventually, everyone here will know the real you.

I'm sure many people would feel trapped in this kind of environment. Actually, so far I feel much freer. In addition to being relieved of the stresses of the busy summer, we have also been relieved of all of those summer people. With a population of over 200 for most of the warm months, it felt a little crowded on a station originally built for eighteen. The whole base feels so amazingly quiet and empty. Loud machinery doesn't run all hours day and night. Other than mealtimes, there never seem to be more than a handful of people in the Galley; much of the time there is none. There are many free hooks in places where it was once difficult to find a place to hang a parka. The station's loudspeakers have fallen silent as announcements of plane arrivals and departures and travel meetings are no longer made. The feeling here is already more relaxed and quiet. Small groups of winter-over Poleys can be found chatting in a corner of the Galley or the bar or a lounge.

South Pole tradition also dictates winter's activities from the onset, starting the day after the last flight leaves with a showing of John Carpenter's "The Thing," a horror movie about a morphing alien that kills off the crew of a remote Antarctic research base in the winter. The alien didn't seem nearly as far-fetched as the small research station's arsenal of flame-throwers, explosives and overabundance of weaponry. I don't think there is a single gun here on station. We would be totally unprepared in the event of an alien attack. At least we have lots of movies.