teatimeabroadI stood alongside my friend Jessie, gazing out at the vast, towering mountains, blanketed in snow and ice. We were both visiting Antarctica for the first time. She held her phone with headphones between us, each of us with one earbud. The instrumental movie soundtrack made the magnificence of what was before us feel more tangible. Our emotions swelled with the music. With eyes rimmed with silver, Jessie’s emotion caused my own eyes to fill. We let out semi-hysterical laughs.
“It’s just so . . . much. It’s so beautiful.” She choked, gesturing to the landscape with a loss for words.
“I know. There is nothing that can truly describe this.”
We continued looking out in companionable silence, letting the music do the talking. The ship glided over the waves as we cruised through the channel towards open sea. It was the first sunny day we’d seen in the week since setting sail. I hadn’t realized warm days could be possible in Antarctica. Sunlight kissed my already heated cheeks, chapped from the wind. Snow glittered on the mountains on both sides of us so brightly that I had to look slightly down, the elusive peaks taunting me with unseeable heights.
To look directly off the bow of the ship, I could be staring at any ocean. A lone skua circled around us, just like the seagulls in Florida. The deep navy of an ocean with considerable depth made the lapping sound of any other ocean on a calm day. My lungs were full of salty. We weren’t just anywhere, in any ocean, though.
This was the bottom of the world.
Jessie and I eventually spoke. As aspiring writers and simultaneously deep feelers, a nagging insistence to express ourselves felt necessary and impossible. From day one, we moved into our days with the intention of explorers on a quest, eager to unearth the right descriptors for each experience. From the dining room, to the observation deck, to the abandoned research station visits, and hundreds of penguin rookeries, we held the determination of an entire team of scientists when it came to documenting the days in our journals and photographs. Our malaise lay in the knowledge that we would never capture the memories to satisfaction.
Jessie was full of torment. “I just can’t believe we are allowed to be here right now.”
We wept then – silent and heavy tears. We wept for nature’s beauty; for the destruction of our planet; for humanity’s focus on materialism and corporate success. We wept for all of the social constructs that keep us stuck in unhealthy cycles and for the burden on knowing we couldn’t explain this feeling later. With the vastness of rocks buried in dusty snow and a completely empty top deck, our isolation of two consumed us.
My husband found us at that moment. I had almost forgotten it was our honeymoon. Marriage felt irrelevant this far removed from civilization. We were staring at a land where beasts didn’t need to fear humans and humans approached with deep trepidation. Antarctica belonged to no one but nature. We were in a parallel world.
He took one look at our snot-covered faces, pulling us into a group hug. Then we were three. We still had one full week in Antarctica – really, an eternity of time. Despite the endlessness of days that never darkened in the Antarctic summer, the fragility of the hours that remained hung over me. Jessie and I were frequenters of the onboard library, carefully documenting our day-to-day experiences and thoughts, then mulling over them with espresso martinis like two old scholars sharing manuscripts over a bottle of whiskey.
My thirst for information remained unquenchable. I took notes during presentations led by the research team, but it wasn’t enough. Each one led to more questions. There were unspoken rules on this 6-star cruise. Strict classicism dictated who we could interact with on the ship. We were sailing with crew-members from all over the world and yet, those with the most interesting perspectives we craved the learn about, were off limits.
While we were closer in age to the crew than the other passengers, it was apparent from the start that they had strict orders on how much interaction they could have with us. I spent an entire week trying to convince people to use my first name, and even still, it was both infrequent and only when they knew the supervisor wasn’t around that they complied with this request.
Just a couple of average young adults, we were unused to being waited on 24/7. The elaborate meals and fancy drinks felt like a cage decked in finery; a distraction from the real show, the brilliance of Antarctica, around us. It was up to us to create the experience that we wanted to have.
Over pensive dinners, our party of 4 mused how the wealthy alongside us lived in bubbles manufactured for their comfort. A strange and unsettling thought, we did our best to push back of being coerced into following the crowd, in not-so-silent protest.
We eventually found ways around our bars, learning what was ok and doing our best not to get anyone in trouble. What we really craved was to sit down and share drinks and unfiltered conversations with people who most definitely knew more about the continent than we did. We found that we could invite members of the expedition team to dinner and promptly did just so: one dinner spent with an ornithologist, another with a polar bear researcher, etc. We established a rapport with our butler and the servers in different dining rooms, getting to know where they were from and their personal stories of life and family outside of work. They eventually started trusting us with entertaining bits of crew drama and the romances going on below-decks.
I like to think that we were a refreshing bunch to crew members who caught on to our antics of rebellion. We shared personal, quiet conversations around corners when their bosses weren’t looking, but they seemed to enjoy it as much as we did. We even crashed the crew’s New Year’s party for an entire 2 minutes before getting kicked out. Everyone on staff knew our faces well by this point. After a cheer from some of our favorite crew members who immediately noticed us sneaking in the side door and slid us a thumbs up and discreet clinking of glasses, we were politely, but firmly ushered out by the manager, just minutes to midnight.
Strange social structure aside, we took advantage of our energy and youth. Almost always alone on the upper decks, we would run around from one viewpoint to another, exclaiming at every new mountain or sighted distant penguin. When other passengers were around they would show us the photos they had taken on their fancy cameras, often zoomed in to see things like the blood around a seal’s mouth from whatever he’d eaten. We marveled at such things.
When alone on the top deck, Jessie and I would sometimes dance. It would start with a twirl and then some singing and before we knew it we were screaming to the wind and frigid air, releasing our joy in the most physical ways we could, our limbs a mind of their own. Never have I experienced such freedom as in those moments of unrestrained jubilation. We were unjaded by nature’s splendor, but feeling a part of her. I’m sure we put on quite a show for the captain up in the bridge above us.
I lost myself in Antarctica. A piece of me is still somewhere between the peninsula and the South Pole. While one piece was lost, however, another was found. I possessed a clarity and strength there that I may never discover in the same way again. While I’ve known the thrill of adventure for many years, there was a primitive foundation to this journey that I had never before encountered.
Antarctica is owned by none and protected by all. She is the last continent on earth that is truly unmarred. Her independence and inability to be controlled; her stoicism and self-cleansing strength define her as a force not to be reckoned with. I wish to one day master these traits in human form. I both admire and fear this continent. My awe and respect knows no bounds.
Just prior to embarking on this trip, I had come to the decision that I would finally pursue my pilot’s license. My time in Antarctica began to upend my line of reasoning behind my purpose. Each day was filled with beautiful surprises. They gave me pause: How could I justify sustaining an industry that was contributing to the destruction of such a place.
I had to ask myself: would it ever be enough to work in commercial aviation again after experiencing this microcosm? How could I continuously explore my love for flying without being guilt-ridden by its environmental impacts?
It wasn’t until I sat in a lecture, given by one of the expedition team, that a thought came to mind. A beautiful and physically strong, Russian woman shared stories and photos from the research station she had worked at. The presentation mentioned how some supplies had to be delivered by airplane in the summer months. These deliveries were vital to survival for the researchers.
I absorbed her descriptions of what conditions would allow an airplane to land and imagined myself flying that route. This was the type of flying I could be inspired by. Perhaps not to Antarctica. . . at first . . . but pursuing the type of flying that makes a difference, might be the answer to my inner struggle. I might not have control over the world’s decision to continuously set aside carbon neutral fuel, but I can control who I work for.
I left Antarctica with more questions than answers. How does one reckon with realizations that most of the things that had seemed like substantial parts of everyday life no longer carry any weight? I know I am forever changed.
At the writing of this post (November 11, 2022), it is approaching one year since my journey to the southern continent and I am reminding myself to keep these reflections at the forefront of future career decisions. I still haven’t found all of the answers to my questions, but I am doing my best to introspectively reflect on what I have learned.
Visiting Antarctica is to experience untarnished nature. Amongst the glaciers, I made a silent promise to myself that no matter where life takes me, I will only pursue work that inspires me.
I want to live in a world where penguins approach you curiously because they have no reason to fear people. I want to live in a world where the temperatures aren’t affecting whale migrations and the nesting sites for penguins. I want to live in a world where whales surface near me without scars on their backs from reckless boats. Most importantly I want to live in a world that can still be carefully experienced and beloved in its purest form: unmarred.
I am still a flight attendant and currently working on my private pilot’s license in my free time between travels, pondering that next step. A part of my heart still remains, and probably always will be, down with the penguins, whales and seals in the remote depths of Antarctica.
Have you been to Antarctica and had a thrilling or life-altering experience? I’d love to hear your story. Email me, drop me a comment, or reach out on instagram at Emily Nova Author.
