The Aitcho Islands are an ideal place to land—plenty of penguins, fairly even terrain. As I lead a group of tourists away from the landing site, the chinstraps roam all around, their webbed feet leaving watery prints in the thick mud near the shore. I issue a strict warning not to go near the birds—but I can see how tempting it might be to pet them, to feel their silky black heads and snowy white faces, to trace the thin black lines encircling the undersides of their chins. The adult penguins, with no predators on land, will often pass close by; sometimes they’ll even walk right up to you. We constantly need to remind passengers that this is not a marine park, that we’re actually in the wild. Sometimes Keller will show them his ragged penguin-bite scars, which works pretty well as a deterrent.
When it comes to the tourists, our patience can wear thin, Keller’s especially—but I’m always reminding him that while we’ve grown used to this environment, for everyone else it’s like a cold, faraway planet that probably doesn’t feel quite real. And, more important, what people learn here might actually make a difference if they go home thinking about how much their actions up north affect the creatures down here.
I point to the guano that covers the nests and rocks, and now covers our boots as well—its sharp, overwhelming stench is the reason many of the passengers have covered their noses with scarves or the tops of their sweaters. “You’ll see how the guano is a reddish pink over there, where the chinstraps are,” I say. “That means they’re eating krill. Over here, the color’s more whitish pink, which shows the gentoos are eating fish as well as krill. What we don’t like to see is guano that’s a greenish color, which indicates a bird is starving.”
We continue our hike. The hills are studded with nests of rocks and pebbles, and penguins with fat, gray-and-white chicks are nestled up against them. Kate is in my group—Richard is not—and I can’t help thinking of what I’d overheard earlier. I feel sorry for her, for both of them, and, for once, I can relate to such relationship issues: to one person wanting something the other doesn’t, to missed connections. I’d finally begun to feel that Keller and I were past all that, yet here we are, with him in one place and me in another, not knowing whether we’ll be able to find our way back.
I feel a sudden lurch of nausea and pause midstep. Perplexed, I take a breath and try to steady myself. Despite the jet lag, despite the Drake, despite all the passengers and crew crowded together on these trips, I never get sick. And I don’t like the thought that I’m getting myself this worked up over Keller.
One of the tourists asks if I’m all right, and I shake it off and keep walking.
At the crest of the hill, we stop and look out over the bay. Beyond lies a sea of rich blue, the water broken by ice and lava flats, the skyline broken by the sharp, ice-blanched peaks of the rugged island chain. I direct the tourists’ attention below, to where gentoos and elephant seals share a beach of thick, volcanic sand and fist-size rocks.
I watch Kate, who stares ahead as if she hasn’t heard me, as if she’s not aware of the giant, belching, molting seals, their smooth, shiny coats emerging underneath a thick, peeling brown layer that’s more pungent than the penguin guano. The seals, under the sun’s steady glow, use their flippers to fling sand over their bodies, grunting with every move. The humans are wearing hats, gloves, boots, and several layers under thick parkas, but for the animals, it’s too warm. The white-bellied gentoo chicks, still fluffy without their insulating adult feathers, are panting in the heat.
The birds are especially active today, and we proceed back to the beach, more slowly than I’d usually walk because my stomach is still threatening to rebel. Once the shoreline is in sight, I let the group go ahead to the landing site and hang back to radio Glenn.
“I need to come back,” I tell him. “I’m not feeling well.”
“What’s the matter?”
It’s the first time I have ever called in sick. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” I say, but I can’t explain further than that.
“I’ll send someone out to take your place,” Glenn says. “I want you to see Susan when you get back to the ship.”
I know I don’t need a doctor, but I also know better than to argue with Glenn.
As I make my way to the Zodiacs, I watch the chinstraps continue their shuffle from their colony down to the shoreline, where they wade in, then dive under and vanish in swirls of water. Other birds emerge, shaking the water off their backs, and head back up to the colony. The cycle continues, over and over, and all of a sudden something feels familiar in their consistent path, in their methodical gait. I see my own life in theirs: a constant back-and-forth motion, always ending up where I started, and circling back again—focused and simple—and perhaps this is why I chose this life, for the straightforward beauty I’m witnessing right now. Maybe I thought that life down here would remain uncomplicated, and that I could keep the same pace, the same arm’s-length existence from the world, forever.
TWO YEARS BEFORE SHIPWRECK
Ushuaia, Argentina
I arrive in Ushuaia late, and by the time I reach the docks I’m a full day behind everyone else and horribly jet-lagged. I’m still on the gangway, holding my duffel bag, as Glenn begins to introduce me to a new crew member. I don’t recognize the tall, dark-haired man Glenn calls over until he turns around.
The red bandanna around his neck. The mossy brown eyes.
“Keller Sullivan,” Glenn says, “Deb Gardner.”