“Do you like it?”
“It’s okay,” she says. “I don’t know, maybe having a ridiculously successful husband makes a girl feel inadequate. I’ve bounced around a lot, work-wise, mostly because I love to travel. Maybe it’s because I have no idea what else I’d do if I ever had to get serious about just one thing.” She looks down at the sand, digging into it with the toe of her rubber boot. “Maybe what bothers me most about Richard’s rush to have a baby is that I feel like we’re not enough anymore—you know, just the two of us. Like I’m not enough anymore.”
She turns to watch a few passengers walk past. “I’m the only woman I know without kids. Some of my friends have kept working, some haven’t—but I’m just not a part of their lives anymore. It’s not their fault—they probably don’t think to invite me to every toddler’s birthday party, but those are the only times they get together, which means I never see them. And to them it’s so normal, so I feel like I must be the crazy one. You know? Because even though I feel left out most of the time, I still can’t picture my life like that.”
She stops then and turns to me. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “I should’ve asked. Do you have children?”
“Me? No.” I feel my face flush with heat.
“I guess you can’t exactly put them in a stroller and take them on the landings, can you?”
“No. You can’t.”
“So how did you get interested in penguins?” She suddenly seems eager to change the subject.
“I’ve always loved animals.”
Kate smiles. “Don’t we all. Even Richard, who claims not to like our cat, secretly does. I always catch him scratching her under the chin when he thinks I’m not looking. But pets are different from penguins.”
“I suppose I gravitated toward penguins because they’re so dapper and good-looking—what’s not to like? And then, in junior high, I learned about this Japanese company that wanted to harvest penguins in Argentina for gloves. This’ll tell you how na?ve I was, but I couldn’t believe people could do such a thing to penguins. To any animal. It was actually the first time I’d made the connection between the animals I loved and where my shoes came from.”
“They actually make shoes from penguins?” Kate looks stricken.
“No,” I say. “But really, how’s that different from using snakes or alligators? Just because they’re not as cute?”
“Definitely,” she says with a laugh.
“What about calfskin, or sheepskin?”
“I see your point. I guess I haven’t really thought about it.” Then she asks, almost tentatively, “So what happened to that colony in Argentina?”
“Fortunately, enough people fought to save the penguins, and now the colony is part of a research station and tourist center. I worked there when I was in grad school.”
“So how’d you end up in Antarctica?”
“I wanted to learn more about other species,” I say, “and I suppose I also wanted to keep going south.”
“You like to travel?”
“It’s not that, really. My family—we didn’t do much traveling. Not together, at least. The first time I got on a plane, I was on my way out west for graduate school. I was twenty-two years old.”
Kate’s eyes widen. “And look at you now.”
“I’m not that well traveled. I just go where the birds are.” I’ve surprised myself by talking so much, and I gesture toward the long, shallow hole in the sand near the water. “So are you going to take a dip?”
“I guess I should,” she says. “It’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?”
We part ways, and I amble along the beach in the opposite direction. After gaining some distance, I turn back toward the hot tub, where Kate is stripping off her winter clothes, down to a bikini and a pair of sneakers, which we recommend swimmers wear for comfort on the hot sand.