We’ve spent the morning on Booth Island, taking tourists on walking tours, and now, as the passengers are finishing their lunches and taking early-afternoon naps on the Cormorant, Keller and I are wrapping up some census work for the Adélies. We’ve split up to cover the entire colony in the three hours we have, and I’ve lost sight of him as I study the birds in the rocky nests in front of me.
The project’s goal this season has been to do an Adélie count during the peak of their egg laying—which Thom and another APP researcher did two months earlier—and again toward the end, which Keller and I will do on our last voyage in another two months, just as the chicks are getting ready to fledge.
Yet now, in the middle of the breeding season, it’s not looking good—broken eggs are scattered around the colony, and skuas perch on the slopes above, waiting to swoop down upon errant or abandoned chicks.
I pause and stare at an Adélie sitting on an egg, knowing there’s no way the chick inside is going to make it. By the time we’re back for the final count, his parents will be heading north, and he won’t be old enough to fledge. Unable to fend for himself, he’ll die of starvation, or end up prey for skuas. A few yards away, two charcoal-fluffed chicks sit alone on a rock, shivering, squeaking for food. They won’t survive much longer if they don’t have a parent show up soon.
As a scientist, I’m not supposed to let this break my heart, but it does.
I linger for a moment, watching the chicks, wanting to pick them up and wrap them into the warmth of my parka and take them home.
I go back to the landing site to meet Keller. The beach is deserted, which doesn’t make sense; we’d arrived together in one Zodiac, and I hadn’t heard its engine start up again. Then again, you can’t hear much of anything over the wind and the sounds of the birds.
I feel a sharp beat of panic at the thought of how unimaginable it would be if anything were to happen to Keller. There’s been a certain distance between us on this trip, which isn’t entirely unusual—on these expeditions, we are little more than fellow crew members; we don’t have the luxury of time or space for much else. I often wish we were back at McMurdo, that we could’ve stayed there forever—gotten jobs in maintenance or in the galley, in the store or in the bar. Just to stay together.
Now, standing alone on the beach wondering where he could be, I’m about to call him on the radio. Then I see a Zodiac approaching—it’s him, his sunglasses coated in sea spray.
“About fucking time,” I say, trying to cover my relief. “Anyone ever tell you it’s not polite to leave a person stranded on an island?”
He only smiles, stopping the Zodiac a few yards from shore. “Get in,” he says.
I wade through water nearly up to my knees, feeling the icy chill against my boots. Keller holds out his hand to help me into the boat. He guns the engine as we leave the beach, hugging the shoreline as he swings around a small, snowcapped hill.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“You’ll see.”
His back is to me, and I can’t tell what he’s up to. I watch the movement of his shoulders as he guides the boat, his weathered hands on the tiller. It still amazes me that this lawyer-turned-dishwasher knows nearly as much about these birds and these islands as I do.
The bergs rise tens to hundreds of feet above us, their craggy white tops etched with the deep blue of older ice beneath. Below the surface, the ice fans out, turning the water a Caribbean greenish blue. Ahead, on a small, indigo-steeped iceberg, a chinstrap penguin flaps its wings as if waving at us. Then it flops onto its stomach and slides into the depths below.
As I gaze out at the white face of the largest berg, its rime scratched with forked edges revealing the old, dark-blue ice deep within, I wonder if Keller and I might age together as beautifully, whether we can last in a world in which everything is melting, disappearing.
Keller glides into a precipitous, stony landing spot. Above us, a gentoo colony is nestled into the staggered, snow-and moss-covered hills. Keller jumps out into knee-deep water and yanks the Zodiac farther ashore, then holds out his hand for me.
As we climb over the slate-colored rocks toward the base of the hill, he says, “There’s someone I’ve been wanting you to meet.”
He leads me up to the colony, staying clear of the penguin tracks. The penguins let out a chorus of growls as we pass by—the same sound they use to ward off the skuas.
“What have you been doing over here?” I ask.
“Sit down,” he says instead of answering, indicating a large, flat piece of granite. When I sit on the edge, he waves me farther back, so I scoot toward the middle. “Good—right there,” he says.
“What the hell are you up to, Keller?”