“If what?”
“That’s one of Richard’s sayings,” she says. “Computer speak—you know, how in programming, every event is predetermined by the outcome of another? If we do one thing, it leads to the next. He thinks like this—in absolutes. If we have a child, we could strengthen our marriage; else we could not.”
This makes me think of Keller—of him and his ex-wife, Britt; of him and me. Would having another baby have saved them, or done the opposite? What would it do to us? “It’s a big issue for couples, I guess,” I say to Kate, trying to keep my voice neutral.
She offers up that same tiny, sad smile. “You’re lucky,” she says. “To be so free. So unattached.”
I shake my head but can’t think of anything to say. Then I hear the rumble of an approaching Zodiac, the sound of Thom returning for us. “Ready?” I ask her.
She nods but doesn’t move for a long moment. I watch her eyes linger on the Weddell seals and follow her gaze. Looking at their well-preserved bodies, I don’t know whether to envy them or pity them, lying there untouched, stuck forever in a landscape that won’t allow them to disappear.
TEN MONTHS BEFORE SHIPWRECK
The Cormorant
The lounge is crowded and dim, the shades drawn. I’m holding a microphone in one hand, and in the other I use a remote to flip through my penguin photographs, behind me on a large screen: close-ups of Adélies courting, their elongated necks stretching skyward; of chicks putting their whole heads into a parent’s mouth for a meal of regurgitated krill; pano-ramas of rookeries blanketing the sides of islands, barren landscapes transformed into checkerboards of black and white.
“Unfortunately,” I say, “we have less than half the number of Adélie colonies that we had thirty years ago, and the birds within those colonies are at only a third of their original numbers.”
I continue to the next photos: cracked and abandoned eggs, adult penguins sitting on empty nests. Keller is standing next to me.
After I go through all the slides, I ask the passengers near the portholes to release the shades, let the light in. “We have time for questions,” I say.
“Is there any way to keep the penguins from extinction?” someone asks.
“Our research translates to things we should all be doing,” I answer. “Deal with the climate, which is complicating the weather patterns that affect the penguins’ breeding. Stop eating fish, which is like taking food from their mouths.”
“I only eat sustainable seafood,” a woman says. “Like the Chilean sea bass.”
“It’s good to be aware of where your food is coming from,” I say. “And how it affects everything else in the environment.”
What I don’t tell her is that there’s nothing sustainable about “Chilean sea bass,” which is the name some clever public relations team came up with for the Patagonian toothfish. Thanks to its hip new name and subsequent popularity, it’s been overfished to the point of being endangered. And I don’t tell her that while menus may claim that it’s sustainable, most toothfish still comes from illegal fisheries—and, as if that’s not enough, they use longlines, which wreak havoc on the birds.
Keller takes the mic from me. “Any other questions?”
“Getting back to the penguins.” A self-assured voice in the back. “I’m not sure all the evidence is in regarding global warming.”
I swivel my head to see a smirking man dressed head to toe in extreme-weather clothes that look so new I expect to see price tags dangling from them.
Keller looks at him for a long moment. “You’re saying you don’t believe in human-induced climate change?”
“I’m not yet convinced, no.”
“The temperatures here on the peninsula have gone up nearly five degrees in the past fifty years. That makes this region one of the fastest-warming areas on the planet, about ten times faster than the global average. Does that qualify as evidence?”
“It’s not enough evidence.”
“The Antarctic ice sheets are melting at an unprecedented rate,” Keller goes on. “I’m talking billions of tons per year. This could mean global sea-level rises of ten, twenty feet.”