All of us, of course, have received emergency training, in everything from CPR to evacuating the Cormorant. But putting together a rescue plan for a sinking ship of sixteen hundred, without knowing what the conditions will be like until we get there, is next to impossible. The Cormorant, nearly at capacity, can safely take on no more than two hundred people.
Of course, not every ship that strikes ice is destined to sink; a seaworthy cruise liner is equipped with life preservers of her own: airtight bulkheads, bilge alarms, compartment seals, escape tubes. When all safety measures perform as intended, a debilitated ship may list at an odd angle for days or even weeks without sinking.
Yet the Australis, we’re learning now, has suffered extensive damage. “Apparently there was a serious malfunction in two of the bulkhead doors,” Glenn says. “The failures occurred when they were stuck in fast ice and tried to force their way out. The next closest ship is another eight hours behind us.”
Which means that for the next eighteen hours, the Cor-morant is the Australis’s only real hope.
“Any casualties?” Nigel asks.
Glenn says simply, “Yes.”
I try to stand still, to breathe evenly. I know that when it comes to the rescue efforts, I don’t have the luxury of choosing which life is more important than the next, not when so many are in danger. But I also know that the minute we have the Australis in our sights, only one person will matter.
We’ve already cordoned off a section of the lounge, now a mini–triage center supplied with blankets and first-aid equipment, and it’s time to let the passengers in on the news. As we head down the steps to the lounge, Amy leans close and speaks into my ear. “He’ll be fine,” she says. “If anyone can handle something like this, it’s Keller.”
The rest of the packed, overheated lounge looks as if it’s ready for any regular presentation, with one exception: the silence. The passengers wait, their nervous eyes focused on Glenn as he explains the situation. They remain calm, passive, probably because they’re in a bit of shock themselves.
“As a precaution,” Glenn concludes, “all guests will be required to wear life jackets from this point forward, around the clock. Guests will no longer be permitted on the bridge, in the fitness room, or on the rear deck, where we will be staging search-and-rescue efforts.”
Search and recovery is far more likely; as much as I want to remain optimistic, I’ve been in these waters and in this weather long enough to know what it can do—to boats as well as to passengers. I picture the listing Australis and wonder where Keller had been when it hit. Had he been on the phone with me at the time; was that why we’d lost our connection?
“I know this is not what any of you signed up for,” Glenn says, “but I urge you to remain in your cabins as much as possible. I know many of you have medical expertise and other skills we’ll need, and we may call on you. But for now, you need to keep yourselves safe and out of the way.” He draws in a breath. “Finally, and I know this is another of many inconveniences you’ll experience over the next few days, I’m going to request that everyone agree to take on an additional passenger or two, if possible, in your cabin. You can double up with one another or take on someone from the Australis.”
Glenn signals to the staff, and I get into place as we begin the emergency lifeboat drill, the same one we’d gone through the first night on board, in the Beagle Channel. It seems much longer than a week ago—back then, everyone was laughing and taking photos as they put on their frumpy orange life jackets, excited as they anticipated the Drake and what awaited them beyond. I remember thinking that this would be a long journey, but for entirely different reasons.
Now the passengers are somber as they put on their jackets and assemble at their muster stations. I stand at my station, unable to make eye contact with anyone. Nature and I have always gotten along, or so I’d believed; we’ve had a good relationship of mutual respect and understanding. But perhaps I’ve had little to fear from nature because for so long it’s always been only me. As the Cormorant hurtles south, I feel anxiety knitting closed my throat. As every Antarctic traveler knows, once you begin to fear the ice, the relationship changes forever.
TWENTY YEARS BEFORE SHIPWRECK
The Missouri Ozarks
Deep in the forest, the humidity is oppressive, especially for September. It’s too hot to cover up completely, and I’ve been slapping at mosquitoes all morning. I wear long pants to avoid poison ivy, but I’m in a short-sleeved shirt, drenched in sweat and sticky, acrid bug repellent.
Everything in these woods has a way of enveloping you. As I bend down to pick up my field notebook, I brush my bare arm against a bush that’s sprouting poison ivy. I look at the batch of triple leaves, then dump half the contents of my water bottle on the spot where the plant touched my skin.
Pam hears me and looks over. It’s only midmorning, but her dark-brown hair is escaping its loose ponytail, and her face is bright red, as I imagine mine must be.
“How’re you holding up?” she asks.
“Great.”