Just then we hear it—seven short blasts of the Australis’s horn, followed by one long one. The order to abandon ship.
Thom steps out of the Zodiac, planting one foot on the ice. “I’ll get Nigel to request backup, and we can—”
I shake my head. “There’s no time.”
“Do you need a Zodiac?”
“The ice has gotten too thick over there. I’m better off on foot.”
“Okay,” Thom says. “I’ll catch up with you as soon as we take this group back.”
“Thanks,” I say, meeting his eyes. “See you soon.”
“See you.”
Our promise to meet later feels, like Mayday, like a code of sorts. Something that means good luck. That means be careful. We aren’t going to say those words; we aren’t going to admit that we’re now in the middle of something far more serious than we’d imagined. But we both understand.
I turn back in to the haze and begin walking carefully along the ice. As soon as I’m out of sight of the passengers, I pick up my pace. Though the ice feels solid, I know it’s risky, but I don’t want to waste any more time. I’m rushing toward the Australis, completely hidden in the fog, when I stop short.
I haven’t replaced my inoperable radio. I look around, hoping to wave down Thom, hoping someone is still there, but they’ve all disappeared.
ORCAS HAVE EARNED the name killer whales neither because they hunt humans—they don’t—nor because they are whales—they aren’t. This is something I often find myself explaining to passengers: that orcas are dolphins, highly skilled hunters of seals, whales, and other dolphins. They’re fast—they can swim up to thirty miles an hour—but, more -important, they’re creative. They hunt in packs of five to fifty, and if they come upon a group of seals lounging on the ice, they circle in formation, slapping their tails on the water, creating waves that break up the ice or roll the berg. If that doesn’t work, they lift the ice with their noses.
About four years ago in the Gerlache Strait—on the peninsula, between the continent and Anvers and Brabant Islands—I saw a pod of orcas knock a leopard seal off a berg. Then, like cats playing with a mouse, they let the seal climb back up again. There were two pups among the pod: The orcas were training their young to hunt, the leopard seal their unwitting assistant.
Nature can be cruel, and down here its mercy depends upon which side of the ice you’re on. I am, for the moment, on the right side, watching the glassy black fins glide in lazy circles just beyond the ice I’m standing on. About two hundred feet farther is what’s left of the Australis.
The ship has listed considerably since I first saw her—though it’s been no more than two hours—and at some point she’d gotten jammed up against the ice. Now visible is the faded blue from the deep end of the empty swimming pool on the top deck, and a green playing field circled by a running track. The detritus of sixteen hundred desperate passengers and crew litters the ice floes—backpacks, purses, life jackets, hats, cameras. And there are bodies, some floating, some on the ice.
It’s these bodies, I suspect, that are attracting the orcas. Orcas aren’t dangerous to humans, unless they’ve gone mad in captivity; the few known attacks on humans in the wild have occurred when orcas have mistaken people for prey. Right now, from under the ice, these bodies look a lot like seals.
The ship moans, her metal straining under the weight of the water inside, the ice outside. Crew members are still loading passengers into lifeboats and Zodiacs, but they’re boarding from the ice. The Australis has been abandoned.
I scan the jackets and faces for Keller. Then, reluctantly, I scan the bodies, looking through the floating graveyard for his dark hair, an orange jacket. The fact that I don’t see him offers only temporary relief.
I shout out to a few crew members, describing Keller, asking if they’ve seen him. No one has—not surprising, given the size of this floating city, given the pandemonium.
The ice in front of me looks weak, but I find a firm stretch a few yards away and use it to loop back toward the ship. The narrow inlets of water are choked with Zodiacs, not all of them manned by crew members. As I help stranded passengers step from the ice into the boats, I describe Keller to them. When I find crew members to pilot them to Detaille, I ask if they’ve seen him—but if anyone has, they’re too traumatized, too preoccupied, to remember; I get mostly blank stares in response.