I stretch my neck backward to look up at the ship. The expected order of evacuation in a maritime emergency is passengers, crew, captain—but it doesn’t always happen this way. Given the chaos here, I’m not sure anyone knows whether the Australis has been fully evacuated. On big ships like these, most of the crew are not experienced mariners but waiters and bartenders and entertainers; they may not have had the training they need to deal with circumstances like this. And not every captain has the integrity to go down with the ship.
I know that before I can give up on Keller, I need to consider boarding the ship. My biggest fear is that he’d have stayed on board and is trapped. When a ship goes down this fast, it’s all too easy to get trapped in a passageway or pinned beneath shifting furniture. And so I begin scanning the length of the ship, looking for points of entry.
The lowest part of the bow is wedged against the fast ice. The port-side balconies, normally forty feet above the ship’s waterline, are within reach, but barely. I test the ice in front of the lowest balcony; then I take a running leap, grabbing the lowest rung of the balcony’s railing. I catch it, but my grip is more tenuous than I’d like, and my strength is waning, and if I were to fall, the force of gravity could send me straight through the ice. I struggle to pull myself up, flustered by how little energy I have left.
The ship groans and shifts, and I hang on desperately, swinging back and forth. Then, arms burning, I lift my body enough to swing my legs up; I wrap them around a lower rung, temporarily relieving my arms, then use my legs to push myself upward and over the side.
Collapsing on the deck, I lie there for a few seconds, gathering strength. I shouldn’t allow myself this luxury—there’s not a moment to spare—but suddenly a part of me is afraid to continue. You get used to death in Antarctica—from reading the explorers’ tales to witnessing the inevitable losses of wildlife—but human casualties are rare, even in this harsh landscape, and I’m not at all prepared to encounter Keller if he’s not alive.
Then I feel my body slip, aided by my wet clothes, and I raise my head. The ship’s deck is at a thirty-degree angle and tilting farther. I need to move.
I stand and try the glass door—locked. I swing my body over to the adjacent balcony; this door slides open. Now in a private cabin, I quickly exit to the passageway. A crew member flees past, ignoring me, using the bulkhead railings to keep from stumbling. I hear a scream from somewhere deep inside the ship, but I can’t tell where. So there are still people on board—but how many, and whether they’re passengers or crew, I don’t know. I blindly begin to run, using the rails to keep myself upright.
Emergency lights are flashing, and an automated message repeats the order to abandon ship in multiple languages. The ship’s enormity strikes me yet again as I lean into the endless passageways, straining to see amid the strobes. I begin to feel hopelessly lost. I call Keller’s name, again and again, until my voice breaks.
I try to think: If he’s still on the ship, where could he be? He’d probably be wherever there are people to evacuate—or maybe, by now, he’d be wherever he can find his own way out. This would most likely be the muster stations, though at this point protocol is moot, and those still on board are probably getting off the ship any way they can.
I keep moving, sliding along the bulkheads, and soon I enter a large banquet hall. The ship is listing so heavily that it forces me to my knees, and I have to climb my way to the other side of the room. I stop at the higher end and call out again, hoping my voice might echo far enough to reach someone. Then suddenly the ship heaves; the floor drops beneath me, and, as I struggle to fight the downward momentum, I see that there’s nothing to break my fall except a jumble of tables and chairs below.
I HEAR A waterfall in the distance, a peaceful sound that evokes mountains and meadows, but when I open my eyes I see only the garish gold of an oversize chandelier. I realize in a panic that I’d gotten knocked out in the fall, and I don’t know for how long. The Australis is now on her side, let loose from the ice, and sinking fast.
My head aches, and when I reach up to my temple to find the source of the pain, I feel a rising bump, and my glove comes back bloody. I try to stand but collapse as my left leg fails me. At first I think it has fallen asleep, but then I reach down and feel that my foot is swelling rapidly, painfully, against my boot, and as I try to stand again, my ankle can’t support my weight. I loosen my bootlaces and straighten up again, putting a hand to my stomach. No pain there, no cramping—it seems my ankle, and perhaps my head, now throbbing, took the brunt of my slide down the tilting ballroom floor.
I fight off the blackness that nudges at my consciousness; I call out again, as loudly as I can, for Keller, for help. No one answers. I crawl a few feet to a doorway and tumble into a passageway. The ship’s power is gone, and, despite the light from the portholes and from the emergency lighting, it’s hard to see; my vision’s blurred, wobbly. I have no idea whether I’m getting closer to an exit or simply going deeper into the ship.