Darryl craned his neck out the side of the Spryte as they approached, and his fingers drummed nervously on his knees. They would have to undress, then suit up for the dive inside the hut, because once you were encased in all the waterproof gear, you would pretty much suffocate from the heat unless you were quickly able to immerse yourself in the ocean; the open water itself, regardless of the depth or season, kept to a fairly steady 33 degrees Fahrenheit.
It looked like Franklin, whose handlebar moustache was all you could see poking out from under the furry hood, who waved them to a halt.
“Nice day for a swim,” he said, jerking open the cranky door of the Spryte. Darryl tumbled out first, slipping on the slick ice, and Michael followed, as Franklin started to off-load some of the gear from the sledge. They went straight into the hut, which felt like walking into a kiln after being outside. Space heaters were mounted on metal brackets, and an impressive rack of gear hung from cluttered racks along all four walls.
But most noticeable was the round hole, maybe six feet in diameter, sitting like a big Jacuzzi in the center of the floor. A steel grid had been placed over its top to prevent any accidental or premature entries, but Michael couldn’t help but gaze down into it, into the deep blue water, frazzled with shimmering ice platelets, that awaited him below.
Calloway, a wry fellow with a pronounced Australian accent, said, “G’day, mates, I’ll be your divemaster for today’s activities.” From what Michael had heard from Lawson and others, Calloway wasn’t really an Aussie, but had adopted the persona as a ploy to get girls, many years ago, and somewhere along the way had forgotten to give it up. “Now, let’s strip down to our skivvies and get started. There’s a lot to do.”
That turned out to be the understatement of the year; Michael had dived many times before, and was used to the lengthy process of suiting up, but this outdid anything he’d ever been through before. Under Calloway’s expert instruction, he and Darryl first put on expedition-weight polypro long underwear, and over that a Polartec thermal jumpsuit. On their feet, they wore the U.S. Antarctic program’s own issue socks, and Thinsulate nylon shell booties. Darryl, at that point, looked suspiciously like a red-haired elf.
Calloway next handed them each a light purple dry-suit undergarment to haul on over all the underclothes.
“Bit warm in here, eh?” Calloway said, flapping open the front of his flannel shirt.
“You can say that again,” Michael agreed.
“Bit warm in here, eh?” Calloway dutifully repeated.
Michael had had to get used to the sophomoric sense of humor that prevailed at Point Adélie, or, in his experience, at any remote camp where men tended to congregate.
Next up was the dry suit itself, which Calloway held up like a fashion designer showing off his latest creation. “State of the art, mates. TLS Trilaminate. Much lighter than the compressed neoprene jobs, and it won’t retain the surface moisture either.”
It was hard to imagine, as Michael struggled into yet another layer, to believe that it was lighter than anything else. He was already feeling like the Michelin man, and this was before they got to what would surely be the most constricting step of all—the protection of the head and face.
Calloway was digging in a duffel bag Franklin had brought in, then extracting two black Henderson ice caps—full-face hoods that left room only around the eyes and lips; a thin strip of neoprene ran above the mouth aperture. Pulling the balaclava on, Michael felt like a burglar. And over it, he knew, would come the attached latex hood. Calloway had to help him drag the hood over the top of his head, and down to the top of the orange dry suit, where it snapped closed like a suction cup, effectively turning him into a big human sausage in a complete orange casing.
“Can you turn that down?” Darryl said, lifting one bulky arm toward the nearest heater. “I’m dying.”
“No problem, mate, shoulda done it sooner.” He flicked off both heaters. “A few more minutes, and you oughta be out of here,” he said, encouragingly. He helped both men on with their mountaineering glove liners, then their three-fingered rubber dry gloves, followed by their weight harnesses (without being weighted down properly, Michael knew, a diver could bob upside down until he drowned). Finally, he hoisted onto each of their hard-shell backpacks a ScubaPro ninety-five-cubic-foot, steel oxygen tank with twin regulators. Michael could barely move.
“Any last words,” Calloway said, “before the face masks go on?”
“Hurry,” Darryl gasped.
“Remember—no dawdling down there. You’ve got one hour, maximum.”
He was referring, Michael knew, both to their air supply and to a human being’s ability, even under all the gear, to withstand the extreme temperatures.
“The nets and traps are already down?” Darryl asked, as he wrestled his wide rubber fins over his booties and onto his feet.
“Sent ’em down myself, not two hours ago, tied to the lines from the safety hole. Good luck with the fishing.”
“Before we forget,” Michael said, “I’ll need that.”
He gestured at the underwater camera that had been all but forgotten in the heap of discarded clothes.