Everyday Things at the Bottom of the World: Part 2

 

A Co-Pilot to Fossil Bluff

There is an excellent view from the Rothera kitchen window of the north end of the runway – a narrow strip of crushed rock extending out into the sea. And it never gets old, pausing from the washing-up to watch a BAS Twin Otter coming into land or taking off; a brilliant pop of red against the blue, white, and grey of the sky and of the land. Every now and then we get the chance to experience this from a different point of view – we get to sit in the co-pilot seat of a plane on a flight out to Fossil Bluff, Sky Blu, or even the deep field. This requires no formal training – the Twin Otters can operate here on a single-pilot licence, but a second person is required due to the nature of where the planes are operating. If you are at a remote depot two people are required to refuel the plane, and help is always required with digging, and you may also be asked to take the controls for a short period of time while the pilot fills in some paperwork or gets their flask out to pour a mug of tea. Some people take to this part more easily than others – on my first ever co-pilot, Andy V explained that it was a bit like playing a computer game, which was absolutely no use to me at all! While I do enjoy the sheer madness of it all – to be at the controls of a plane above Antarctica – there has never been that moment for me where you realise that want to change your career entirely and train to become a pilot. But that does not take away from the magic of it all one little bit, and I will treasure the memories of these flights for long after I stop coming South.

I think that it is often the intensity of the experiences down here which means that the people you share them with creates a bond which time and distance do little to diminish the memory of. And the most significant of all are not moments of individual success but a collective effort, team work, and the wonderful and enduring warmth of the friendships formed in this most unhospitable of lands. This place is transitory in nature – people do not stay for ever, but there are those we meet with whom the bond of friendship will endure even when our lives go their separate ways. One such person for me is Dutch – A BAS Twin Otter pilot since 2019, and down here this season for the last time. I spent numerous days with Dutch quarantining in the same hotel in the Falkland Islands in 2020. We were on the same ‘outside time’ schedule for a while, so we often kicked a football between us across the small patch of grass that became known as the sheep pen. Dutch also witnessed my attempts to obtain a quarantine cat – I would save a bit of bacon from breakfast and put it out on a dish, but it only ever succeeded in luring the Turkey Vultures in. He also took a photo for me of the main post box in Stanley with his long lens camera. I could only just make it out with the naked eye from the far corner of the sheep pen. Even if he thought my love of post boxes and post was a little odd, he never made me feel odd or small because of it. He is the kind of person who builds you up. In the 2019-20 season he was the winning seeker in the annual Rothera Quidditch match (which I had started organising the year before). He has delivered many letters out into the field on behalf of Antarctic Postal Logistics – but we only seem to remember the one that he forgot! In 2020 he asked if he could put my drawing of Jenny Island on the back of the Air Unit T-Shirt, and thus begun a three-year collaboration completing the series with Sky Blu and Fossil Bluff. Neither of us made any profit from this project, but £5 from the sale of each T-Shirt went to a charity of my choosing. This season we raised over £1000 for Mind. Dutch, in putting my artwork on a T-Shirt gave me the belief to get my drawings made into art print cards. Until this season though I had never flown with Dutch – and in a place where logistics so often have to trump sentimentality, sentiment prevailed (or the logistics aligned) and on a glorious Sunday in November I went flying with my friend. Station life can seem all encompassing at times, and it’s incredible how within seconds of leaving the ground it suddenly seems so small, and so far behind. We flew south over a glittering Marguerite Bay – that bright Antarctic sun lighting up everything it touched with diamonds. We chatted, and we marvelled at the snowy peaks that lined the King George VI Sound as we headed to Fossil Bluff (an advanced Field Logistics and refuelling station to support deep field science). The purpose of the flight that day was to re-supply Fossil Bluff with fuel. We had about 30 minutes on the deck – time to offload the cargo, and to have a bit of a catch up with Rosemary and JP who were manning Fossil Bluff that week. It was our lucky day – Rosemary had been baking some cinnamon buns, and she gave us a couple to eat on the flight back to Rothera. We chatted about this and that whilst taking in the view. I always try to savour those moments – stood with three friends looking out across the Sound with absolutely no other sign of life. No trees, no wildlife, no construction vehicles – just mountains, ice, and snow to capture your gaze. It always seems like the most improbable thing in the world that we should be there, and yet there we were. And despite the improbability of it we had no words for it and so our words were just the same as we always use – how has the weather been, what’s happening on station, are you cooking anything good for dinner tonight? Time and time again in Antarctica I have been struck by the feeling that it is a place beyond words, and that silence is more than simply the absence of noise, and that when that silence comes our ears cannot process it, but our souls can.

Part of me wished that I could have stood there for longer and listened for longer - both to the chat and to the silence. But I couldn’t tell you how long exactly would have felt like enough. Maybe there is not enough time in the universe for that. We said our goodbyes to Rosemary and JP and took to the Antarctic skies once more. It was about an hour and forty-minute flight back to Rothera, and we arrived in time for dinner. Everything on station was carrying on just the same – on the surface it was as if we had never been away. But for me, something had changed – I don’t think such experiences can fail to change you. It was a breathtaking reminder of how incredible this place is and what a privilege it is to be here. But even more than that – it was a chance to treasure and to appreciate a friendship, and by doing so to treasure and to appreciate the wonder of all friendship in a life that would be worth very little without it.