The Nature of Ice (2 page)

He holds up his hands in a gesture of retreat. ‘Only wanting to help. Nothing more.'

Freya turns her blemished cheek away, confused, stammering thanks and apology in a single sentence. She stands rigid until Adam has gone. She looks back to her shining sky but not a wisp remains, nothing but stars strewn across the night, wind scouring the waves.

AURORA AUSTRALIS
LEAVES STORM AND darkness in its wake and moves through higher latitudes towards a summer of perpetual light. Within the course of a morning the air drops below freezing point, the sea chills to one degree Celsius, an indicator that at some intangible moment they have crossed the dotted line on the chart marking the Antarctic Convergence. With each changing minute of latitude illuminated on the GPS, the Southern Ocean yields to the influence of ice. Waves ease to ripples, ripples to calm, the ocean, punctuated with white, rises and falls lazily. Beyond the windows of the bridge, ice stretches towards the curve of the horizon. Ice in myriad forms. The ocean surface cools until frozen needles cluster together to form frazil ice. The ship crosses a thin sludge of grease ice that disintegrates on contact. At times they motor through pancake ice, lily pads that bob and turn.
Aurora
swings past crystal fields of multi-year pack-ice that rise two metres above the water's surface. Living up to its classification, the icebreaker shears through the stratum of first-year pack-ice. At the height of each day, channels of ocean thaw, only to refreeze into fragile sheets that raft one upon the other—panes of glass the vessel snaps in two. On the radar, a tabular berg edging the sky measures fifty kilometres in length; Freya mistook the berg for a long, low cloud.

Aurora
's captain, no older than she, has a pageboy haircut that moves in one slick motion with each turn of his head. He reminds her of photos of her husband Marcus as a boy. The captain veers the ship towards a stretch of ‘water sky', an ominously dark band that on any Australian horizon would signal rain. Here, the sky is a chameleon, stained dark by an underbelly of ice-free ocean. ‘Look at the difference there.' The captain points to where the sky brightens to a luminous glow. This he calls ‘ice blink', an upward reflection from pack-ice and bergs. ‘That's where we don't want to end up, stuck in heavy ice and chewing through fuel. Ice blink and water sky were all they had to go on in the early polar days,' the captain says, flicking his hair as he leans down to scan the radar. ‘You've got to hand it to'em, finding their way south through this.'

Aurora
eases past bergs whose skirts of icicles thaw in the late afternoon light. Freya sets up her camera on the flying bridge, wishing they could turn off the engines and listen to the streams of water, could simply drift awhile with no direction in mind.

Ice crunches beneath the hull. Squadrons of cape petrels keep pace with the ship, the small birds with their black-and-white chequered wings forming a graphic blur against the electric orange hull and crystalline ocean.

Behind the viewfinder her focus is rarely deflected. She has tempered the promise of the perfect photo into disciplined restraint, resisting the wonder of the moment to weigh shape against tone and texture, to balance shadow and light. Marcus calls her driven, seldom as praise. Freya is reminded of the difference between herself and her husband when she sees him in their overgrown garden where he will sit and read for hours, seemingly oblivious to a litter of leaves, the influx of snails and weeds. Occasionally she still arms herself with clippers and a faded memory of a garden once so lush with colour and native birds, she never questioned the time she used to put into it. She has let her photography become so consuming, she wonders has she lost the ability to be part of a world beyond the boundaries of a 4 x 5 inch transparency?
Not part of the
programme
, she averts the subject to stem her mother's not-so-gentle reminders of
time marching on
,
and women who want
it all then leave it too late
. This, she persuades herself, is all she wants. Thoughts of home and things she'll never have eased by the unutterable beauty of ice. Freya draws back from her camera to absorb the vision that spills beyond the frame. She turns slowly on the deck as she feels against her pocket for sunglasses. She had anticipated the glisten of white, the glare of ice painful to the unprotected eye. Her collection of oversized books picked up from discount bins had long since imprinted her mind's eye with the blue of bergs. Never had she expected this opalescence of light and colour. How can any camera capture such an impossible expanse?

She was first drawn to Antarctica through the images of Frank Hurley, photographer on Douglas Mawson's 1911–14 Australasian Antarctic Expedition.
An Antarctic heaven
, he named the pack-ice. Freya was still a photography student when she gazed in wonder at Hurley's black and white photographs, fell through them as if to touch the ice. She wonders now how Frank Hurley reconciled himself to the knowledge that every nuance of colour displayed before him would be reduced to tones of grey.

Freya catches sight of a familiar face at the far railing. She knows Travis from her pre-departure training in Tasmania where he helped untangle her prusik loops and distinguish alpine butterflies. She makes her way towards him but is intercepted.

‘Freya? I'm Kittie. Davis Station weather forecaster.
Fine-
weather forecaster, I'm known as.' Kittie holds out her camera. ‘I was hoping you could give me a rundown on my new toy.'

‘Happy to.' Freya takes the camera.

‘They say when all else fails consult the manual. All else has failed, including the manual, which I managed to leave on the kitchen counter at home.'

‘Mind if I listen in?' calls Travis, holding up his point-and-shoot.

The three sit down on the flying deck in a circle. Freya could be running one of her university extension weekend courses, giving Travis tips on how to override the automatic settings in tricky lighting scenarios, working through the different modes and menus on Kittie's high-end SLR.

She glances up to see Adam Singer propped against the railing. He nods in her direction but declines her gestured invitation to join them.

‘You'd be all digital?' Kittie asks.

‘For small format work. And stuff I play around with in Photoshop. I still use film for images I want to enlarge into murals.'

‘Film?' Travis banters. ‘We're talking acetate, chemicals, darkrooms? I wouldn't have pegged you for a luddite, Freya.'

Freya shrugs. ‘Part of me still likes the idea of creating an original transparency. Something you can hold in your hand.'

‘Digital artist meets traditional craftswoman.'

Travis is a volunteer field assistant who will be stationed out at the Amery Ice Shelf. He looks scarcely old enough to have finished a science degree, let alone be sporting a wedding ring. Like Freya, it's his first time south. ‘Fine-weather' Kittie, a title that seems to extend to a sunny and boisterous disposition, has summered and wintered twice before.

‘Any tips for the uninitiated?' Travis asks her.

Kittie snorts. ‘Out at the Amery Ice Shelf all summer? An hour's flight away from the politics of the station? My advice, you lucky bastard, is to pinch yourself now and again.' She raises her camera in a toast: ‘To Antarctica.'

‘To the Antarctic and success,' Freya seconds.

Travis checks his watch. ‘And to one more sumptuous five-thirty evening meal, never mind the nursing home hours. See you down there.' He springs to his feet and bounds away.

Kittie points at Freya's camera. ‘What exactly is your project?'

‘My husband and I are putting together a travelling exhibition of Antarctic images, my photos alongside Frank Hurley's first photos. A sort of Antarctica-then-and-now.'

‘Whoo-hoo!' Kittie gives her a mock punch. ‘A breath of fresh air among the science and trades projects.'

Freya is tempted to explain more but thinks better of it.
Not everyone shares your passion for Hurley's art
, Marcus would caution.

In her first, unsuccessful application to the Arts Council she had worded her proposal
Themes from Hurley's photos
linking to my own
. When the Council recommended further development, Marcus had comforted her:
It's certainly not a
failure
.
What you have is the kernel of a very good idea
.

‘Is he a photographer?'

‘Frank Hurley?'

‘Your husband, you schmuck!'

Freya laughs. ‘Marcus is an academic. Communications. Though in some ways he knows more about photography than I do: he taught visual theory in the early days.'

‘Dr Marcus didn't try to stow away as your field assistant?'

‘He has teaching commitments,' she offers, ‘and he's busy with some research.' Freya hesitates. ‘To be honest,' she confides, ‘my husband tends to be a bit of a homebody.'

‘Ah.' Kittie gives her a knowing nod. ‘My partner's a
would-be
homebody. Has visions of being a stay-at-home parent with a brood of kids.'

Encumbrances
, Marcus had dismissed children the one time she broached the topic. ‘You have children, Kittie?'

‘Not yet. Diana and I are hoping to adopt.' Kittie registers Freya's blink of surprise. ‘Believe it or not,' she says, ‘I do tend to be closeted when I'm at the station. Doesn't pay to stir up the homophobes.' She taps a finger in the direction of Adam Singer at the opposite railing. ‘Case in point,' she whispers.

‘How do you mean?' Freya leans closer, curious in spite of herself.

‘I get the weirdest vibe from that dude. I'm here to tell you, I can pick out the egomaniacs and misogynists from a hundred paces.'

Adam? She can't be serious. Freya is unsure whether to laugh. ‘That's a bit harsh. You make the place sound like a hornets' nest.'

‘Nah, there's always one or two that come crawling out of the woodwork. The difference from home is there's no ready means of escape. As for the rest of us, it's a mandatory requirement to be off-centre. You would have had the unspeakable joy of the psych assessment?'

‘Oh, yes.' Freya shudders, remembering the written test, the hour-long interview, the evaluation.
You appear to be fiercely
independent and professionally self-assured
,
yet the written tests
indicate a tendency to be submissive—at times you operate out
of a sense of duty.

‘It went on forever,' she recalls. ‘How would I integrate into a tight-knit community after working so long on my own? Did I have my husband's full support?' Who wouldn't feel on edge with some of the intimations?—
an underlying vulnerability,
a lack of self-esteem
—the psychologist's focus all the while honed in on her birthmark. He had quizzed her at length over Marcus, interjecting:
But outside of the house, what do you
do together—for fun?
Freya had found herself back-pedalling, defending her husband and her marriage. ‘I half-expected to be told I wasn't suitable.'

‘At mine,' Kittie says, ‘the security guy escorted me up in the lift. When the interview was over I said to the psych,
Shall I let myself out?
She gives me this go-crawl-back-under-your-rock look and says,
Unless you'd rather jump out the
window
.' Kittie twirls her fingers. ‘And a good day to you too, DrH appy!'

Freya drums her fists on the deck with a peal of laughter. She opens her eyes to catch Adam's smile.

‘So there you have it,' Kittie says. ‘We're both certifiably insane enough to go to Antarctica.'

FREYA ARRIVES AT THE DINER table in time to hear Charlie, the Davis Station radio officer, expound on the pros and cons of modern-day communications compared to earlier technology. ‘Telegraphy, it was back then at the Melbourne GPO. Twenty years before I started coming south.' His weathered face bears a kind smile.

‘Phone calls, emails, faxes—and now bloody sat phones and SMSs,' Charlie emphasises each word, ‘the ruin of many a relationship, in my opinion. These days you get wives and partners calling up all hours of the day and night, checking up. Coming to Antarctica won't solve any problems you've left at home.'

‘A somewhat cynical view, Charlie,' says the woman at the end of the table whose name eludes Freya.

Charlie shrugs. ‘Three decades south.T hree marriage bust-ups.' ‘Why do you keep coming down?'

‘The buggers won't let me retire! Each time I tell the Division this is my last year—
yes
,
yes
, they say, then call me up four weeks before the start of a new season, knickers in a knot because someone's pulled out. Gave the winters away a few years back,' he says. ‘A lowly summerer nowadays.'

Freya laughs. ‘Plenty of us would kill to have your kind of summer every year.'

‘What about the female perspective?' Travis says. ‘You're married, Freya. Your other half mind you running away to Antarctica?'

‘Hardly running away,' she tries not to sound defensive. ‘I've been freelancing for ten years. Marcus is used to me going away for work. Though, admittedly, not for five months straight.'

‘You're on a humanities grant?' says the woman, a PI as she introduced herself yesterday—Principal Investigator— distracting Freya from remembering her name with yet another Antarctic acronym.

‘A Commonwealth arts grant. I'm working on a photographic collection for an exhibition.'

‘Courtesy of the Australian taxpayer.' The woman sniffs. ‘What a lark.'

Charlie winks at Freya sympathetically. ‘As I understand it, that privilege extends to us all, sciences and trades.' He leans conspiratorially towards Travis. ‘They've got a cubby hole set up for Freya above the helipad at Davis Station.'