‘The best relationships between expeditioners who are already attached in the real world are the ones where the two of them shake hands at the voyage’s end and say thanks for that, it was great, have a nice life. But I’ve seen dreadful scenes on the wharf with the man saying goodbye to the Antarctic girlfriend, who’s yelling at him, with his wife who hasn’t seen him for eighteen months beside him in tears.’

‘Who’s the woman there’s never been gossip about?’

‘I’m not telling you that, my dear. You’re a journalist.’

‘Aw Simmy, come on.’

He holds the woman in high esteem. I’m not going to find out.

‘What about homosexuality?’

The response is brisk.

‘They’re not that type of men, the ones that go down south.’

Half asleep on the carpet of the rec room. Listening to the slide and clank of objects in the hold. It’s as though I’m pressing my head to a hungry giant’s belly. I jerk awake in a big-ship tip. About twenty people in low chairs around me are watching a video and are sliding in unison two metres forward and then two metres back and then doing it all over again. It’s perfectly synchronised. Someone yells to turn off the video. Watching themselves is much more fun.

Aerobics are cancelled. Doctor’s orders. She doesn’t want to be fixing broken limbs.

I’m sick. I took off my patch because I thought I had my sea legs. It could be seasickness but I worry that I’m pregnant. The condom split and although he didn’t come, there could’ve been spillage and I don’t want morning sickness in Antarctica and God help me I don’t want a baby or an abortion. I do a sour heave into the toilet bowl and fall onto the bunk. A thudding head forces me up and there’s the rush to be sick again. I go to the doctor. She doesn’t seem surprised when I ask for a pregnancy test. It’s negative. I go back to the cabin. Blanca beside me is also sick. Andrea’s bouncily not. I put on a fresh patch and the nausea stops and Blanca asks for one too. It’s my last. I hand it across.

WHO NEEDS LUNA PARK WHEN YOU’VE GOT OUR SHIP?

The message is large on the whiteboard when I finally make it back to the mess for a meal.

The circle of far blue horizon around the ship contracts. Snow flurries. It nestles in corners and crevices on the decks and turns the vessel into a Christmas ship. We’ve passed the Roaring Forties and the Furious Fifties, we’ve passed the sixtieth latitude. We are now in Antarctic waters.

The ship’s roll stills as we sail into the thickness of mist.

Four: Trapping the Sky

FOUR

TRAPPING THE SKY