This Aintarctica

Here We Are Now Entertain Us

There aren’t movie theaters or restaurants in McMurdo. Because of the International Dateline, Sunday NFL play-off games are played here on Monday afternoons when we are at work. Removed from society, we have to reinvent our “norms” and entertainment.

On Saturday nights, men dress up as women. For fashion women shave their heads and men have mustache or beard growing competitions. People win or lose their weekly paychecks in high stake poker games that revolve around a few different dorm rooms and the 100-square Superbowl pool quickly filled up at $100 per square. This puts 10 thousand dollars up for grabs simply by the kick of a field goal or a missed touchdown.

But, the real buzz in town is around the 12 people who have taken a vow not to masturbate since January 1, 2010. Twenty-two days into the Rub and Tug tournament there are just two people left who have mastered their domain hoping to win the $828 ($69 x 12 people) prize.

The rules are simple, but honesty has to be trusted. Wet dreams don’t count, but if you have sex—you’re out. Of the 12 people who entered the contest, 12 of them would have paid more than $828 to have sex, so this rule was moot. Men outnumber women 2 to 1 in McMurdo, so if you haven’t “earned your wings” in Antarctica by January, odds are good that you’re goods are odd and your last few weeks in Antarctica will be spent celibate.

For some, getting to Antarctica is a dream come true. For others, “earning their wings” on this continent is the cherry on top of their cock. This is why the crude guard of Antarctica experience will tell every newbee, like myself, to G.U.E.

“If you G.U.E.,” one of the guys from the Heavy Shop said to me over my first beer at the Southern Exposure bar, “you’re guaranteed to earn your wings.”

Since I was/am a newbee, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask what that statement meant and with a hard slap on the back (that did end up hurting), he said, “If you go ugly early, then you’re sure to get fucked.”

The reality and ugly truth was I lost my $69 by January 6th.

The final two contestants are now down to a janitor who claims he only needs to plunge toilets and a carpenter who plays with wood all day long, this competition could last until the final flight, but, not if I have my say.

My money is on the carpenter. He seems semi-androgynous (sometimes dressing as a woman not just on Saturdays) and his hands are callused. I’ve doubled down my $69 on a side bet with a friend who has faith that his janitor friend will clean up.

Trying to sway the competition, or at least make the left hand not know that the right hand is stepping out, this week I’ve started slipping porn beneath the door of the janitor’s dorm room. Gay porn, straight porn, hairy bushes and shaved kittens, whatever it takes to make IT hard on the janitor.

Bootlegging

The orders are getting placed. People who have been in McMurdo since November and who plan on Wintering Over are going to New Zealand for a little R&R. That’s not rest and relaxation, but as Rum Runners. Just like prohibition had ships full of alcohol running from the Coast Guard, we have Winter Overs filling their Big Red jackets with alcohol running the spirits from New Zealand to Antarctica.

Although Antarctica is a desert, McMurdo Station isn’t entirely dry when it comes to alcohol, but the availability of alcohol is scarce. We can go to one of the two bars and drink to our hearts content until 11 p.m. Tuesday through Friday and until 1 a.m. on Saturday nights, but getting hard alcohol into our dorm rooms is like trying to find a good bar in Utah.

The company store only deals in kiddie-type beverages: Coca-Cola, Sprite, beer and wine. Since they are trying to treat us like unruly high school kids, it surprises me they don’t also sell Cinnamon Schnapps or Everclear.

Since the people who are leaving for their one week vacation have been in Antarctica for at least four months and are planning on staying here for at least nine more, you’d think their wants and needs for their time away would detail all they’ll accomplish in New Zealand, but talk to any Winter Over and their bucket list in New Zealand is a shopping list at the liquor store.

“After picking up and protectively packing vodka, tequila, whiskey and absinthe,” a Winter Over said, “if I have any time or money left over, I hope to make it up to Kaikoura to swim with the dolphins.”

At first I thought “swim with the dolphins” was a euphemism for “prostitution” since that is legal in New Zealand, but then this guy said, “and also get a whore.” I guess he was not beating around the bush when he plainly said he planned on beating around a bush.

Luckily, I don’t need a rumrunner for Winter. I’ve had a connection all season long. As a dishwasher, I’ve gotten to meet a lot of the pilots who fly the C-17s in and out of McMurdo. One of the pilots heard my complaints about the lack of the liquid I like to drink, and he’s been keeping me well supplied all season long.

My vice: milk. All of the food we eat here is either powdered, frozen or outdated. In the morning, I’ve had to adapt. Coffee is the reason I get out of bed. It’s my incentive to turn off my alarm and to start my day. For the last few months, I’ve had to learn to drink my coffee black. I adapted, but I didn’t like it.

One morning I was complaining about the acidic tasting coffee and what I wouldn’t give for a spoonful of fresh milk, three weeks later an Air Force pilot in a green jump suit opened up his jacket like he was dealing drugs and gave me a pint of milk.

Maybe this is why these pilots say working in Antarctica versus Afghanistan is a milk run.

One DV at a Time

There are different ways to come to Antarctica. You can quit your job in the states to wash dishes or pay thousands of dollars to fly over Antarctica in an airplane with a group of Australians. Personally, with the history of Antarctic over-flights, I’d be a bit leery of this idea. Or, you can be a Distinguished Visitor.

Distinguished Visitors (DV) in the past have included Senator John McCain, congressmen, senators and even Sir Edmund Hillary (I think he actually belonged in Antarctica. Sending Hillary to McMurdo was kind of like giving John Glen another joy ride into outer space).

Senators who sit in Washington, D.C. on science appropriation committees, science writers from the Wall Street Journal or Ann Cury from the Today Show have all found their way to McMurdo Station. They all have their jobs to do, but they make our jobs a bit more difficult.

There has been a new batch of DV’s in McMurdo this week and I’ve had to educate them one DV at a time.

Before I came to Antarctica, I attended safety lectures and procedural meetings. Hours of power point presentations and a class on trash. As I’ve mentioned before, throwing away garbage in Antarctica is no small task. It seems this batch of DVs bought the Idiots guide to the Arctic and Antarctica, only read so far as the first few words on the cover, and arrived in McMurdo, from the perspective of the dishwasher, as idiots.

It’s easy to spot a DV when they come up to my dish window. In some cases it’s easy because I recognize them from TV, but in every case it’s because these “great minded” people who run our country are completely dumbfounded when it comes to doing anything for themselves. Remember that time when President George Bush went to a grocery store and was amazed at the scanning technology? Imagine if Bush came to Antarctica and was amazed by the cold. These DVs are that dumb.

After finishing a meal in our Galley, the process to approach my dish window is simple. Scrape your food waste into the food waste bin. Throw your napkins in with the paper and then turn around to meet your dishwasher. Your tray stacks with the other trays, sort your silverware, put your cup in the rack and place your plate in the window. Say, “thank you,” and then get out of the way because you’re holding up traffic.

Possibly your legislator came to my window after his first meal in Antarctica and he handed me his entire tray without sorting the silverware, trash or cups. As he turned to walk away, I yelled, “Hey Buddy.”

The congressman was alarmed. I could tell when he turned around he was looking to see which “Buddy” was getting my wrath.

“You. Buddy. Come here.”

He pointed to his chest as if to say, “I’m Buddy. I’ve never been called ‘Buddy’ in my entire charmed life.”

I let him know that if he turned around he’d see some trashcans. They weren’t there for decorations. Then I pointed out the stacks of trays, dishes and containers for silverware. His job was to sort his dinnerware appropriately. My job was to clean these dishes for his next meal.

“Got it Buddy?” I said, “Now say ‘Thank you’ and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The next day he came to my dish window, studied his fork and put it with the other forks. He pondered his spoon, knife and tray as though he was looking at a complex puzzle, then amazingly put all the square pegs into the proper square holes.

However, instead of saying, “Thank you” and moving on he lingered in the dish window.

“Well,” he said, “How did I do?”

“You did great Buddy,” I replied. “Now thank you and good-bye.”

Wow, if you need to be congratulated for washing your dishes than we have bigger problems in Congress than I thought. And I thought our problems were big.

Antarctica (repeat)

History repeats itself. History repeats itself. If you want to look into the future, like Nostradamus, the Amazing Kreskin or Jesus all you have to do is look into the past. Because when you look into the past you will find that like Gilligan’s Island, history is a three hour tour of repeats. Just when you think you are going to get off the island, Gilligan fucks it up and history repeats itself.

When I took this job as a dishwasher, I wish I had a better understanding of Antarctica history. History Antarctica of understanding better a had I? Because looking towards the past, I could have seen my future.

The first person fired from his job in Antarctica was Henry Brett. He was on board the Discovery when it docked in McMurdo Bay (my fair city), in 1902. Robert F. Scott was the captain of the ship and Henry Brett worked in the galley. Brett was so dissatisfied with his job, he chose the option of being shackled to the main mast and getting whipped versus washing another dish.

Granted I only recently learned about Brett when I read the book “Antarctica Unveiled” and I thought Brett was a pussy. I figured here was a guy who pussed out on his job because he did not have what it takes to live in Antarctica. It shouldn’t matter if you came to Antarctica to wash dishes, captain a ship or shovel penguin shit—regardless of the reason, you’re in Antarctica so fucking buck up. All men are equal when the temperature is less than 20 degrees below zero.

Now, as I’ve read more about Antarctica history, I wish the hiring process would have been a little more forthcoming about the history of dishwashing in Antarctica. Forget the quest for the South Pole (won by Amundsen in 1911), the first flight over Antarctica (1928) or the first Ipod in Antarctica (2002), I should have learned more about the history of dishwashers in Antarctica.

If, during the hiring process, I was told about Brett I would have said, “Pussy.” But, if I was also told about Emile d’Anglade, as well, I might have reconsidered this dishwashing job.

During Ernest Shackleton’s quest to traverse Antarctica a man named d’Anglade was hired on to wash dishes aboard a ship called the Aurora. In 1915 d’Anglade might have thought “Hey look at me, I’m washing dishes in Antarctica!” As though the phrase “In Antarctica” was like a “get of jail free” card. He might have thought this because since history repeats itself, this is what I thought when I agreed to wash dishes “in Antarctica!”

At some point, when the Aurora became stuck in ice, Mr. Apostrophe d’Anglade realized he had signed up for a great adventure, but he had a shit job and he quit. No amount of persuasion, shackling, whipping or money could convince d’Anglade to resume his duties.

If, during the hiring process, I was told about two great Antarctic explorers who quit their dishwashing jobs, I might have thought, “Hmmm? Pussies or Realists?” Because in my 59th hour of my 60 hour workweek, I feel like I’m chained to the dish machine and there’s no boat; no plane; no motor car; not a single luxury that will rescue me from my misery.

Brett. d’Anglade. Me. Rinse; History Repeat.

Idiot's Guide

DVs are Distinguished Visitors to Antarctica. A DV can be a Senator or Congressman/woman to a bigwig from the National Science Foundation who controls the money for Antarctica research.

The DVs have arrived in McMurdo which means our food has improved and we had to “Daisy Pick” the trash around the station. Daisy Picking is like giving your house a good vacuuming before your mom arrives for a visit. In our case, we walked around McMurdo picking up loose bits of trash so the DVs didn’t see how messy the station was before they arrived.

Even though these DVs might oversee Antarctica and even know what’s best for McMurdo, one of them arrived carrying the book The Complete Idiots Guide to the Arctic and Antarctic.

It gives us such confidence to know it’s official: we are being run by people who get their advice from Idiots. Next time, they should just ask me.

Jack Asses

(a note on the bunk at Cape Evans listing the dead of Shackleton’s “Lost Men”)

There aren’t any paved roads in McMurdo, but there is a highway. Everyone in McMurdo calls the main hallway in building 155 Highway One. Building 155 houses the Galley, housing, the radio station, recreation, the company store, finance and human resources. This means that nearly everyone, at some point in the day, merges down the hallway called Highway One.

On one side of the hallway there are black and white photos depicting life in modern day McMurdo. “Modern” meaning anytime between 1955 and the present. There are pictures of Navy personnel manning the grills and scientists staring at beakers. On the north side of Highway One there is a large aerial photograph of McMurdo. You can tell who is an O.A.E. (Old Antarctic Explorer) vs a Newbie (M.E.) because an O.A.E often pulls M.E. aside and points to a single person in the photograph standing outside a building wearing a standard issue Big Red Coat and they say, “That’s me.”

So far I’ve had five O.A.E.’s pull M.E. aside and point to that lone sole in the photograph claiming to be that person. Admittedly, the first time I heard this I said, “Really.” The next four times I said, “Really.” And then walked away saying, “Jack Ass.”

That’s the thing about working in a small community; it’s a small community. It’s not like New York where you’re surrounded by Jack Asses at work and then go home and hang out with your friends. In McMurdo, you work with the Jack Asses and then they also sit next to you in the bar, at the Galley or cut in line in front of you at the company store.

There is a saying in Antarctica when people ask, “Are there any polar bears in McMurdo?” The answer is “Yes. There is one hiding behind every tree.” Hint: There aren’t any trees down here. I think it would be more apt to ask, “Are there any Jack Asses in McMurdo?” The answer would be “Yes. There is one hiding behind every snowflake.”

Now you might be thinking that if I really wanted to find a Jack Ass I’d only have to look in the mirror, and I’d say, “Maybe you should.” Not a great come back, but that’s all I’ve got—Jack Ass.

Consider this: How many people do you work with 8-10 hours a day and then say, at the end of the day, “Hey, let’s have dinner together, then go to the bar tonight…and every other night for the next six months?”

At last count, I have just under one thousand of these type of co-workers. People who say every Monday, “You look like you have a case of the Mondays.” People who say, “I’m living the dream.” People who say, “Well, it’s a harsh continent.” People who say “(Insert your least favorite cliché here.)”

Even though I’ve passed a psychological evaluation where I had to walk a tight rope between “Yes, I like being isolated at the bottom of the world” to “No, I’m not a loner who shoots people who drive them fucking nuts” I was beginning to question my sanity. Then, I read in the book “The Lost Men,” a story about Sir Ernest Shackleton’s men who were stranded near McMurdo at Hut Point, that they also dealt with a case of the Mondays.

In one instance, Mackintosh—the frost bitten one-eyed leader of the group—was so frustrated with Joyce that they only communicated with each other through handwritten notes. And, they were marooned at Hut Point in a closet-sized area where they slept right next to each other.

So, in this self-evaluation—Am I an asshole? Yes, but I’m following in the footsteps of true O.A.E.’s. What can I say? It’s a harsh continent.

Winter. Wintered. Wintering.

The season of Winter becomes a verb in Antarctica. The act of Wintering Over means staying in Antarctica through the months of total darkness, total isolation and toe to toe with less than 200 other people for six months. There are people who will Winter Over. Those that have Wintered Over and in July people will be Wintering Over. Swim; swam; swimming. Winter; wintered; wintering.

Wintering over in Antarctica requires a tough physical outer shell as well as an in depth psychological analysis. People who Winter Over are subjected to a more rigorous battery of tests from their medical doctors as well as a psychological examination. Once these people are cleared to Winter Over it’s like they get an authoritarian stamp stating you are an Antarctican Superior Specimen. Wintering Over means you’re no longer a tourist to Antarctica, but that you are following in the footsteps of early Antarctic explorers like Amundsen, Shackleton and Scott. The Antarctican Superior Specimen/Amundsen, Shackleton and Scott each have the same acronym proving the mettle of a Winter Over. And, if you don’t believe me, you should hear those who have Wintered Over talk, they are so proud to be an ASS. And, through the dish window in the Galley, I hear these ASSes telling their stories.

“I was here the Winter of ’04,” one ASS says. “That year we had a storm so severe it blew an empty 500 gallon gas tank through the air and it nearly crashed into another full tank of gas. Would have burned a hole in the ozone layer and destroyed the entire station if they would have collided.”

“Boring,” another ASS says. “The storm of ’09 was like the hurricane Katrina of McMurdo.”

“Were you here in ’03,” the first ASS says, “when a snow plow ran over a Weddell seal. Thought it was goddamn speed bump.”

“It was a speed bump,” the second ASS said, “I was the ASS who ran over that seal and it stopped me dead in my tracks. Not as dead as the seal, though.”

Behind the din of the dishwasher, I hear these stories and realize I want to be an ASS. The stories I had heard about Antarctica before coming here were from the original ASSes of Admundsen, Shackleton and Scott. These ASSes ate their dogs (tastes like chicken) and penguins (tastes like shit—cooked in cod liver oil).

During the Winter of 1915, the average temperature in the Cape Evans Hut was 23 degrees. During the Summer of 2009-2010, my dorm room gets so hot I have to open the window in order to keep from sleeping in sauna-like heat. During the Summer, I hear stories about the best parties of ’03, ’04 and ’09. The rager in Waste or the Carp Shop party of 2005. But these Winter Over ASSes tell stories of inclement weather, dead seals and things that go boom in the night. That’s the Antarctica I signed up for. I’ve decided to join the verbiage of Antarctica, become an ASS and Winter Over.

I’ve passed the tests and I’m pleased to announce that I am certifiably sane. Unlike certain members of my family.

Revolt of the Little People

It’s really not that complicated, but when it comes time to throw away your trash it gets complicated. In real life, meaning life North of the Equator, trash is a chore. Simply taking it from your kitchen to the garbage can outside and then to the curb every Thursday seems like a minor household task. In Antarctica, it can take 20 minutes to unload a trashcan the size of a five-gallon bucket.

Our dorm rooms are too small to have several trashcans lined up against the wall, so we throw all of our waste into one basket and when the trash is full then we take it down the hall and “sort our trash.” At the end of the hall there are rows of trashcans with labels like paper towels, glass, aluminum, Non-R (Non-Recyclable), Biowaste, Food Waste or Plastic. At this wall we reach into our trashcan and pull out each piece of trash, one by one, and throw them into their appropriate receptacle. Some things like an aluminum can are obvious other pieces of trash take time. Like Q-Tips? It could be biowaste if it was used to clean your ear, but what if it was used to clean your computer screen? Does it belong in plastics if the tube is plastic or paper towels if the tube is made of paper? Paper towels are the bottom of the recyclable paper chain and will just get burned, so I throw Q-tips with the towels. But what if a towel is covered lightly in food? Food waste or Paper Towels? It all depends if the food will spoil. Spoiled food goes into food waste.

As we throw away our trash it’s like doing a forensic analysis of the last few weeks of our lives. Letters from home, condoms, tampons and Kleenexes, it’s our diary of life in Antarctica. And since it’s our trash, time consuming and, sometimes, disgusting, we all sort our own trash.

Well, most of us do.

One of my friends is a janitor and sometimes it’s his/her job to clean the offices of the people who run McMurdo Station. Even though one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, the janitor does not get pleasure from sorting the trash of one our station bigwigs. Every desk in this office has its own trashcan, and while most people do sort their own trash, the Dolly Parton of our station (the one with the biggest wig) thinks it’s the janitor’s responsibility to sort thier trash.

Piece by piece s/he has to decide if the Kleenex was used because Dolly has a cold—therefore biowaste or if Dolly used the Kleenex as a napkin for food waste. Is it pizza sauce or blood? Is that a fettuccini alfredo or boogers, s/he places it in biohazard just to be safe.

Like the Bud Light commercial, the janitor first approached the situation by going too light. S/he would simply pretend there was not a trashcan in Dolly’s office. After a few days of missing trash pick up, Dolly then set the garbage in the middle of the room as if to say, “You’re my bitch—sort my trash.”

The next time I saw the janitor, I asked about the trash and s/he said, “I went heavy.” Before taking out Dolly’s trash, s/he cleaned the bathroom. There were pubic hairs on the urinal and brown splatters on the toilet. But with an eye for detail and a penchant for cleanliness, the janitor did his/her job. When s/he got to Dolly’s office, s/he noticed the keyboard on Dolly’s desk and computer were dirty. Dirt is not acceptable to a janitor. This is the reason s/he is in Antarctica. With the rag covered in Lysol and pubic hair from the bathroom, the janitor wiped Dolly’s desk and keyboard clean. And, for the first time, sorted another man’s trash as though it were a treasure.

Merry Dish-mas

Robert Scott didn’t get one when he made it to the South Pole. Ernest Shackleton didn’t get one after he helped to rescue his crew of the Endurance. Roald Amundsen was met with silence when he was the first person to reach the South Pole. Scientists who discover new Antarctican species may get a page or paragraph in a science journal, but they don’t get one either.

McMurdo Station is like a concentrated community with experts in plumbing, mechanics, electricity, water, waste, computers and carpenters. They work in shifts 24-hours a day keeping the motors running and the electricity humming, but they don’t get one either.

Nope, the only group of people who get one for doing their job are the kitchen staff. For Thanksgiving and Christmas the entire community gives us a round of applause for doing our job.

Everyone is so excited for Christmas. It doesn’t matter if you’re Jewish, Muslim Agnostic or an Atheist nearly the entire community is giddy with the non-denominational Antarctican Holiday Greeting, “Happy Two Days Off.”

This greeting makes me realize why advertisers are taking the Christ out of Christmas and having “Holiday Sales” instead of “Christmas Specials.” Just like with Thanksgiving, the dishwashers are not getting two days off in a row. The sentiment is meaningless.

We have been given an extra day off, but in Antarctica this is like giving us a special pass to solitary confinement. Most of the outdoor activities in McMurdo require you to travel with a buddy. With all of my buddies at work, I’m starting a new holiday tradition called “Laundry.”

I suppose this makes more sense to me, though, than taking the Christ out of Christmas. Even though some people call this time of the year “Cashmus,” I know if there is one thing Jesus would like for all of us to do to celebrate his birthday, it would be a good sale at Wal Mart. Jesus Saves.

Just like you folks up in the Northern Hemisphere know it’s Christmas time by the influx of people at the malls, Toys R Us and kitchy gift shops a dishwasher knows it’s Christmas time by the influx of pots and pans in the dish room. The silver bells aren’t ringing, but the silver pots and pans are piling up.

Even though I’m starting to look around McMurdo to see who I have to crucify in order to get two days off in a row, one thing is getting me through the baked on apples and turkey drippings that seem impossible to clean and that’s the sound of applause.

When everyone finishes their Christmas dinner, dressed in their holiday finest apparel, someone will stand up and say, “Can I have your attention?” It’s a rhetorical question because everyone will give this person their attention. They will give thanks to those who prepared the food and washed the dishes. They won’t be thanking God, they will give thanks to the cooks. Then someone will give a speech about the importance of the dishwasher and everyone will applaud. Job well done.

I’m just hoping that for Christmas, I don’t hear what I heard for the Thanksgiving dinner. I’m not an actor or a movie star, but as some people gave the dishwashers a standing ovation the hairs on my waterlogged arm stood on end. Until I heard the person with the loudest applause say, “I’m clapping because I don’t have their job.”

I am the Ice Man

Maybe there is something to global warming, today we ran out of ice in Antarctica. At first I thought my boss was sending me on a Snipe Hunt when she said, “We need you to find some ice.” But she was telling the truth. I immediately regretted saying, “How about opening the fucking door?”

In what might seem like the least used piece of equipment in Antarctica, there are actually several ice machines scattered throughout McMurdo Station. Each of the bars has an ice machine to keep our cocktails cold, there are ice machines in the dorms and the kitchen has one, too. Or, for the time being, the kitchen had one, too. The guy who I always equated with being the Maytag Repairman of McMurdo because he seemed to have the easiest job in Antarctica as the “Refrigerator Repairman,” was actually busy today. The impossible task he must master: How to make ice in Antarctica.

As he was busy trying to figure out this Gordian Knot of complexity, I was given two five gallon buckets and told to return with ice. At first I suggested just filling up the buckets with water, setting them outside and waiting 30 minutes, but the cooks were not impressed with this college-boy type ingenuity. It was almost like I was suggesting I could also turn water into wine just by placing it on the Galley’s back deck.

“We don’t need Bill Nye the Science Guy,” one of them said. “We need ice.”

I grabbed my coat, gloves, boots, hat, facemask, goggles and two five gallon buckets and went on the hunt for ice. I’m kind of a rookie down here and to me it seemed like ice was everywhere. There was ice on the road and ice on the building. I slipped on ice looking for ice and ice was running through my veins as I looked for ice.

The bars aren’t open during the day time so I could not order ice on the rocks at one of our two bars—Gallagher’s or Southern Exposure. I saw someone leaving one of the Uppercase Dorms and I asked them, “Do you know where I can get ice?”

“Are you kidding?”

“I don’t know?” I said, “My boss wants ice?”

“You know you’re in Antarctica. Ice is everywhere.”

“Listen,” I said through the muffle of my mask. “I don’t need a lesson in irony, I just need ice.”

“Have you ever noticed that when the New Zealanders talk about ice it sounds like they’re saying ‘ass.’ I went to a science lecture and one of the New Zealand scientists is studying the Ice Cracks of Antarctica. That was a funny lecture.”

“Yeah, I was at that lecture and noticed the same thing. I felt like asking him, ‘When you drill in the ass, how big is the hole?’”

Then we just stood on the deck of this dorm. I could see Mt. Discovery covered in snow and ice across the frozen ocean. We were the only two people or living creatures I could see outside. It hurt to breathe. As a dishwasher this was the first time in my job where I was sent on a task that took me outside. I came to Antarctica for an experience and I’m an experienced dishwasher. I came; I saw; I cleaned.

“In this building, down the hall and on the right there is an ice machine,” he said.

I returned to the Galley like a conquering hero of Antarctica. I found ice.