This Aintarctica

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.