This Aintarctica

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.