This Aintarctica

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 All of the food we eat here is either powdered, frozen or outdated.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.