Little Bear handed his helper 12 sticks of dynamite, "Be careful," Little Bear said, "Dynamite is stable, but you can never be too careful."
On the way to pick up the dynamite at a shed, built into a bunker, in the side of a hill, Little Bear liked to tell his new helper about the times dynamite blew up prematurely. About his friends who lost their fingers, hands or lives. Little Bear said there really wasn't any need to worry about dynamite these days, because it was stable. Explosive, yes, but stable.
"You've probably seen TV footage of bomb squads dismantling a farmer's unstable dynamite supply," Little Bear said. "Maybe that's why you keep asking so many questions about dying. Maybe that's why you're afraid of dynamite. Respect that fear, but don't worry about the fear. Dynamite is stable."
Little Bear's helper didn't remember seeing bomb squads on TV, in a cornfield or tobacco farm. In fact, his helper wasn't too afraid of dynamite until Little Bear said, "The problem with those farmers is they keep their dynamite in unsafe conditions. It gets too hot in the shed. BOOM. It gets too cold in the shed. BOOM."
After driving far enough away from town so all the explosives in all of Antarctica could blow up and kill only the people near all of these explosives, we arrived at the shed containing all of the dynamite in Antarctica.
On my day off, I was Little Bear's helper.
As I stepped out of the truck, the thermometer on my jacket said--no, the thermometer screamed--"Minus 20." The wind blew like it was created from all of the explosions Little Bear had ever set off.
Outside, walking up to the white shed, Little Bear said, "Do you know why they call me Little Bear? It's not what you think. It's not because I'm short, fat and hairy. You'll get a kick out of this..."
Before he started this story, Little Bear unlocked the metal door that separated us from the dynamite and becoming a blurb on Fox TV, "Two residents of Antarctica were killed when a dynamite shed exploded on the icy continent," one commentator might have said. While another quipped, "Well, I certainly hope they enjoyed the warmth of the explosion, before they were vaporized."
The wind, the cold, my attention all seemed to get sucked into this little warehouse containing boxes and boxes of dynamite. Like those scenes on TV I had never seen, it seemed to get too cold in this shed. It was freezing. It was like BOOM.
"Take these," Little Bear said, handing me 12 sticks of dynamite.
What's he thinking, I thought. I'm a dishwasher, not a demolition expert. If he had handed me three dirty bowls, four food encrusted plates and five pieces of random cutlery, I would have known exactly what do. I would have cleaned and cleaned and scrubbed times 12. But a dozen sticks of dynamite? What was I supposed to do with those? Add bleach? Use soap?
"Don't just stand there," Little Bear said. "Take the dynamite to the truck."
Very carefully I walked to the truck. The snow tried to make me slide. The wind tried to carry me to a country to enlist as a suicide bomber.
The truck was too tall to climb comfortably into while holding a box of dynamite. I lifted one foot onto the trailer hitch and hoisted myself up with one hand on the tailgate as the other hand held tightly around the box of dynamite.
This wasn't a normal truck with your average tailgate. And I wasn't just a guy trying to throw in a load of leaves to take to the dump. The tailgate was built up with plywood and 2x4's it was the kind of truck a farmer would use to take his cows to a field and then blow them up with dynamite.
Once I hoisted myself onto the back of the truck and saw the plywood doors wouldn't open because they were frozen shut, I reached over this wall of wood and tried to gently place the dynamite in the back of the truck.
The wall was too high. The wall is too high. The wall is actively moving too a height greater than I can reach.
My arms, fully extended, were six inches shorter than the wall of wood and the box of explosives. I dropped the 12 sticks of dynamite six inches. I kept my eyes open staring at this box.
If it was a stable box of dynamite, I wanted to watch it land in the snow in the back of this truck in minus 20 degree weather. If it was too cold, if it was like BOOM, I wanted to watch it explode. Like the times I blew up ant hills with Black Cat firecrackers, I didn't blink. I watched ants fly through the air. Ant hills destroyed. Sometimes I'd stand so close ants would land on my arms or in my hair. If this box explodes I wanted to see the spark, feel the heat.
Would the truck blow up the shed and the shed blow up the mountain? Would pieces of the little, fat, hairy man and myself make it to McMurdo? Would people have my body parts on their arms the way I was sometimes covered in red ants?
The box rocked when it hit the snow. The wind exploded and the day was still black because the sun is traveling north. Nothing happened. I blinked.
Little Bear was sitting in the cab of the truck. He wasn't happy with his little helper.
"What took you so long?"
"I got lost."
"More like you lost it," Little Bear said. "While you were dilly dallying I got the blasting cord and the blasting caps."
He put the farmer's truck loaded with explosives into gear, and we started to head to the side of the mountain we were going to blow up.
"These blasting caps are the real danger. You've got to remember to always keep your blasting caps and your cord and your dynamite separate until it's time to detonate." He said this tapping the metal box holding the blasting caps that rode between us in the front of the truck. The blasting cord was wrapped around a wooden spool resting by my feet. Parts of the cord snaked up to the seat and touched the metal box holding the blasting caps.
"I was on this job once," Little Bear said, "It was in the woods you see and I had to blow up this tree. You'll get a kick out of this story. We didn't have a chain saw big enough to cut down this huge tree, but we did have explosives. So I planted some dynamite around the base of the tree, but didn't think to look up in the tree....."
He stopped talking and slammed on the brakes. The truck slid sideways in the snow. Little Bear reached down and grabbed the blasting cord that was touching the metal box holding the blasting caps.
"OH SHIT THESE SHOULD NEVER TOUCH---RUN," Little Bear reached for his door handle.
I was like the Ranger in the Marty Robbins song, "Big Iron." Before Little Bear even cleared leather, before he even reached for his door handle, I had my door drawn open and the swiftness of this little helper is still talked about today. There was 40 feet between us before I stopped running.
Forty feet away I dove into the snow and looked through the crook in my armpit to watch the truck explode.
The Following is Based On Actual Events Involving McMurdo Residents:
Now folks, there seems to be some questions in the galley about the Hot Fudge. As your dishwasher I know 3 out of 7 cereal bowls are actually used for ice cream instead of oatmeal and/or soup.
For reasons unknown, nothing seems to warm up Antarctic workers like a bowl of Frosty Boy (Often Licked. Never Beaten) ice cream. Maybe it's because you miss the flavor of Dairy Queen ice cream, or maybe it's so cold outside ice cream actually warms your body from the inside out.
I don't know; I just wash the bowls.
Lately, though, a few complaints have been lodged because our Hot Fudge is not quite "Hot" enough for you fudge lovers. Let me make it clear to you I know the Hot Fudge is not Hot. The Hot Fudge is actually Room Temperature Fudge. Luke Warm Fudge. Possibly, even, Tepid Fudge.
In fact, it would really make my job easier if, when dispensing said ice cream topping, you simply referred to it as "Fudge" instead of "Hot Fudge" because this fudge we've got will not ever get hot.
See, the problem is the crock pot. The crock pot, not myself (the dishwasher), is to blame. The crock pot gets the Fudge hot turning it into Hot Fudge. At points in the warming process the Fudge is indeed Hot Fudge, but this moment is short lived because the crock pot doesn't know when to stop and it turns the Hot Fudge into a crystallized drudged.
The burnt on, tar-like substance the Hot Fudge metamorphoses into on the side of its 10-inch in diameter, 14-inch deep pot is impossible to clean. Plus the smell of the over cooked Fudge makes the galley stink. Plus, we can't get another crock pot until August, regardless of your suggestion, Chad, one will not be air dropped to Antarctica.
To recap: We have Fudge. It's just not hot. When Hot Fudge touches your ice cream, it becomes Cold Fudge. Think positive: we've eliminated that step. If you insist on Hot Fudge. Take The Fudge and stick it in the microwave. Then you've got Hot Fudge. But, if you want us to make your Hot Fudge--hot, we will quickly run out of Fudge, because you insisted it be Hot. There is limited supply of Fudge. If we make it Hot, it gets burnt, and by June instead of having Hot Fudge there will be Not Fudge. Not Hot Fudge, or Not Cold Fudge or any Fudge.
Right now you've got Fudge. A whole pot of Fudge. It's just not Hot Fudge.
One more thing, and don't take this as any more than a little observation from your dishwasher, but many of you in the community are what you might call, "Big Boned."
Might I suggest, the Hot Tofu.
I don't know why I'm lazy, it's just part of my nature. So, when Penny asked if I wanted to go on a hike with her and Kate and Erika I said, "No."
Kate and Erika are two cooks on the morning shift in the Galley where I work. Aside from Penny, these may be two of the 198 people I see on station more than myself.
The first few days of living in Antarctica, I walked out to Hut Point as though it was the nearest 7-11, gas station or quickie mart. Hut Point held something which was convenient, accessible and what I wanted in Antarctica: History. Hut Point simply sold History.
This was the place where Robert Scott and Ernest Shackleton first attempted a journey to the South Pole. Their hut, from 1902, still stands on this spot. Honestly, though, in 2003, I was tired of 1902. I have hiked to Hut Point as often as you'd check your mail, walk around your block. This is the spot where one member of the Scott/Shackleton team died after falling down a hill. Hut Point had saved the lives of Shackelton's Aurora Expedition and now it was simply a trip to the convenient store for me.
"No," I said. "I don't want to go." Also, today, on Sunday, it was my day off. Since arriving in Antarctica, I haven't been sick, and if there was ever a place to get "a cold" this was it. Nearly everyone I know or work with has called in sick. Except me, until today.
Snot ran out of my nose like I had just won the booger's lottery. My voice sounded like several gravel trucks were dumping their load in my throat. For some reason, maybe it was the look from Kate, Erika and Penny, I agreed to hike.
Goggles. Gloves. Give me a minute, where's my gator? Parka. Hat. Extra Socks. Let's hike. Finally, I grabbed my pager and said, "Let's go."
It seems weird to carry a pager as a dishwasher in Antarctica. As though I'm going to get beeped with a message stating, "STAT. DISHWASHER EMERGENCY. POTS AND PANS PILING UP. REPORT TO KITCHEN IMMEDIATELY." But, there it is, a pager in my pocket, because I'm a member of the Mass Casualty Incident (MCI) team. Basically, when it all hits the fan, I've been chosen to coordinate, with the fire department, an early ambulance response crew.
Penny thinks I'm a geek to carry my pager to Hut Point. I think Penny is jealous, because her job in an MCI is just to "save lives" not to coordinate ambulances. She isn't required to carry a pager. I'm a super strong dishwasher. Mr. Clean winces in my presence.
At the beginning of the hike to Hut Point, the weather was beautiful. About five degrees Fahrenheit and clear to White Island. Then, the pager in my pocket sounded an alarm. I pulled it out, not knowing if a lot of people were dead from frostbite or just a few, and the pager tells me McMurdo has just entered a Condition II. In other words, "The weather sucks. Go home."
Instead, we kept hiking to Hut Point. According to the corporate rules of Raytheon, we should have turned around and returned to our dorms. Safety is stressed in this town right up to and just beyond the point of allowing us to have fun.
By the time we got to Hut Point, the wind was blowing so hard, we couldn't see McMurdo only 1/4 mile away. Then again, we couldn't see 20 feet in front of us. But, on the hill of Hut Point, by the cross memorializing the death of a sailor named "Vince" who died near this spot in 1902 from getting blown off the cliff, all four of us marveled in the strength of the wind.
Erika, the smallest in our group, could lean against the wind, and down the hill looking like a ski jumper in the Olympics. In fact, even tipping the scales at 164, I could jump off the cliff and get blown back a foot or two from where I had originally stood.
Penny leaned backwards down the hill like she was sleeping on a down filled bed full of air instead of feathers and Kate was able to jump into the wind and fly softly to the bottom of the hill.
Fly. Do you hear me? We flew.
I unzipped my parka, opening it up like a sail, and leaped from the top of Hut Point. Maybe it looked clumsy, but it felt like I was Orville or Wilbur Wright steering the Flyer for the first time at Kitty Hawk. It felt like every dream I had ever had about flying came to a reality.
What's more is Erika, topping the scales at barely 80lbs, if that, floated in the wind like she was immune to gravity. Next Kate could sail in the wind. Penny drifted and I cascaded down the hill.
For over an hour we jumped into the wind, with our coats and minds open yelling, "I can fly. I can fly." Until the weather became so nasty we thought, "I can die. I can die."
Holding each other so we wouldn't get separated on the hike home, we didn't say a word. One, for fear of getting lost and two, from being deep in thought, because we all felt like we had just changed the laws of physics.
We all got home, crashed in Erika's room and talked about our experience, like you'd talk about seeing god.
We didn't have cameras and we were glad we didn't, because if someone was taking photos, they would have denied themselves those stolen picturing taking moments from flying. Besides, Penny was able to capture this hike in her taping art project.
Then the phone rang, and it was our friend Jordan telling us to go outside and look at the stars. We put on our shoes, went outside and looked up in the sky, towards the Scorpion constellation where a green laser beam was shooting through the clouds, the wind and the cold. This beam of light was a scientific experiment testing the ozone layer from the bottom of the world.
Behind me, walking towards one of the dorms, a person in their red parka, oblivious to the green laser beam, carried a floor lamp in one hand to their dorm. In their other hand they held a bright yellow sign that said, "Caution: Wet Floor."
I don't know what this means? What is ordinary? This is Antarctica.