It was a white Christmas in Antarctica, Duh.
Really though, I hate to admit we’ve had it easy down here. The last few weeks, at times, it’s been warmer in McMurdo than it has in Salt Lake City. Starting on Christmas, though, it was like Antarctica delivered on the tour package we were promised when we signed up for this gig.
It snowed on the same day penguins came marching up to town. The snow blew sideways and the penguins waddled and looked like they would tip over in the same direction the snow was blowing. The Coast Guard ice breaker, The Polar Star, pulled up to our ice pier the next day.
Antarctica is a desert. This is the first time it’s snowed since I’ve been here and it’s also the first time, this year, I’ve seen a penguin and the Polar Star.
There is a large iceberg (the size of Connecticut—and the largest floating object in the world) stuck on our island, it is blocking the entrance to us and the penguin rookery at Cape Royds. This means the ice breaker had to break nearly 80 miles of ice to reach McMurdo and that these penguins walked a distance of three complete marathons so I could take their photo.
What I thought was interesting about my penguin photo was my digital camera didn’t know what to do with a penguin. It’s like the folks at Canon didn’t program a "Penguin" setting on their camera. The camera saw the snow, the buildings and sky. The Canon also saw the outline of Ob Hill and then the camera kind of went, “What the hell is that black and white #@$&! bird?” Belch.
The photo looks faked. It’s like a Photo Shop novice student was running late on his class project and turned in an “F” to the question: Take this photo of a small town in Antarctica and then take this image of a penguin at the San Diego Zoo and make it appear like the penguin is actually in Antarctica.
There is a place on the company computer system called “The I Drive” where people post their photos for the community to see. What I see is that digital photography isn’t doing justice to Antarctica. There are so many shades of white most digital cameras see only a complete hue of blue. Then there are time you look at photo on the little screen of your digital camera and think there is absolutely no way it’s that beautiful here. When you take your eyes away from the camera, it’s apparent you need a picture on your camera to put the thousand words in your head.
On Christmas day I went camping with a group of friends. We dressed up in Santa Claus outfits and ran around in the snow saying “Ho.” For a long time all we said was “Ho.” We drank ho coffee, ho chocolate and the hippie sipped herbal green ho.
I fell asleep in an igloo. Inside an igloo there are more shades of white than an Eskimo has a word for. I took a photo and it was blue. The walls, ceiling, floor and sunlight were white but the camera saw blue.
The camera has a tilting screen so I held the camera at floor level and took a photo of the view from my igloo. Previewing this photo on the two inch screen sitting in the igloo was one of those moments, one of those, I'm really in Antarctica moments. That photo put these words into my mouth.
The view from the entrance was white and when I shut my eyes it wasn’t dark it was white. This was Christmas in Antarctica 2004. I don't think Christmas can get any whiter.
Oh, and Happy New Year.
My father had the most amazing tool in his toolbox. This tool could fix any and every thing. It wasn’t a screwdriver, because a screwdriver is only good for Phillips and Flatheads. A ratchet set from bolts to nuts is good for little more than tightening bike tires and scraping knuckles. That’s what my dad told me about tools. Wrenches will only lead to more work and he could never see himself using a saw. No. There was no need for Craftsman, DeWalt, Makita, Black and/or Decker in our home. The one and only tool sitting in the bottom of my dad’s red toolbox that fixed everything from plumbing to our AMC Hornet was a thin piece of plastic called, “A Mastercard.”
The day my dad taught me everything he knew about home repair he said, “Now son,” when our washing machine had sprung a leak, “this is called ‘the Emergency Tool.’ All you need is this Mastercard and the yellow pages and consider whatever that is broken in our home fixed. I’ll call the plumber and while he repairs the washing machine, we’ll sit on cannons at Civil War battlefields.” Then we swam out of the basement and sat on heavy artillery right on the same spot where Lincoln gave the Gettysburg address.
When we returned home from the small Pennsylvania town that was the turning point of the Civil War, my dad reached into his toolbox and three days later we had new carpet. I was totally mesmerized by the power of my father and his ability to fix anything. Years later, I can also say, I’m very, very in debt because of all the skills my father taught me about home repairs.
Last week as I was walking down Highway One—the busiest hallway in town because it leads to the galley and is also the place where Recreation Happenings are posted—I saw a sign that said, “Plumbing 101—Sign Up.” Two volunteers from our plumbing department had volunteered their time to teach six people the bare basics skills needed to fix sinks, toilets and water heaters in their homes.
Seeing that my friends Nicole, Tanya, Alyssa, Linda and Jules had signed up to take the class, I signed my name into the sixth slot. If you noticed one of these things is not like the other, I sure didn’t until I showed up for the first day of plumbing class.
“Now girls,” David the plumbing instructor said, “today we’re going to weld.”
“Excuse me,” I kind of squeaked, “I’m not a girl.”
“Right. Yeah. Um. Most people, everyone, who takes this class is a girl. Oh, I’m sorry. Were you adopted into a home without a father?”
The first day of class we welded two pipes together using a “sweat weld” and we knew our pipes were tight if David said, “Okay girls you have good penetration.”
Then we’d giggle like schoolgirls who just learned in science class about the little titmouse.
The second day of class we took apart a toilet. From the sealant around the base of the toilet to the ball cock, we turned the pooper into a disassembled pile of parts and then pooed, I mean “put” them back together again.
“Did he say ‘ball cock’”? Alyssa (who had very good penetration the day before) whispered to me.
“Girls,” David commanded, “Quit laughing and hold the ball cock straight while I apply this lubricant.”
Alyssa tried not to laugh when I reminded David I wasn’t a girl, but she had her arms elbow deep in ball cocks and couldn’t keep the ball, the cock or her face straight.
During the four days of classes, I took apart two faucets, one toilet and learned how to clean out a water heater. In the four days of classes, David called me a girl about as many times as it takes to turn a pipe wrench anti-clock wise around an elbow joint at the base of a sink.
On the final day of class after dismantling a Delta and Chicago faucet, replacing rings, rubbers and plungers in this once mysterious object that magically dispensed water in my hand with the turn of a knob or the help of a credit card, we cleaned up our work station and gathered around our teacher.
“You are my number one class.” David said, “everyone in here gets an A Plus. You girls—and guy—should apply to be my plumber assistants next year.”
And when David said “guy,” when he recognized I wasn’t an orphaned fatherless child, but a man with a future in plumbing I took my bad, bad credit card, ripped it up and cried like a little girl.
Put a Freeze on Injuries. Be Safe. Safety is No Accident. Stop Injuries Ice Cold. Think Safety. Safety Begins with You. Safety—like a Penguin—is Black and White.
Sometimes, it seems, in Antarctica “Safety” is a four-lettered word. Everyday there is a safety meeting. One week in our weekly or daily safety meeting we’ll learn how to climb a ladder and properly cut open a box. The next week or day we’ll be shown the safest way to open a box with a knife and why you should be safe while climbing a ladder.
There are dangers to living in Antarctica and it is important to be safe. I know this. I live this. I’ve been safety when safety wasn’t cool. When I was in the first grade there was a contest in my elementary school, something like the “So You Want to Grow Up and Be a Pain in the Ass (Safety Manager)” award. I entered the contest with a picture of a lamb covered in cotton balls and the lamb said, “Don’t be Baaaaaaad be Saaaafe.”
Many years after winning first prize and a bag of bike reflectors with the Safety Lamb, I went on to an illustrious career with the Navy in their Department of Environment, Health and Safety. Read that: Safety. Between the cotton balls (on the lamb) and being part of Team America—Go Navy, you’d think safety was my middle name.
Well, it’s not. My middle name is “Doug.” As in, I don’t dig Safety in Antarctica. A little safety goes a long way. A shit load of safety just stinks. The only time our safety training was helpful was the day we learned how to do the Heimlich maneuver. With all of the safety we’ve had crammed down our throats, it was great Safety finally taught us a way to purge our bodies of the unwanted Safety blockage.
And then, I was asked to give the daily safety topic. If someone is seen as an expert in one area, then they are assigned that safety topic for the day or week.
Although I am now working in Central Supply, the fact I hold the record for washing 14 straight months of dishes is a badge of honor that haunts me every day. The topic my boss assigned to me for the next day’s safety meeting was Food Safety.
“Oh I get it,” I said thoroughly not amused, “It’s because I was a dishwasher for 14 months.”
The next morning my food safety lecture was met with awe and amazement. Finally here was a safety meeting McMurdo could really run with. I made buttons and badges and a sign for the refrigerator promoting myself with the title of Food Safety Manager for Central Supply.
Not since I’d won my first grade safety contest had I felt so safety minded. Maybe I could win a bag of reflectors if only more people new about my Food Safety Program.
I wrote a letter to our safety manager:
Mike
Today I was asked to conduct our morning safety meeting because the topic was "Food Safety." And, with fourteen months of kitchen/dishwashing experience, they knew the expert in their midst was me.
The biggest safety hazard I discovered in our work area was the refrigerator and unlabeled food. Some food items could have been in there three minutes or three years, it was difficult to say because very few items were labeled.
That's why I deemed myself the Food Safety Manager of Central Supply, and I've implemented the program called “Food Unlabeled Can Kill Everyone—Responsibility.” This very sign is now posted on our refrigerator to remind us all to label our food before sticking it in the refrigerator. And, every Saturday, as the Food Safety Manager, I will clean out all un-dated, expired or unlabeled food.
Then I got to thinking, since this program works so well in my work center (Supply), just think what it could do for the community if implemented in all work areas with a refrigerator because the refrigerator is a bacterial bathhouse for food borne illness.
If the idea can get any better, it does! It even comes with a catchy slogan. As the Food Unlabeled Can Kill Everyone—Responsibility! campaign sweeps McMurdo, just think of the T-shirts, stickers and awards you could present (first by giving me proper Safety Credit and an Atta Boy for a "Far Exceeds" expectations.).
One slogan could be
Food Unlabeled Can Kill Everyone--Responsibility!
Don't be a F.U.C.K.E.R.
Or
I'm Not a F.U.C.K.E.R.
How about you?
There could be the F.U.C.K.E.R. of the month club. Or for the workstation who contributes the most, they could be the biggest and best F.U.C.K.E.R'S on station.
Well, I sure don't see any weak points to my new safety program. Let me know when you'd like me to start visiting other work sites to promote Food Safety.
Thanks
Phil Jacobsen
F.U.C.K.E.R. Manager
After this letter was sent to Safety, our safety manager, well, ignored my suggestions. But that couldn’t stop the steam train called F.U.C.K.E.R. Soon workstations all over McMurdo were talking about being a F.U.C.K.E.R. It was even getting to the point where I heard people around station refer to my safety program in casual conversation.
“Did you hear what Steve did today?”
“Yes. He’s such a F.U.C.K.E.R.”
I couldn’t believe I was hearing about MY food program at one of the three bars on station. The next day when I saw Steve I said, “Thanks for being a F.U.C.K.E.R.”
Steve said, “No problem, asshole.” Boy that Steve, he may label his food, but he can be a real jerk.
On Saturday, as Food Safety Manager, I went through the refrigerator and started throwing away the old food and labeling all of the unlabeled food with sticker reminding people that food borne illnesses can kill so, “Don’t be a F.U.C.K.E.R. and label your food.”
There was a container with blueberries whose owner was a F.U.C.K.E.R. and also two sandwiches that I banded together with masking tape and reminded in black Sharpie about labeling their food.
By Monday not one single person had reported to the hospital regarding food poisoning, but man, oh, man was someone sick of the F.U.C.K.E.R. program.
Apparently after leaving work on Saturday, my boss’s boss, was in the Central Supply building meeting with my boss’s boss’s boss. And all of their bosses were also in the same meeting. At the end of the meeting the Big Cheese went to the refrigerator to get his sandwiches and he found out that even though everyone called him, “The Boss,” and no one stole his cheese, one guy in Central Supply called him a “F.U.C.K.E.R.”
After several meetings on Monday, I’m happy to say I still have a job, but the F.U.C.K.E.R. program in McMurdo (safety be damned) has met its demise.
I’m still the Food Safety Manager and I’ve learned a valuable lesson. The problem was the sandwiches weren’t in a container, like the blueberries, and instead of leaving the sandwiches in the refrigerator I should have tossed those unlabeled sandwiches immediately.
The F.U.C.K.E.R. program is over, but safety isn’t dead on my watch. With much aplomb McMurdo is already thrilled and talking about the newest food safety program: Containers Unlabeled Now Tossed.
What do we do to pass the time down here?
There’s almost something childish or cartoonish about living in Antarctica.
Because the list of things available for fun or recreation in Antarctica begins with the words “There isn’t” we often find ourselves creating and participating in odd events. There isn’t a movie theater or a park. There isn’t a flower or blade of grass. There isn’t warmth, lakes or boats. There isn’t a road for a road trip and there isn’t a convenient store selling lottery tickets.
What there is, however, is a cast of characters. From day to day we get by with a little help from our friends. And, in Antarctica, the friends you meet are like the number three—They’re odd. We’re odd. Sometimes I’m even three.
This weekend there was a bike race around the town. All participants were encouraged to dress up and then race their lungs into a hypothermic high with the temperature hovering around 25 degrees.
There were two categories of participants—Men and Women. There also should have been one more category for “Other.” Martha as an avid mountain biker had been looking forward to race day for weeks but she was nearly alone in the Women’s Category. Only one other person signed up to race against Martha. There were only two women and 12 available bikes. The Men’s Category had filled up quickly, but there was a way to join the festivities. It was possible to ride in the race—as a woman.
Two men showed up ready, willing, lipsticked and cross dressed to impress. The “Other” category was born and I joined up.
Sandwich was wearing a multi-layered puffy dress then in the blink of a pink eye I was Phyllis. The fifth “woman” to join the race.
Halfway through the race, right when I was about to pass Martha as we were climbing the steepest hill, called the “Goat Path,” my pink dress became stuck in the bike tire.
I would have never dreamed I’d write a sentence that said, “my dress became stuck in the bike tire” but that’s how I lost the race.
Discovering I was having a Janet Jackson-esque wardrobe malfunction, my testosterone kicked in and I wanted to win this women’s race. I whooped my Leatherman off of my curvy hips, positioned the blade of the knife to quickly cut the fabric from the brake shoe. I wanted to make confetti out of the taffeta.
Then Phyllis stepped in. From the inner-depths and outskirts of my being, the woman that I was pretending to be took the knife and resheathed it on my belt, “Don’t rip the fabric,” Phyllis said, “It’s only a race and Sandwich knows how to Thai kick box.” Phil quickly thanked Phyllis for pointing out it was better to lose a race to a couple of girls and men dressed like La Cage Aux Folles than to get his assed kicked by a Thai Boxing girl who finds out her dress was sliced and diced on the Goat Path.
Yes, I came in fifth place in the Women’s Race.
After the race I jumped inside the hula hoop and said, “my brane is imporetanet to me so i protekt it with an helmet and then my head dos not hurt when I fall and I also hurt less when peoples throw rocks at my head.”
I forgot people had cameras.
If my shoes could talk they would tell the story about an ill-prepared boy heading to Antarctica two years ago.
These Montrail boots were sitting on a shelf in a Salt Lake City sporting goods store on one fine summer day and the next they were on some feet heading to Antarctica.
The day I bought these boots I told the hippie granola shoe clerk I needed shoes that were waterproof and rough. Shoes that could withstand the cold, be sure footed on ice and yet comfortable enough to wear inside. He asked why, and I told him I was leaving for Antarctica the next day
He didn’t believe it. He said, “Most people, if they were leaving for Antarctica, would have purchased their shoes, to break them in, a lot sooner than the day before they were leaving to go up to Antarctica.”
“First off,” I said to the geographically ignorant clerk, “Antarctica is down. And, if I need to break these boots in before heading down to Antarctica, I better suit up and start breaking.”
It was over 100 degrees in Utah when I walked those boots out of that store. Now then, these boots were made for walking, but not in that heat. If had stayed in Utah just one more day, the sweat in my boot would have given me a modern day case of World War I trench foot.
The next day I took one small step onto a plane in Salt Lake City and after another giant leap the boots touched down in minus forty below up on the continent of Antarctica.
These boots have been to the South Pole and down a hole inside a sewer pipe 35 feet beneath the icy ocean. The boots have hiked all over New Zealand and Australia and have stayed on my feet for two straight years.
A couple of days before I left to come back to Antarctica, Ruth and I went to REI to pick out another pair of boots. This time, though, I wouldn’t need the help of an uniformed hippie to make my purchase, now I knew exactly which type of Gortex boot would be most comfortable in the cold, heat and on my feet. I looked at several pairs of boots that were made for walking and then I saw REI had some new backpacks on display.
I picked up my feet, estimated how much tread was left on the bottom of the boots, looked at the leather and calculated the sum to equal a new pair of shoe laces. Yup, I took the coefficient of all of my hiking and Antarctic experiences and summed up that all these worn down boots really needed was a new pair of shoelaces and they’d last a lifetime in Antarctica.
Easily distracted. I bought a new backpack.
The backpack was not on sale. This backpack has some sort of space age rip stop fabric which makes it nearly indestructible, waterproof, expensive and orange. Bright, hunters orange.
In Utah I took this backpack on one hike. With his brand new shoe laces and worn out shoes, you could see the orange backpack boy from a mile away.
Now, this backpack sits under my bed, waiting, unused, hoping for the day its sack will be stuffed on a long hike when I get to New Zealand in two months. The backpack isn't LIKE new, it is STILL new.
Once again, I failed to prepare properly for Antarctica. My right boot blew out this week. It leaks and the tread is worn down. When it’s cold and icy (everyday) I slip and fall. On the wet days (everyday), water gets into my boot. I’ve tried shoe glue, duct tape and mink oil to try and save my soles. I could order boots online and they might get here in February. The same February when I leave Antarctica and arrive in New Zealand—that magical land where you can try on your shoes before you have to buy
Some mornings, when I can’t find my worn down boots, I easily spot the orange backpack. The orange gently calls out to me from under the bed, “Hey retard, don’t you wish you bought a new pair of boots.”
P.S. Today six boxes of Sir Edmund Hillary memorabilia came over from the New Zealand Antarctic program, Scott Base. There were lots of apologies and less than 1/3 of all items were signed. It was haphazard and random and, was there any doubt--He signed my book.
On May 29, 1953 Sir Edmund Hillary with his climbing companion Tenzing Norgay were the first two people to climb the world's tallest mountain, Mt. Everest.
When I told my brother, Brad, that Sir Edmund Hillary was going to come to Antarctica and I might get a chance to meet him Brad said, "Please, just ask him one question, say, 'Hey, Sir Ed I thought you were dead?"
Now whether or not his was actually a question or an insult is up for debate, but what goes beyond rumor, word of mouth or Antarctic lure is true, Sir Edmund Hillary (85 years old and not quite dead) was coming to my little berg on this ice berg for many reasons, the least of which was to speak to our community about what it was like to be in Antarctica in 1958 and to be part of the first team which successfully traversed this continent.
Sir Ed with Vivian Fuchs and there support teams were the first to do what Shackleton had failed to accomplish back when The Endurance was shipwrecked in 1914. A coast to coast crossing of Antarctica.
If Antarctica were the united States Sir Ed started in California and Vivian began his journey in Fort Lauderdale, Florida and then they met somewhere in Arkansas. When Fuchs and Hillary met at the South Pole Ed hitched a ride back with Vivian Fuchs to California (or in this case McMurdo) and this is how they were the first to make the I-80 traverse of Antarctica.
After finishing the journey, Sir Edmund was so excited he said, "Fuch Yeah." At some point Vivian Fuchs became Sir Vivian Fuchs and behind his back he is often referred to as "Sir Fuchs A Lot."
I was pretty excited to see Sir Edmund Hillary. My sister, Juli, had given me a first edition copy of the book he and Sir Fuchs A Lot wrote about their journey across Antarctica, and I knew with Sir Ed's signature I would cherish this book even more. This first edition copy of the book will be absolutely priceless to me (That is "priceless" until the seven days a price is determined by Ebay shoppers after Hillary actually dies).
The long and short version of the story is: I did. I did see Sir Edmund Hillary. The day he spoke in McMurdo I went fishing with Art Devries, the man who discovered the antifreeze protein thingy in the fishes that keep them from turning into fishsicles in the ocean. Art's coworker and diver KEVIN HOEFLING gave me his seat on the fishing journey because Kevin, as a diver, gets to fish every day and he knew I'd enjoy the experience.
I did. I did. But we fished late into the afternoon and into early evening and by the time we got back to town I had mere minutes to shower and get into the line to see Sir Edmund Hillary. It's not often to never that Sir Edmund Hillary comes to Antarctica, so the line to see him looked like the folks of Antarctica were lined up to see someone great or get a free heater.
With just under one thousand people on station and only 400 available seats to see the lecture, getting to the line late meant I probably wouldn't get to see Hillary.
I scanned the line and saw my friend Sandwich had been sitting at the front for three hours playing scrabble and killing time while I fished and had the time of my life. The doors to see Sir Ed were about to open and I said, "I have a seven letter triple word score for 'Dirt Bag' and that's 'P.H.I.L.' may I cut in line?"
That's how I saw Edmund Hillary talk about Antarctica, Everest and being an old man. I have a friend named "Sandwich."
On my seventh day in Antarctica I dropped my camera and had to get a new one sent down. The camera arrived the day after Hillary spoke. While I was thrilled to have a camera, I wished it had gotten here one day sooner because seeing Sir Edmund Hillary was very (fill in your own word). Seeing him was like seeing Orville and Wilbur Wright. Or Neil Armstrong. Or Charles Lindbergh. I don't know what the 'word' is to describe this but "Why didn't I have my Fuching camera" comes close to the word I wanted.
That night-the night I got my camera-was Trivia Night at Scott Base. The team I was on "It's a Harsh Condiment" came in next to last place (Who knew Tchaikovsky wrote the 1812 Overture? Well I did but my team didn't believe me). But this didn't matter, because sitting in the trivia room, just over Sandwich's shoulder was Sir Edmund Hillary.
Fuch Yeah.
