What Money Can’t Buy: Christmas in McMurdo, Antarctica

In the holiday spirit I'm offering up this essay I wrote shortly after returning from Antarctica in 2005. Happy Holidays to all.

January 2005, and the wind at Cape Royds on Ross Island, Antarctica, had me pinned inside a Rac tent, with few books I wanted to read, two people I hardly knew, a dwindling food supply, and intermittent satellite access to the internet. When I logged on to see if anyone was missing me, one of those endless internet banners floated across the computer screen: holiday blues? Buy what you really wanted.

    I turned to David, a grey-haired, middle-aged bespectacled penguinologist, and his young, attractive assistant Jen.

    “How did you celebrate Christmas?”

    We had already shared our top ten favorite books, swapped the few jokes we knew and drunk the two bottles of New Zealand wine I had brought with me. David had spent the past twenty-two Christmases in Antarctica studying Adélie penguins and I wondered if he remembered the commercial build up to the holidays, or the scent of turkey or ham roasting.

    David looked blank, then rolled his eyes back as if trying to remember. He shrugged. I had come to know that pause and shrug in the past few days, the man positively noncommittal. But I figured the days of counting penguins and thinking about their fate blurred together, each day very much like the last, and Christmas, after all, is just another day.

    “What would you have done if you’d been at home?”

    “Sulk,” he responded without hesitation.

    Since Christmas in Antarctica lands mid-summer, that brief moment where the temperatures are above zero and the sun never sets, it is difficult for explorers or scientists to stop, take a day, rest, maybe even go to Church. This has always been the case.  William Lashley, a seaman with the Royal Navy on Scott’s final, fatal expedition wrote in 1911: “Christmas Day and a good one. We have done 15 miles over a very changing surface. First of all it was very much crevassed and pretty rotten; we were often in difficulties as to which way we should tackle it.”  On Christmas day, these men are pulling supplies south to lay depots of food for Scott’s expedition to the pole. Cherry-Garrard, that famous chronicler of Scott’s expedition (The Worst Journey in the World) wrote of that same 1911 Christmas: “A strange and strenuous Christmas for me, with plenty of snow to look at and very little ease.”

    Later, after a day of little ease, Scott’s men indulge in a Christmas dinner. “Dinner consisted of pemmican, biscuits, chocolate éclair, pony meat, plum pudding and crystallized ginger and four caramels each. We none of us could hardly move” (187). Except for having to eat pony meat, this seems the perfect Christmas: hard work followed by meal topped with four caramels.

    When I scheduled my six-week National Science Foundation grant in Antarctica to include the Christmas season I gave it little thought. Or rather, I was looking forward to missing out on the gift-buying music-playing frenzy, and on having a guaranteed white Christmas.

    As Christmas on the Ice approached, stockings appeared on dorm room doors; open doors revealed men wearing Santa hats and packages around plastic trees. No one invited me in for a drink. So I began to worry. Christmas dinner required reservations; with whom would I sit? Would I miss not having a single present to open? My mother and sister had announced in October (suggested mail date for Christmas gifts) that they’d sent presents and every day I trekked to the mailroom looking for those packages.

    Since everything in the Antarctic is superlative, I feared that a glacier-sized attack of loneliness might overcome me.

    Early explorers celebrated Christmas on June 22, when they had time to relax in the dark of an Antarctic winter. Cherry-Garrard writes, “Midwinter night and what a celebration it is. . . . Inside the hut are orgies. We are very merry—and indeed why not? The sun turns to come back to us tonight, and such a day comes only once a year.

    “After dinner we had to make speeches, but instead of making a speech Bowers brought in a wonderful Christmas tree, made of split bamboos and a ski stick, with feathers tied to the end of each branch; candles, sweets, preserved fruits…” (237). Titus Oates gets three presents that please him: a sponge, a whistle and a pop-gun. He spends the evening asking his mates if they are sweating. When they answer No, he insists they are and wipes their faces with the sponge. When he shoots them with his pop-gun he announces: “If you want to please me very much you will fall down when I shoot you.” They danced and gave lectures and drank milk punch. “It was a magnificent bust,” Cherry concludes.

    As the sun shone down on my Antarctic adventures, I realized Christmas was not going to be a magnificent bust.

    On Christmas Eve I bolted into the store on base and shuffled past those buying candy bars for colleagues, or sweatshirts for family at home. I asked for two bottles of wine and handed over a twenty (I liked how everything at the store came to round numbers—no pennies on base because they weigh too much). Grasping my wine I sauntered down Highway 101, the central artery of McMurdo life. There were fliers announcing plumbing classes and knitting groups, outings on the weekend, the subject and speaker for the Thursday night lecture. I passed the ATM (the money on base makes an odd circle from store to ATM and back again), and the Human Resources office. There was an odd, festive feeling in the air as workers had the next two days off. This was a rare treat as everyone worked at least eight hours a day, six days a week.

    As I walked back toward the row of brown, ugly dorms, I felt not loneliness but a sense of adventure expanding inside of me; I wanted to share my bottles of wine. I looked around to see who might be near, and just behind me stood all five foot one of Jules Uberuaga. Jules is a McMurdo icon and in a mock-election the fall of 2004 Bush lost and Jules was elected mayor of the town. With a striking, lined, Georgia O’Keefe face that I later learn emerges from her Basque heritage, Jules is not someone you can miss. She’s also not the sort of person I’d expect to speak to me. In new social situations I revert to thinking of myself not as the class nerd, but as a bit too wholesome for the fast girls in town.

    Unlike the glacial-slow continent that she has given the past twenty-five years of her life to, Jules is fast. She’s funny and outgoing and utterly without pretence. So it surprised me when she stopped to talk to me and surprised me even more when I heard myself say, “we should drink this wine together.”

“Why don’t you come back to my room?” she suggested. “Or is that too intimate?” She gave one of her laughs that borders on a cackle.

    In her room, darkened with a cardboard box pressed against the window to eliminate any of the relentless sun that eventually wears you down, sat her pretty girlfriend, Monika. From time to time Jules called her Blondie, even though Blondie’s a tough girl from Ann Arbor with both an MBA and an engineering degree and she ran the complicated helicopter operations in town. Monika had taken up—sort of—with one of the helicopter pilots and so the relationship between Jules and Monika had, for the past year, been on the rocks. There was no animosity between them however, and as we all drank wine and Jules told stories, I could tell Blondie adored her wild Basque girl. Jules drives a bulldozer at Williams Field. Through careful leveling she and a team of bulldozers create the runways where for the large C131 cargo planes land.

    “I drive a D8, does that mean anything to you?” she teased. “You should come push snow.” Push snow. That offer was the best Christmas gift I’d ever been given.

    Jules told story after story as we drank that cheap wine: her first summer at Pole when a pile of supplies buried a friend; the bulldozer that broke through the ice and the driver escaped, swam to the surface; the time she visited the remains of Byrd’s Little America, slid through tunnels into the earth. At the end she took my arm and looked me in the eye, “Rogers, these are experiences money can’t buy.”

    The expression, “what money can’t buy,” always smelled of the worst cliché. On the ice, however, money has no meaning. You cannot buy a trip to McMurdo, or, once there, buy a helicopter ride or a trip up Erebus. To live in town you have to work there or be a scientist on a grant. Or, be a writer or artist on a grant. There are no tourists, no one on vacation. Everyone wears the same government-issued clothes and no one gets to drive a fancy car. It was all wondrously liberating (socialists take note). But above all: No money, no blues.

    What money also couldn’t buy was the party in the heavy shop. The idea that the intimacy of Christmas can be experienced in a building with metal walls and forty foot ceilings permeated with the smell of diesel fuel is a little hard to understand. But that was where the party was being hosted.

As three rock bands performed, blaring out barely tolerable music, I decided to abandon my quaint image of Oates with his pop gun. Santa sat in a chair, enjoying the young women who perched on his lap. I spoke with scientists, danced with Jules, took myself home early to bed. My room mate was already asleep. When I woke I knew that gifts would not appear under a pine tree, that my mother would not be there, giving me yet another flannel pajama, that the smell of turkey or duck would not invade my dull dorm room. I searched for the loneliness I had steeled myself for and could not find it.

    At nine that morning, I joined two women, Peggy and Ann, to ski out on the Ross Ice Shelf. Ann has pulled a sled from the edge of the continent to the South Pole and Peggy has spent over a dozen seasons on the ice. Before heading south, Peggy had coached me by email as to what to bring, including some Cadbury chocolate for her. I had that with me, a small gift of thanks as they had invited me to sit with them for Christmas dinner.

    As we skied out, an enormous yellow bulldozer appeared on the horizon and a speck jumped out of the cab. It was Jules in Carhartts and a Filson jacket. She sauntered over, her height expanding to six foot four. She was working on Christmas day, the day just like any day really. Pushing snow. “Keep an eye on the weather,” she advised.

    If you look south from the Ross Ice Shelf you should be able to see Black Island, White Island and further south, Minna bluffs trailing off on an arm of land that holds Mount Discovery. If you cannot, a storm is coming in. The catabatic winds that begin at the South Pole and gain momentum as they travel north are called Herbies. Their force is legendary.

    We skied north into the Windless Bight on Ross Island. When we turned to head home, Ann said, “I can’t see Minna Bluffs.” The winds had picked up. We had skied out, following the flagged route across the ice. Now we were faced with a brutal return. But surrounded by two strong women I felt safe. And somewhere out there was Jules in her Cat. I was safe. Still, on our return, the wind hard in our faces I thought, little ease today. And smiled.

    I was home just on time to take a shift in the dish room. Everyone had the day off, but the kitchen had to serve meal after meal and the dishes had to be washed. It was a dish room like the one I’d worked in as a freshman in college. There, during the breakfast shift, I burned my fingers pulling clean plates from the machine that never slowed. Here, we stopped the machine regularly to save water. Music blared from the local radio station. I shared the work with two representatives from the National Science Foundation. If there is a boss in McMurdo, it was these two but in the dish room we became dishwashers. We shared stories of family, of home. When people dropped off their trays, their plates clean (to waste food was rare) they poked their heads in to say hello, thanks and Merry Christmas.

    One young man hesitated, then recognizing the two NSF reps in aprons wearing yellow rubber gloves he asked, “How many NSF reps does it take to wash a plate?” 

    The day after Christmas I sat in my office in Crary lab. The fresh snow cascading off the roof created a momentary shadow outside my large window on the still-frozen Ross Ice Shelf. I had become accustomed to a landscape where nothing moves: leaves do not flutter in the breeze and squirrels don’t vault through the trees. There are no trees.  So the movement startled me. How quickly I had become accustomed to this landscape.

    Outside my office scientists continued in their endless tasks rinsing beakers and pipettes, or, upstairs a gang prepared tablespoonfuls of Dry Valley dirt to examine under microscopes. They were looking for nematodes, worms. The television in the hall continued to broadcast from the rim of Mount Erebus, smoke pluming into the sky. Another television showed the movement of the B-15 glacier as it chugged toward the Drygalski Ice Tongue. Everything felt utterly normal, in other words, the party of the day before not been a magnificent bust, but a quick memory.

    I waited to call my family, a day and a half earlier, just beginning to celebrate Christmas in central Pennsylvania. There are few outside phone lines in McMurdo, and almost all 1,300 of us wanted one of those lines to speak to those at home. I wanted to wait until Thomas and Alice had opened their gifts, even though I knew that already, aged 12 and 14 there would be a twinge of regret in their voices. It wasn’t just greed. I had felt that disappointment at their age, the anticipation never equal to the day and the gifts that are unwrapped too fast. What I wanted to tell them was how great it was to get no gifts, to skip the holiday blues.

    My sister’s package arrived ten days later. My mother’s package arrived after I left. My new ice friends emailed that they had opened it and enjoyed the foie gras she sent as well as the plum pudding my father felt should be part of an Antarctic Christmas.

    David stood at the end of the Rac tent, pulling on his enormous blue snow boots. “Want to go count penguins?” he asked.

    “In this weather?”

    He shrugged. I logged off the computer, and slid into my five layers of clothing, stuffed my feet into my white bunny boots and followed him into the wind. At a pass the wind gusted, knocking me over. I crouched to brace myself until David appeared, helped me up and through the pass where we found some relief from the wind. There, the penguins stood, backs to the wind, a thin coat of snow speckling their backsides. A penguin marched up to me, feet pink, wings held out for balance. It seemed to greet me, so I spoke to it as I would to a dog met on the sidewalk in the city.

    “Hello.”

    It did not respond, but did move closer, it’s head bobbing within inches of my lower thigh.

    “It’s rough out here, isn’t it?”

    No response. No familiar wagging tail. Just a stare filled with curiosity.

    “Did you have a good Christmas?”

    No response.

    “Holiday blues?”

    No response.

    My laughter was lost in the sound of penguins braying into the air, creating and guarding their nests; nests that money couldn’t buy.

Circling the City

The night before kayaking around Manhattan I did not sleep. Last year I didn’t sleep either but then I stayed awake because I was sure I was going to die—that the Staten Island Ferry would knock me over in its wake, I’d go over and never surface. This year my mid-night thoughts revolved around the currents and tides. Timing is essential to these trips—if you have the current, it’s do-able, if not, not.

We were putting our boats in at Englewood, NJ an hour and a half past low tide at the Battery. The Battery is 13.8 miles south so it would make sense to leave early in order to catch the outgoing tide. But I have learned through four years of paddling on the Hudson that tides and currents are not the same—a tide is the rise and fall of water, a vertical movement, while the current is about the speed of the water’s horizontal movement calculated in knots--and that figuring out the current is not simple. If you are confused by that last sentence, join the crowd. I’ve had this explained to me at least a dozen times, have looked at pictures and read about it and because there’s something deeply counterintuitive about the whole thing I still stumble—or else stay up at night worrying about the mystery of tides and currents.

I met Dawes Strickler, and a woman I know as military Sue near West Point where they both work and together we drove south. I confessed I did not sleep and Dawes admitted he did not either. “I slept fine,” said Sue, which meant she had no idea what she was getting into.

Englewood NJ is right under the Palisades, those dramatic sheer redish-colored cliffs. We were ready to go at12:30. Sue waded through thick muck, steadied the boat Dawes had borrowed for her and then entered it as if executing a gymnastic routine. “How do I hold the paddle?” she asked. Oh dear, I thought. I knew she had little experience but it was news she had none. Sue’s virtue is she’s strong and strong-willed. She’s a rock climber and climbers believe they can do anything (for instance, defy gravity). So Dawes invited her figuring that if someone with no paddling experience could do it that person would be Sue. But this was like asking someone who has never run to enter a marathon.

Dawes teaches rock climbing at West Point and he looks the part: short blond hair, a solid jaw, strong all around. He’s kind and reliable and has a wealth of geologic information about the city (at one point he taught earth sciences in a high school). He laughs easily and loves adventures. He’s done this paddle for the past six years and every year brings someone new, whom he nurtures through the day. I’m the only person to return for another round.

The year before when Dawes called to ask me along (his wife threatened to divorce him if he went alone) I had just completed a paddling class. “You know how to self rescue, right?” Dawes asked. “Sure,” I said with overblown confidence. I learned yesterday. My paddle float was so new I figured it would give me away.

My motivations for doing a second tour were unclear. I claim that what I like about kayaking is that it’s a peaceful activity that allows me to explore the Hudson River. But before launching, my body was already toxic with adrenalin. Above all, I wondered why I needed to do this again. This is the sort of feat that if you do it once you can brag about it for the rest of your life. I even had great stories from the previous year of big waves and being pulled over and fined by the Coast Guard for violating the security zone near Ellis Island. At forty-five I hoped I’d outgrow this odd rush to adventures but for some reason I cannot even though I know that for the next few days I will need to treat my body with great delicacy.

I watched Sue teeter in her boat and thought: uh-oh, we’re going to spend the day rescuing Sue. If I’d known I could have spent the night worrying about this as well. The great thing about having someone so inexperienced is I had someone to worry about beside myself. We gave her a two-minute paddle instruction—brace your legs inside the boat for stability and leverage; keep your elbows low and use your torso to paddle--and we were off down the Hudson. Right down the middle, to be exact, so we could catch the last of the current. And right under the George Washington Bridge, which, viewed from the water, allowed us to thrill in the steel towers soaring 604 feet above us.

At about 110th street the wind emerged from the south. Since the wind was moving counter to the current, an erratic chop formed that made me feel like a cork at sea. I kept thinking that Sue had to be terrified. But there she was, in the middle of the river, shoveling through the water, her straw hat perched on her head, exclaiming, “I love this!”

We struggled with the wind for the length of the city, which means that we passed The Intrepid sitting ominously at dock, the Chelsea Piers’ enormous golfing cage and snapshots of the city without much time to admire. As we stayed clear of active docks, the city felt far away, with few people near the water to wave to. Waving from a kayak isn’t easy since you need two hands to paddle. But when I saw someone leaning toward the water from a restaurant or dock, I would quickly raise a hand. Waving cheered me on.

At the Battery I suggested we stick together as boat traffic became thick with water taxis that move with the same fanatic energy as real taxis, ferries, the Circle Line and the Staten Island ferry. “Think of a chipmunk crossing three lanes of traffic. We’re the chipmunks,” Dawes explained to Sue.

Dawes kept reminding us we had the right of way—most kayakers head out with this idea--but it is not exactly true. The rules of the road, as written by the New York State Parks department (taken from the Coast Guard) are as follows:

I. When two vessels are on a collision course in a crossing situation, the vessel on the right has the right of way.

II. Vessels without mechanized power have the right of way; but smaller vessels must yield to larger vessels that do not have the same maneuverability. These include sludge carrying ships, oil tankers and barges and any large commercial vessel. It is also wise to yield to fast-moving motorboats. A vessel being overtaken should maintain its speed and direction.

III. A vessel overtaking another should stay clear of the craft being overtaken.

IV. In any case, take whatever action is necessary to avoid the collision.

In any case it is wise to know that even if you do have the right away, don’t act like you do. Here’s a little something from sailors warning of what happens if you insist on your right of way:

Here lies the body of Danny O’Day

Who died defending his right of way

He was right, dead right, as the day is long

But he’s just as dead as if he’d been wrong

It’s a good little ditty to memorize.

The greatest menace was not, in fact, the taxis, which had a regular come-and-go and sober, licensed pilots. The menaces were the few rogue pleasure boats that appeared out of nowhere. We’d call out: coming at us; no turning; no, coming at us. And then they’d careen past churning up large wakes. If those wakes struck us head on, our boats would rise and slap back down into the water. If they came from behind we’d have a few moments of surfing. If they smacked us on our port or starboard sides the belly of the boat lifted momentarily and if we didn’t adjust our weight with our hips, or brace with our paddles to stabilize there was an unsettling sense of toppling over.

When we rounded the Battery life calmed a bit. “If you can do that you can do anything,” I told Sue, impressed she’d made it through the maze of waves and boats.

“I wasn’t afraid of the waves,” she said, “Just the boats.”

“Really?” I asked. I was afraid of both.

Our first stop was on a slim sandy beach directly under the Brooklyn Bridge, a beautiful, solid structure made of cement made from limestone taken from the hills near Rosendale, a town where I used to live. It’s tough cement: 136 years after the beginning of the bridge’s construction there’s no visible decay.

Our beach was separated from a sidewalk by a waist-high chain-link fence. People stopped and stared at us; one elderly couple asked questions about what we had done and where we were going; and Sue and I wondered where in all of this we were going to pee. The beach, four feet wide and strewn with plastic bottles and one engorged nearly hairless rat on its back, little paws open to the sky, did not offer a calm or sweet smelling spot to relax. But after three and a half hours of paddling we needed a rest.

I pulled out some hand wipes and offered one to Sue and Dawes, “It’s too late,” Sue said, taking a handful of gorp. I figured eating with water soaked hands would be like eating after rubbing my palms on the sidewalk at Broadway and 79th. I wiped my hands clean, realizing that this was but a small gesture—I’d already tasted plenty of salt water that had sprayed onto my face.

While we snacked, Sue wandered off, leaned against the cement breakwater, slipped down her shorts and peed. When she returned I nodded to the men sitting on the bench above where she had peed. “I didn’t realize they were there,” she laughed.

“What could they see?” I shrugged, and followed her lead.

“Are we halfway?” Sue asked.

Dawes and I looked at each other. “Almost.” We both knew that what lay ahead was tricky, the currents complicated. We thought we had the timing down but the final section above Hell Gate had, in the past, surprised Dawes with unlikely currents. It could be hard.

“I’m not sure I can make it.”

I had watched Sue paddle and though she kept reporting “I think I got it” and she was making extraordinary progress, somehow our “keep your elbows low” directive hadn’t sunk in. Here’s what she was doing: Bring your arms to shoulder level, bend them at the elbow and make fists. Preferably hold a half-pound weight in each hand. Now, rotate your arms as if you were swimming with half arms, so that you can feel your shoulder moving in the socket. Do that for three and a half hours and understand why Sue was, despite beautifully sculpted arms, exhausted.

There really were few options short of Sue waiting on the miserable beach for hours for us to retrieve her. We didn’t need to voice this and we didn’t discuss options; in ten minutes we all busied ourselves repacking our boats.

The southern end of the east river is wide, and the boat traffic continuous. But at this point we had a strong current with us and a slight wind at our backs. We moved quickly, and were able to appreciate the astonishing views of the city on this perfectly clear day. At times it looked like a Hollywood set, each building clearly delineated, neat, as if cut out from glass. It became the perfect city, tall buildings elegantly stacked together in some miraculous manner.

The span of the East River is narrow so that we felt squeezed between the concrete and wooden docks off Manhattan and the warehouses of Brooklyn. Part of this sense of constriction comes simply because the East River is not a river, but a strait that connects New York Bay with Long Island Sound. In comparison, the Hudson River expands space—there’s the space above your shoulders and long views in all directions as you move toward the infinite ocean. But on the East River you are in the city, of the city, and something about this gritty proximity makes the city more beautiful. I did not have to stretch to see the Chrysler building, gleaming like the gem that it is; it stands there, elegantly visible. On the East River a wonderful intimacy with the city emerges.

Add to this the perspective from a kayak. You are not looking down or over but rather are at water level so there’s no separation between you and what you see. In a natural setting this is lovely, and many paddlers become foggy as they describe their sense of one-ness with nature. In this urban setting though the relationship is with steel and concrete and brown green water—but you are not of it, can not be one with it. In fact, in my boat, I felt like this shiny visitor from a cleaner, distant land. So in all that closeness there’s also a great separation—it’s one of the most dissonant and exhilarating experiences imaginable.

You don’t paddle around Manhattan for the nature sightings but when you see something it’s exciting—the jellyfish bobbing in the water, for instance, or the birds taking flight (one glorious egret; several blue heron). But even the wildlife seems transformed. Just off the United Nations on a small outcropping, that looks like a bunch of dredge piled into the river (which is exactly what it is) are draped nesting double crested cormorants that do not look anything but bleak, even ominous. On the island a sign reads: U Thant island, for the Burmese Buddhist UN Secretary General U Thant. And the arch on which the cormorants are nesting isn’t any arch, it’s a Peace Arch. In fact the island isn’t named U Thant, it’s named Belmont, for the industrialist who built one of the thirteen tunnels that squirrels under the East River. The debris removed to build that tunnel was heaped on a reef, and there stands this unnatural island.

There is no bridge to U Thant, but eight bridges span the East River and each has its own personality: high or low, ratty-looking or trim steel. All are loud. One intriguing crossing is a blue-green pedestrian bridge that traverses to Ward’s Island where a State mental hospital stands, surrounded by wire fencing; tiny windows look out onto the river.

On the East River we flew along--faster at times than cars jam-packed on the FDR drive. If I lived in the city now and was one of those people stuck in traffic and I saw me floating by what I would see was freedom and adventure and I’d expire of jealousy. So as we paddled past those commuters, and others on the water taxis, dressed in their suits, I thanked some spirit I was not one of them. What took me a while to think—what I was doing seemed so marvelous I couldn’t imagine anyone who wouldn’t leap at this opportunity--was that they probably were thanking the same spirit they were not me.

North a bit further Sue lost one of her water bottles, then back paddled to fetch it. Dawes and I continued on. After a while, I glanced back. “Sue’s in the river,” I said and we swooped around. “I fell in,” she said, still startled to find herself in the East River. She treaded while Dawes emptied the water out of her boat, righted it and stabilized it so she could get back in. She inserted her feet into the cockpit and executed a gymnastic sit up right into the boat that would have won a gold medal.

When we pulled out on Randall Island not ten minutes later, Sue, her black shoulder-length hair plastered to her head, was shivering. The water had warmed to about 67 degrees, but chill comes easily below 70. Soon, a police officer arrived. “We got a call saying some kid fell into the river. Everything ok?” That we were being watched, or rather watched out for, delighted me.

We rested for a short while eating oranges and watching two teams play soccer. As we packed up we attached our lights to the back of our boats. I carry my light in the back of my car and every time I see it I think it’s some odd spaceship dildo, the latest supersonic model. “Don’t you guys agree?” I asked, feeling as if the past six hours had made us intimate friends and it was about time we started talking about sex. I got no response.

Sue announced she never wanted to get in a kayak again so we were not stopping at the railroad bridge before the Hudson.

That meant I had to pee there on Randall’s Island. As I squatted near a bush, I remembered how when I walked in the city finding public restrooms was always a problem. I never would have squatted, even in the parks, but somehow my kayak and this whole endeavor allowed me any behavior.

“I found a present for you,” Dawes greeted me on my return. On top of my kayak rested a DVD case: Big Butt, Road Trip 4. Monster butt certified. Shot on location. I wondered what location.

“This is great,” I said. This porn—not wildlife—was more what I expected to find circling the city. Though the water itself seems fairly clean—little floating debris--at our two landings lots of garbage and a difficult smell greeted us. But the image people concoct of floating rats (or bodies) or of the smell of unprocessed sewage are all the stuff of urban myth.

There’s a great sense of people along the East river. This is perhaps because of several walks that rim the edges: Carl Schurz Park and then further north Bobby Wagner walk. I’d never walked either path, but both gave us lots of walkers and joggers and one woman waved and called, “Paddle safely.”

We continued past Hell Gate and on up the Harlem River (again, really a strait, separating Manhattan from the Bronx). Something about the name Hell Gate makes it seem as if this should be terribly treacherous, and historically it was—many ships sunk near there in the 19th century. But the original Dutch name, Hellegat, means bright passage (or rather, one interpretation says this; others offer that Hell Gate means Hell Channel). For us—and for most who pass through this section--it was a bright passage as the rocks and reefs that made the passing complicated had been blasted out by the Army Corps of Engineers at the end of the 19th century.

The Harlem River felt calm—we did have the currents just right--as we stroked past two men fishing. Just as we approached one seemed to have caught something and we slowed to watch his catch: a large white undershirt. We scooted past a huge wall of Inwood Marble (directly across from Inwood) smeared black by time and pollution. Darkness had settled in for good by the time we reached Spuyten Duyvil (a name that also invokes fear; one translation is the devil’s whirlpool though the creek that caused these whirlpools has been filled in). We turned on our lights and dug in toward the final bridge, a railroad swing bridge.

Before us spread a mile expanse of the Hudson River, calm at slack tide, not a boat visible in either direction. We spotted the light at the Englewood Marina and pushed across the dark, smooth river to our original launch. South of us the George Washington Bridge lit the sky and Manhattan glowed orange yellow. None of the city noise reached us on our watery way and so the city took on a luminous holy feeling. An odd, elated sense of peace wrapped us there in the middle of the river; overwhelmed by the miracle of it all, our fatigue floated off. 10,000 strokes, eight and a half hours, two peanut butter sandwiches, one perfect day.

“Sue, you made it,” I said. I might have been talking to myself.

Antarctica, Rhinebeck and Bowermaster

We had our first reading for Antarctica in Rhinebeck’s cosy and wonderful, independent bookstore Oblong. One of the great pleasures of doing these readings is getting to know the writers whose works I’ve read and re-read for months. For this reading that person was adventurer, writer and filmmaker Jon Bowermaster, who is a marvelous, generous storyteller with a wealth of experience in the Antarctic.

That he could attend this reading was amazing because most of the time he’s off in exotic places - in eleven days he again leaves for the Antarctic. There he will kayak and film a part of the continent most never see, the western side of the Palmer Peninsula, near the Larsen Ice Shelf. Visit Jon’s website to find out more about his amazing adventures: www.jonbowermaster.com. Another pleasure is meeting people who are curious about the Antarctic, and in the audience was a couple headed to the Ice in February on a cruise ship. Also in attendance was Anne Brooksher, a student of mine from the University of Arizona, now a lawyer in New York City (proof that creative writing majors can go on to great careers).

Next stop: Boulder, Colorado.