Post the Fourth

The Southern Ocean is a fickle mistress.  (If you must have mistress, a fickle one is by far the best.  But only if you must have one).   Its mood can change more swiftly than a politician when presented with new polling data.

Not three days after we were sailing through hell’s Westinghouse we were presented with this:

Spooky

Creepy

It was very eerie, with glassy seas and a very low swell, and a persistent fog that forced the crew to slow the vessel down in order to avoid emulating the Titanic.  Very atmospheric, it must be said, and many expeditioners paid a visit to the bridge in order to experience the strange conditions.  Had it been a Hollywood movie we could all be expecting a meet a gruesome and/or untimely end.

Speaking of gruesome and untimely ends, it was time to take advantage of the conditions and practice not having one.  So we had an emergency drill, and mustered in our survival gear on the helideck.  I must say that we presented quite an attractive sight, all gathered together in our fetching yellow and black survival gear.

Surviving.  Stylishly.

The survival gear must have worked a treat, since at the end it appears that everyone had survived admirably.  There was neither an untimely nor a gruesome end to be seen anywhere.

To prove that I was there, here is a photo of me also not being gruesome nor untimely.  Or ended.

Not gruesome

See the clipboard in my hand?  It had fallen to me to call the roll of survivors, and naturally I did so with great panache and style, being the sort of chap who always rises to the occasion.  I didn’t lose a single expeditioner on my watch.

And, speaking of the Titanic, we were very definitely in the area for objects large, icy and ship-sinky.  On the day we entered the Iceberg Zone (cue spooky music) it was still very foggy.  Very, very foggy. 

Visibility was for most of the day limited to 100 metres or so around the ship.  However, we knew they were there:  Mr Radar told us so.  The radar screens were filled with blips and blops, indicating the presence of the ‘bergs.  The captain prudently decided to give each of them a wide berth, which is good for keeping the ship on top of the water, but not so good for the first iceberg siting of the trip.

Fortunately by mid afternoon  the fog had begun to thin (or at least become more patchy) and visibility stretched to a couple of miles or so.  And then it happened:  we were rewarded when a sizeable ‘berg hove into view. 

Alas, the conditions for photography were not the best, with a mantle of grey murk surrounding everything.  Still, it was the first berg, and so the taking of photographs was mandatory.

Due to the poor light the colours of the ice were lost.  However, I anticipated that there will be multitudinous opportunities for taking photographs of spectacular icebergs in good light conditions, so I managed to keep my sense of disappointment in check.

That night, it was time for the big event of the voyage – the Big Shave.  Every trip the crew of the Aurora hosts the event to raise money for Camp Quality.  It usually entails a few  people volunteering to lose their locks, or to have their hair cut in weird and interesting patterns.  This time around there were several who stepped forward for ritual humiliation, but of particular note were Hannah (my intrepid super-slushy companion) and boffin Ian.  Hannah and Ian had both spent a sizeable part of their young lives growing Rapunzelesque tresses, and both volunteered to lose them in a good cause.  Hannah, indeed, had begun her fundraising weeks before departure, setting up a website at which people could pledge donations.

So, here they are, both with plaited hair in preparation for post-follicular surgery:

Ian...  BEFORE

Hannah... ALSO BEFORE

All of the expeditioners then gathered in the mess, along with not a small number of crew, and bidding began for various things:  nominating some unsuspecting victim to have their head done, or their beard done, or pledging to the two main players to have their hair removed. 

It was all jolly good, hairy fun.  And, to boot, a reasonable amount raised for Camp Quality.  Over $10,000, in fact.  So it could rightly be said that the participants’ sacrifice was well worth it.

And here are the headline acts again, this time subsequent to the ministrations of the clippers:

Holy nude-nut, Batman!

Sinead?

 As usual, let me say that feedback (even mean, heartless, hurtful weep-inducing feedback) is frightfully welcome.  Leave a comment!  I might even read it!