as i mentioned before, the winter leg of our season has well and truly started. the few days leading up to the departure of the Aurora Australis from station was quite a whirlwind for me. not only was i trying to coordinate samples going back to the ship, but i had to deal with an aquarium breakdown. in amongst all this work drama, people were constantly asking me, "are you excited about staying?", "how do you feel?", "do you feel like a winterer yet?", "are you gonna miss home?" and of course, my perennial favourite, "are you coping?".

truth be told, i was a little scared. i am the only winterer coming into the team without a wintering-mindset; everyone else had had months and months to prepare them for the eventual day the ship leaves and, for want of a better word, abandons us in this cold, harsh clime.

yeah, ok. i was scared. maybe slightly less than terrified. but the prospects of being on station with only 20 other people made my head spin. what if i broke my leg or developed a serious illness that needed medical attention the station couldn't offer? in summer there were always airplanes and ships that could act as a sort of protection buffer for us in case of emergencies, but here and now, in winter, we are who we have to depend upon. pretty terrifying.

when everyone left for the ship, the old-timers kept hugging me and telling me to 'have a safe winter'. SAFE winter? not a happy or fun or exciting winter, mind you, but safe. i'm sure they meant well, and i'm sure a safe winter is better than an exciting winter, but yea, it made my head spin again.

and then there was the sense that i didn't belong on station, that i was supposed to be standing on the helicopter pad with all my bags packed and people bidding me farewell and to have a smooth journey home, that i was supposed to get onto that great big Sikorsky 76 helicopter and get whisked away on to the ship. but all that didn't happen to me. instead, i was left standing there bidding others farewell and seeing a handful of our wintering women with tears in their eyes hugging their departing men in an embrace that seemed like it would never end.

at that point, Adam jabbed me in my ribcage and said, "that should've been you".

and i know, oh believe me, i know.

. . .

it was strange seeing the ship leave, blowing its foghorn to signal its departure. it was strange to finally find myself standing on this side, not that...letting off smoke bombs, pen flares and rockets as our final salute to the summer of 2011/12. it was strange to know that i wouldn't see the great big orange body of the AA until November of this year. it was strange that i didn't feel any sadness that the ship was leaving, even though two of the women standing next to me were bawling their eyes out (now dubbed the Davis River of Tears). it was strange that, once the ship disappeared beyond the horizon, all 21 of us went back into the mess, made ourselves a cup of tea and life went on as normal, as though nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

how well our minds buffer us from such changes, environmentally, socially and psychologically.


Photo taken by Chris Hill, wintering carpenter Davis 2011/12.