(Jan 23-30, 2026)
Many people are surprised to learn that much of Antarctica is consistently drier than the Sahara, with abundant sunshine (in summer) and remarkably few clouds. That said, conditions in this part of the continent are fickle. Clouds and precipitation have a habit of spontaneously materializing when relatively warm ocean water meets cold surface air. Ideal conditions for helicopter flights occur when a gentle, dry wind blows off the continent, politely escorting the moisture back out to sea.
Instead, over the next several days, very strong winds shoved the clouds out of the way—while pushing our helicopter around in the process.
For airborne surveys, we ask the pilot to fly straight lines at a constant 60 knots, draping the terrain at a consistent height above the ground with minimal pitching and rolling. In strong winds, this is easier said than done. I don’t think Dan, our survey pilot, was enjoying this stretch. 30–40 knot winds were the rule rather than the exception.
Over six days, he flew roughly 3,000 km of radar lines over Thwaites Glacier and the surrounding region. As the primary flight planner, I did my best to design surveys that avoided flying directly into the wind at the worst predicted times. But weather forecasts around here age poorly. There were days when Dan was flying 20 knots in one direction and nearly 100 knots on the way back. Plots of the aircraft’s pitch and roll looked less like flight data and more like a seismograph during an earthquake.
Back home, we dreamed up an experiment where the helicopter would hover in place and perform a slow, 360-degree pirouette. On most days, Dan just laughed whenever we asked if that might be achievable.
During this stretch, our team’s schedules naturally diverged. My routine was regimented—and long. Dillon and I needed to be awake early. I attend a daily helicopter operations meeting at 07:30, where pilots and scientists negotiate priorities for the day and consider if the weather will tolerate them.
On a good day, the aircraft was in the air for about eight hours. During that time, I’m usually running upstairs to the bridge to check on the flight, texting with Dillon over inReach, or sketching out tomorrow’s plan.
Jesse and Jason generally woke up in time for lunch at 11:00 (I am very much looking forward to returning to civilized meal times). I briefed them on progress and flag anything I’ll need help with later.
When the radar shuts down for the day—around 18:00 or 19:00 on a full flying day—Dillon hands “the football” off to Jesse and Jason. At that point, this briefcase contains the only copy of our hard-fought data anywhere on Earth. We treat it accordingly.
Jason and Jesse then work late into the night processing the data and running quality checks, often until 2 or 3 a.m. Dillon, having spent the day in the backseat of a helicopter monitoring equipment, is usually wiped and turns in early. We don’t bother him unless absolutely necessary.
During these nights, I sat with Jason and Jesse, answering questions as they come up. My primary task, though, was staring at the next day’s weather fantasy forecast and concocting a new flight plan. I knew in my head that I’d have to revise it in the morning as rotor blades are ready to spin, but wishful allowed me to go to sleep around midnight most nights.
Unsurprisingly, I wasn’t getting much rest. My mental acuity was not at its peak. I’ve mentioned before that basic life tasks (like laundry) become more complicated when living on a Korean research vessel. When you’re tired, they become even more so.
I washed my hands and face with toothpaste at least twice. In my defense, the toothpaste onboard comes in a pump dispenser that looks exactly like hand soap. I briefly appreciated the minty freshness before realizing my mistake and starting over.
Showering is even harder if you don’t have your wits about you. The cabin Dillon and I share is on the starboard side and has a compact bathroom, similar to what you’d find in an RV. The shower nozzle hangs next to the toilet, with a curtain and a small lip meant to keep water flowing toward a drain in the corner. Successful containment requires the obsessive focus of a post-doc finalizing plots for a conference presentation.
When taking a shower, the first thing to consider is the ship’s list relative to your drain. For several days, the boat was leaning two to three degrees to starboard, meaning water naturally flowed away from our drain even in calm seas. The mitigation strategy was to shut the water off every 20–30 seconds and kick the pooled water toward the drain. Failure will result in standing water across the bathroom.
This off-kilter shower technique is a challenge. However, showering in rough seas requires even more advanced tactics. Now you must synchronize turning the water on and off with the rhythm of the ship’s roll. Start the water flowing just after the boat tips toward port, and turn it off before it swings back toward starboard. Lose the rhythm, and you’ll be kicking water into the drain furiously. Lose focus, and you’ll be mopping—and probably getting soap in your eyes.
Given my fatigue and the sea state during these days, I showered sparingly. Unfortunately, this coincided increasing media attention in our helicopter flying with three 18-foot appendages bolted to its belly. I participated in more than one interview while wearing several days’ worth of grime.
I hope my shimmer was evident on camera.
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