(Feb 3-8, 2026)
There was no more radar to fly, and no more digging or disassembly left to do at camp. It was clear that life on the Araon was entering a new phase—one oriented less toward acquisition and more toward wrapping things up.
That’s not to say the work was finished. Jamin and his team were finally getting their time in the sun with Rift-OX, a helicopter-deployable oceanography instrument they’ve spent countless hours tinkering with. Watching them celebrate some success was deeply satisfying. They’d earned every bit of it.
Some of the sea-ice researchers were still seizing opportunities to extract ice cores as the Araon approached fields of floating pancake ice. Moorings were being deployed at strategic locations along the route, and the ship continued its steady rhythm of CTD (conductivity, temperature, depth) casts for the physical oceanographers on board. My own team had retreated to writing final reports, careful packing for international shipping, and tentative first passes at analyzing the terabyte of data we’d collected over the season.
February 3 marked Victoria’s birthday—one of several celebrated on board. She turned 22. Jason had turned 22 a few weeks earlier. Both were born after I’d graduated from college, which makes it uncomfortably easy to argue that I’m old enough to be their father. Jesse and Paul both had 44th birthdays earlier in the cruise as well.
Scott was well prepared for Paul’s 44th birthday, complete with balloons, cabin decorations, and a beautiful pink princess blanket as a gift. I was far less prepared for my teammates’ – Jesse and Jason – ship-bound birthdays. I scrounged up what I could and wrapped their gifts in old radar flight plans. Dillon and I had some fun superimposing their faces onto Antarctic scenery photos. The ship had a small reserve of birthday cakes set aside for occasions like these. I’m certain every one of them will remember their Araon birthday as unique—even if it wasn’t their favorite.
With the entire community reunited on the ship, the galley felt noticeably fuller at mealtimes. The common spaces were livelier. Movie nights in the large conference room became more regular, and conversations about the similarities and differences between our experiences started to blend together.
By this point in the cruise, food items were disappearing rapidly. Plenty of fish-flavored Cheeto-adjacent snacks remained, but all the good stuff was long gone. Shredded cabbage with a splash of dressing passed for salad. The only fruits left were oranges and aggressively overripe kiwis. Still—enough to keep the scurvy at bay.
As the pace of work slowed, it became harder to ignore the outside world, which had been moving on in parallel. I missed a friend’s wedding. My cousin passed away, and I missed his funeral. Christine had entered full wedding-planning mode, and many mornings I woke up to a fresh list of assignments—chairs, table decorations, dance floors. I’m genuinely excited about all of it, but my brain hasn’t quite shifted from ice sheets and logistics to centerpieces and seating charts. That transition will happen next week.
Throughout the journey, I’ve made a conscious effort not to immerse myself too deeply in political and current events back in the U.S. I see the headlines, but I’ve resisted the urge to dive into the details of corruption, immigration raids, and protests that seem to dominate the news cycle. It’s been a welcome reprieve, though I can’t help but worry about the general vibe back home—and how to be part of the solution rather than the problem.
Mostly, though, I’m excited to go home. It’s been nearly fifty days since I last saw Christine, and I’ll be thrilled to see her face again. Whether she’ll be equally thrilled to see mine—given the heinous handlebar moustache I’ve carved into it—remains to be seen.
Love you, dear.
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