(New Year’s, 2025/26)
The first iceberg of the voyage came this afternoon. The first one is exciting, although in a few days icebergs will be as predictable as negative feedback from “Reviewer #2” (science inside joke). Calm seas and reasonable weather made for excellent deck viewing from the bow. This one was especially impressive—roughly 1–2 km long, maybe 40–50 m wide, with its top rising close to 100 feet above the ocean surface. Miles O’Brien, the PBS correspondent onboard, came out to film the moment. I managed to squeeze a quick quote into a video he later posted on social media. Christine never believes me when I tell her that I’m carefully cultivating my social media empire—this will show her.
Many of these bergs have calved from the large Antarctic ice shelves and have a telltale flat top. Over time, the ocean eats away at the ice below the waterline until the berg becomes top-heavy and flips. I’d love to see one roll over; I suspect very few people have. The flipped ones are the most beautiful—jagged, chaotic, and streaked with deep blue glacial ice.
Our New Year’s celebrations involved some unique attempts to inject normalcy into our current situation. Just before dinner, there was an “Icebreaker on the Icebreaker” event. They handed out bingo cards filled with personal factoids—loves skiing or broke a bone recently, to name a few. We had to track down people who matched each description, until you filled out a row or column on you Bingo card. Guess who won? There’s a non-zero chance I was just loudest, not necessarily first to yell “BINGO”. But I will choose to believe it was my extensive experience navigating corporate team building bullshit that allowed me to declare victory.
After dinner, we were introduced to several Korean drinking games—a surprisingly memorable way to ring in the New Year. “Berry berry,” “007-Bang,” and “Baskin Robbins 31” all involved catchy chants, with the loser being the person who broke cadence or missed their cue. I was struck by the similarities to Wales Tales – a drinking game I often played in college – which typically ruined any ambitions for social interactions for the rest of the evening. However, I have to say this was one of the most socially integrated moments I’ve seen on either of my research cruises. On my last trip aboard the Araon, Korean and English-speaking scientists tended to socialize very separately. This seemed to break that barrier until the late hour of 21:30 when the raging New Year’s Eve party died down. I’m pretty sure by then it was actually 2026 somewhere.
New Year’s Day itself was improbably calm. The seas were like glass—almost unsettlingly so. This voyage has been far too easy, and I keep joking that we’re clearly storing up weather karma for the return trip. A hurricane, perhaps. Balance must be restored. Just before lunch, there were orcas off the port side of the ship. I missed them, unfortunately, but Kate Tobin—producer for Miles’s crew—showed me the video they captured. I was deeply jealous. We didn’t see anything like that on my first trip south.
We rang in the New Year with some Power Point slides – nerds will be nerds. Taff, the BAS mountaineer, gave a talk on Personal Management in the Polar Environment. Much of it was common-sense advice—dress appropriately, wear sunscreen, protect your eyes—but I appreciated the increased emphasis on safety compared to my similar trip in 2022. That iteration felt noticeably more relaxed and included a few near misses. It seems like lessons have been learned, which matters. I often find myself more interested in the risk-management side of this work as I am in the science, and eventually I’d like to find ways to better integrate my scientific fieldwork with my guiding and outdoor experience. Like I’ve said before…. I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.
That evening, there was a science talk on some oceanography work. Science talks are apparently a tradition of Antarctic expeditions reaching back to the days of Amundsen, Scott, and Shackleton. Early explorers’ science talks ranged from practical research on scurvy and cold weather clothing materials, to hypotheses about local geology and marine life – presented aboard cold, damp, and often leaky sailing ships.
Today’s explorers aboard the Araon are the beneficiaries of those early maritime science talkers, enjoying far greater comfort and the blessings of modern-day PowerPoint. The talks are a wonderful way to share information and build community, and they’re held most nights while in transit. Unfortunately, they also come right after dinner—providing ample opportunity for another time-honored tradition: fighting sleep and hoping no one notices.
A glance around the room reveals more than a few heavy eyelids and nodding heads. The presentation was certainly conveying valuable information to a captive audience. I am as guilty as anyone. Any attempt to dazzle me with complex charts and oceanographic figures, while my stomach is full of kimchi stew, is going to meet resistance. I’m intellectually curious—just not deeply invested in every axis label.
I continue to find our connection to home a small but meaningful novelty. The internet is spotty, but functional. Even being able to send a few WhatsApp messages each day makes a difference. It’s also oddly nice that friends and family can follow along through media coverage in something close to real time. I’m hopeful the Starlink connection improves once we’re stationary near the ice, and that I’ll eventually be able to call Christine. I do carry a lingering sense of moral discomfort about it, though—every dollar flowing toward Elon Musk feels dirty. Small comforts come with complicated tradeoffs.
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