In December 2013, Australian earth scientist Chris Turney led an expedition to Antarctica to gather essential data on the changing polar environment aboard an ice-strengthened Russian vessel, the MV Akademik Shokalskiy. On Christmas Eve, as it headed for open water after completing its mission, the Shokalskiy became trapped in dense pack ice off the coast of Antarctica. Amid worsening weather and treacherously drifting icebergs, each with the capacity to crush the captive ship with a simple change of the ocean current, a tower of ice pierced its hull. With 72 scientists, crew, volunteers and journalists on board – and the eyes of the world watching – Turney and his colleagues had to decide what to do next. It was not lost on them that they had inadvertently followed in the footsteps of Edwardian Antarctic explorer Ernest Shackleton, whose ship had become caught in pack ice in 1915. There was one big difference though: Turney had his wife Annette and their two children, Cara, 15, and Robert, 12, on board.
It's Christmas morning and I'm struggling to get my head straight. Our situation has gone from bad to seriously f…ed in just a few hours. How can it have changed so quickly? Everything looked so good when we brought the Shokalskiy round to the Hodgeman Islands. There was nothing but open water. I glance out of the porthole at the deceptively blue sky overhead. Rafts of thick sea ice surround our ship.
"Dad, go on, open it," cries Robert, passing me a carefully wrapped present. Annette looks at me questioningly. "Sorry, mate, lost in thought." I'm sitting at our cabin table, which is laden with brightly decorated presents, while outside … for the moment I have to close my mind to what's going on outside. I try to give Annette a reassuring smile and turn the brightly coloured package over in my hands.
Over the next 10 minutes, gifts are unwrapped while the packaging becomes an impressive pile on the floor. For Annette, I've bought tickets to see her favourite musician, Sarah Blasko, on our return to Sydney. For Robert, a typewriter for his next story. And for Cara, books on fashion photography, one of her great passions. We must look like a picture-postcard image of Christmas: a family surrounded by presents with snow outside the window. It's amazing how looks deceive. Are we really trapped? I look at my watch. It's 8.30 in the morning.
Upstairs, the bridge is deserted, apart from the Russian crewmen discussing their options. What to do next is completely their call. The Shokalskiy is their ship, their responsibility. I don't envy them one little bit. A vast icescape has suddenly appeared and the Shokalskiy is trapped right in the middle of it. Under the blazing sun the whole scene is awash with light, but the beauty is only surface deep.
Everywhere I look, one large floe lies jammed up against another, blocking our path – massive blocks and needles preventing us from getting home to family and friends, rising out of what the great polar scientist and expeditioner Wally Herbert once described as "the stew of ice debris". I learn that a tower of ice has pierced the ship during the night, ripping a one-metre hole in the hull, threatening one of the water ballast tanks. The damage shows what the ice is capable of and just how vulnerable we are. We are completely at the mercy of the elements.
I pick up a pair of binoculars and scan the seascape. There are no leads of open water offering us a route out; there's barely even a puddle, just a jumble of ice filled with dead ends. Out beyond, the thick, dark-grey clouds of "water sky", which indicate open water, lie low in the sky. They can't be any more than seven kilometres from us. It's sickening to know open water is so close. On the flat, I can walk seven kilometres in just over an hour. It seems such a pathetically short distance, but for the Shokalskiy it's completely unreachable.
I walk to the starboard side and look out. In the 20 minutes I've been downstairs, the nearest icebergs have definitely moved; one berg is only a couple of kilometres away. Over 25 metres high, they must have at least 100 metres of ice below the surface, an enormous underwater sail driven by the ocean currents. They must be doing two to three knots. That's bloody fast. I can almost feel the shocks as the bergs carve their way through the sea ice, chewing up the surface, breaking all before them, the water boiling in their wake.
Captain Igor Kasilev sweeps an arm out towards the window. "Shokalskiy can't leave on own. This ice is too thick. I make call." He's already pushed the distress button for help. Shit. It's official, then. We really are in trouble. The general rule of thumb when trapped by sea ice is to wait it out. Eventually the ice should spit you out; it may take weeks, months or even years, but you should get home. Not this time. The icebergs are too close, the pack too thick. The silence of the room is broken by the printing clatter of a fax machine. Igor rips the message off the machine and lays it on the table in front of us. We read it in silence.
From: Falmouth Coastguard. Subject: ATTENTION MASTER. IMMEDIATE. 24 2025 UTC DEC 13. FM UKMRCC. TO AKADEMIK SHOKALSKIY C/S UBNF. ATTENTION MASTER: YOUR INMARSAT C DISTRESS MODE HAS BEEN ACTIVATED. YOU MUST CONFIRM YOUR DISTRESS OR INDICATE YOUR VESSEL IS SAFE. COMMUNICATE WITH UKMRCC AND PASS YOUR POSITION.
It seems bizarre that the coastguard at Falmouth in the UK is handling our rescue. They couldn't be further away. But Falmouth is one of the global hubs for rescue, switched on 24 hours a day. Any place, any time, a distressed ship's call first goes to them and is then passed on to a local rescue centre. One of those on board is Greg Mortimer, an Australian legend in the mountaineering scene and a pioneer of commercial ventures in the south. He is our point of liaison with the Shokalskiy's captain and crew and in charge of operations on the ice. Greg rings the number and confirms the distress signal. He gives our co-ordinates: 66˚52' south, 144˚19' west. We get a barrage of questions: What's the state of the ship? Distance to the ice edge? How close are the icebergs? What's their trajectory? Greg delivers the answers, short and to the point. A few minutes later, he hangs up.
"Okay," he says. "We're going to be passed over to the Australian Rescue Coordination Centre shortly. They'll be directing three vessels to our position: the Chinese Xue Long, the French Astrolabe and the Australian Aurora Australis. These are all icebreakers and should be with us in three to four days' time. The Xue Long will probably get here first. It was on its way from Fremantle to the Ross Sea to scout out some locations for a new research base, so we're actually rather fortunate."
The morning after comes as a devastating blow. Everything outside has changed again. The fierce winds of yesterday have packed even more ice in between us and open water. What had been a few kilometres of sea ice is now far, far worse.
Chris Turney with Annette, Robert and Cara in Antarctica. Photo: Chris Turney
IT'S 8AM on Boxing Day. Most normal people would be lying in bed after a day of overindulgence. We, on the other hand, are stuck on a ship, 2700 kilometres from anywhere, surrounded by sea ice and bergs – and I'm having the air choked out of me by a raging snowstorm. My expedition co-leader, Chris Fogwill, and I are checking that the Zodiacs are securely lashed down on the rear deck. Chris is a brilliant scientist. A world leader in glaciology with more than 10 years' field experience in Antarctica, he can read the landscape like no one else I've worked with and knows just what gear a team in the field needs and how to use it. The ropes seem firm enough, and I'm sorely tempted to let them be and hope for the best, but in these winds you can never be sure. With the slightest slack, they'll rapidly unravel. The last thing we need is six-metre-long inflatables breaking loose and flying off the deck.
The Shokalskiy is now being buffeted by winds of more than 90km/h and the weather looks set to stay this way for most of the day. It's a good job we're not in open water. We'd have towering waves to contend with as well. This blizzard is more violent than anything I've ever been caught in before. The deck is treacherously icy and I hold on tight, grabbing anything to keep my balance. The wind on the other side of the ship's funnel is even more fierce, blowing vicious darts of ice in my face. I gasp in shock and get down on all fours, keeping low. There's a very real chance one or both of us might get blown off our feet, and the last thing we need is a broken limb – or worse. Fragments of ice hurtle off the rigging. I make sure my snow goggles are firmly in place and drop my head.
A distant roar of wind warns me that another blast is about to hit. It builds in strength, howling and screeching around the ship. I can feel the Shokalskiy shaking as if it's about to be torn out of the ice. Come on, you bastard! I scream at the ropes, and finally feel the knot tighten. With the last inflatable secure, everything is locked down. Thank Christ for that. Chris makes to come over but I wave him away: it's all good. There's no point shouting; he'll never hear me. Chris gets my meaning and moves to the shelter of a nearby doorway. I'm out of breath by the time I reach him.
"This is bloody crazy weather," he says. It is bloody crazy, but we're done. When the winds worsen at least we'll know everything is lashed as securely as possible. "I need a coffee," I shout and heave open the door into the back of the lounge. We step from the raging apocalypse into another world. Inside, all is calm and warm, lights ablaze. We collapse on the sofas and savour what has to be the best damn coffee in the world.
UNFORTUNATELY, THE MEDIA has learnt about our predicament. The first we know about it is during Christmas dinner, when second mate Vlad calls for me over the public address system: "Chris, Chris, please come to bridge." Faces turn towards me. I smile back weakly, knowing that it must be important if I am being asked for now. I rise from the table, leaning over Annette's shoulder to give her a kiss. "Don't worry, love, it'll be fine."
I nervously climb the three flights of stairs to the bridge. Vlad meets me at the door and signals to the phone next to the chart table. It's a journalist wanting to know whether we're okay. It catches me off guard. I do the only thing I can think of: I stall for time. "Oh fine, fine," I reply. "We've run into some thicker than expected ice, so we're just waiting for a change in wind and then we'll be on our way."
"So nothing to be concerned about?" It's bizarre speaking to someone while we're … trapped. The journalist is talking to me as if I'm just down the road. "Oh no, we're all good. Just having dinner. Everyone's in fine spirits." I wish the journalist a happy Christmas and put the phone down. I hope it's just a case of an enthusiastic journalist on a slow news day. No chance. We later learn that the authorities have put out a press release. This is causing unintended mayhem. The ship is being inundated with calls. There are Russian reports that we've been hit by an iceberg, that we're sinking, that several people have died. A confused newspaper article has came out in Australia. At first I don't recognise what it's describing: a tourist ship on some sort of botched historic re-creation. I'm struggling to reconcile our scientific expedition with the way it's being reported; the journalist hasn't bothered to do even the most cursory research.
There's a danger the story is about to become very twisted very quickly. We have enough to be getting on with without journalists firing out lazy reports. The conditions are too bad to go outside again, so I send a message to the head of the Australian Antarctic Division via the ship's email; we need to co-ordinate our efforts to minimise any more garbled stories being published. The last thing we need is the crap being scared out of everyone at home. I hope we get a response soon.
The team's fired up. There's an old notion in expedition circles that you need a bogeyman on the team, someone to bond against. We don't have anyone like that, but no matter – the newspaper article does the same trick. It has an electrifying effect on morale, taking the focus off the blizzard outside. We need to respond. We need to tell everyone what we're doing. Greg sums it up nicely: "We can push back on this. Don't let them take control of our story. We need to tell everyone we're all right and the expedition is scientific."
We all agree. The three journalists on board have already started sending in their own reports using the satellite technology we bought for the expedition. I don't know what they're saying, but anything will be better than the garbage we've seen this morning. Our social media network seems an obvious way to reach out: Twitter, Google+, Facebook, Vine, YouTube and the blogs. We've been posting daily science updates to all of these. Now we can use them to tell everyone we're all right. We will tell our story.
Scientists from Chris Turney’s expedition prepare a helipad as they wait to be rescued. Photo: AAP
THE WIND from the Boxing Day storm continues to increase in intensity and the ship is being buffeted – it's almost like we're being plucked from the ice. I realise the Shokalskiy is starting to tilt. It's only slight at first, the sensation subtle, but it's definitely there.
Up on the bridge, I walk over to the window and look down. The wind is blowing from the north. Finding their path blocked, the ice floes are piling up alongside the starboard side of the vessel. The visibility is worse than last night and we can't see any of the icebergs or what they're doing, but they're somewhere out there. I squint into the gloom, but it's futile. The radar has become our only eyes. Involuntarily, I find myself checking the screen every few minutes. I'm not the only one. Bald-headed chief mate Nikolai is on the bridge. A good-natured man, Nikolai is normally supremely confident in the ability of the ship to weather any conditions, but even he is making a regular passage between the radar and the windows.
"It's okay," he says reassuringly, almost to himself. The bergs glow ominously green but so far they seem to be staying put. That's a relief. If one or more of these Goliaths make a beeline for the ship, we won't have long to react. The last thing we want to do is evacuate the Shokalskiy in these conditions.
The wind is screaming again. The tilt meter on the wall is showing the ship at 1.5 degrees. I can feel it. I go down to find the kids. Both are in their cabin, Robert watching a film on his iPad, Cara reading.
"Guys, no going up on deck today. It's really wild outside and I have to know you're both safe. Is that okay?" "Fine, Dad," says Cara, barely looking up. "Sure, Dad," says Robert cheerily, completely unfazed by my instructions. Dad sounds like he's making a fuss about nothing. Kids.
I head along the corridor to find Greg. We talk through possible scenarios. If things get dire and the ship is threatened, we'll have to get everyone onto the ice and try to make for the continent. If an iceberg does head towards the Shokalskiy, we'll probably get everyone into the lifeboats for shelter while we do relays. Stillwell Island would be our best bet, but it would be a huge ask of the team – some might say impossible – to cut a path through unfamiliar terrain in dense fog with winds reaching more than 90km/h. And all accompanied by a group with virtually no experience of extreme conditions. It's not a situation that fills me with confidence.
I look out of the porthole over Greg's shoulder and shudder. There are 15 kilometres of moving ice between us and the continent. Shit, I hope it doesn't come to that. Nikolai is still pacing between the radar screen and the starboard window. The tilt meter is now reading five degrees. That might not sound much, but for a vessel the size of the Shokalskiy, five degrees is a big deal. The cabins and corridors are noticeably askew. "We can manage this," says Greg quietly. "If necessary, Igor can flood the ballast to correct the ship."
I glance down. The weather station readout on the nearby computer screen has flatlined. The conditions outside are so extreme it can't cope. The last reliable wind measurement was 99km/h and rising. I gaze into the grey whiteness. The storm just seems to keep getting worse. And we're completely on our own.
THE MORNING after comes as a devastating blow. Everything outside has changed – again. The fierce winds of yesterday have packed even more ice between us and open water. What had been a few kilometres of sea ice is now far, far worse. There is no dark-grey water sky anywhere. We're surrounded by the white glare of ice blink. There's no let-up all the way to the horizon. There must be nearly 40 kilometres of ice. Forty kilometres to open water. Seven kilometres was bad enough. To make matters worse, what was a broken icescape is now a scene of complete devastation. Under cover of the fog, the sea ice has cracked, collided and rafted; two-storey-high blocks of ice create a vista strikingly reminiscent of a destroyed city. The pressure of the ice has formed long ridges around us, running out in all directions. Most disturbingly of all, the icebergs off the starboard bow have moved a few hundred metres. If they'd set off in our direction, it would have been a disaster for the Shokalskiy.
Thank Christ we didn't have to evacuate the ship. The weather station is now running properly again after shutting down for 18 hours during yesterday's storm; 18 hours of the shittiest conditions imaginable. Fortunately the ship is quiet. Most of the team are kept busy by the new schedule, and with lab work and movies on offer, not many people are about. It's all helping Chris and me to maintain focus while we figure out what to do.
We go to my cabin, a good place to talk with little fear of being overheard. Chris collapses in a seat opposite me, haggard and worn, the aftermath of yesterday's storm clearly weighing heavily on his mind. We know what's at stake here. There's no point in wishing for the few kilometres of sea ice we had on Christmas Day. Forty is what we now have to deal with. We set to work interrogating the latest sea-ice images and weather charts. A shift in the wind would help, but the forecasts insist we'll have strong easterlies for at least the next week. I know weather patterns can dramatically change in the Antarctic, but I can't shake the feeling it's a futile hope that we'll suddenly get a westerly breeze. Given that, we have to face the fact the Shokalskiy isn't going anywhere without help. The Xue Long is our next best hope. And if she does get through, we'll need to be ready.
On January 2, 2014, a Chinese helicopter safely evacuated all expedition members from the Shokalskiy to the Aurora Australis. Westerly winds later released the Shokalskiy from the ice, allowing it to sail back to New Zealand. To date, 13 research papers have been produced from the expedition.
Edited extract from Shackled: How a Scientific Expedition to Antarctica Became a Fight for Survival by Chris Turney (Penguin Random House, $35), out on July 31.