Active thermal vents released boiling water into the caldera, causing steam to rise lazily over the black shores of Whaler’s Cove. No irony here. The rust-eaten remains of massive boiling tanks and dilapidated barracks line the coast, where whalers once boiled carcasses for valuable oil. Seals were clubbed. Penguins, already dressed in their tuxedo-like feathers, were presumably forced to serve cocktails. Weathered bones protruded from the ashy sand like ivory fingers from long deceased giants. A pair of small, decaying wooden boats, abandoned long ago, appeared ghostly in the mist. A handful of chinstrap penguins and crab-eater seals appeared then vanished in the rolling fog. Stephen King would love this place, if he lived to tell the tale.
All in all it seemed like a great place to go swimming. I stripped down to my skivvies, adjusted my knit cap, then dashed headlong into the icy waters. After a few long steps the ground went out from under me and I was up to my neck. At that point it took all of about five seconds for my extremities to go completely numb. I slogged back to the shore, more secure in my manhood than ever, despite the fact that my nipples could now cut through glass. Forget shrinkage, this was more like inversion. All of you wusses who think you belong to one of several purported “polar” clubs can suck it.
Our final stop,
I could not conceive of a better way to close the door on this fantastic world. Sure, we still had a few more days of crossing the Drake, then a flight to
No comments:
Post a Comment