Hell is a private experience on a lonely night watch
Icebergs, fog, gales, little sleep and hallucinations sap Deborah Shapiro’s resilience
Over dinner Rolf and I discuss strategy. There are seven gargantuan icebergs that will drift toward shore with us during the night. Tomorrow morning we will attempt to enter the fjords. I offer to take the first watch.
Before Rolf goes to sleep, we have another look around. Oddly, the bergs’ arrangement has changed. We reckon that because of their extreme depth, these large bergs are moving in a different current from the one transporting Northern
Light towards the coast; we will not drift with the bergs, we will oppose them. The pilot book states that bergs have been observed to move as much as 40 miles a day in this vicinity. We will keep a constant lookout and motor out of their way.
While dressing for my outside stint, I comfort myself that at least I knew their positions before it got dark. But as I open the hatch minutes later, I freeze. Fog has settled in, obliterating any view. I can see my way around on deck, but not as far as the masthead light 50ft above.
Staring out into the primeval soup it is impossible to ascertain distance. My mind strains for clarity and my eyes to focus. I have to concentrate to look at nothing in particular and take in the whole. I see a slight blur, a smudge on the evenness of the fog – a cloaked iceberg. I have no way of knowing how far away it is. Another berg is close enough to hear. The waves hitting the base sound like breakers on a shoreline; it is abeam and moving past us. The blur, nothing more than a nebulous shadow, is what I have to wait for. My stomach tightens.
I am alone, pinned between fear and icebergs, with both closing in. Old doubts take voice in my mind. How well will you cope with a situation so threatening and so far outside the realm of the familiar? How long until reality is distorted by false perception? How long will creative suppleness remain before it warps into hallucination?
The biggest problem is the waiting itself; there is nothing decisive to do. The key word is ‘do’. Do something. Move around. Start your normal exercise routine. But I am too jittery and could easily trip or fall over the side. So go and get your safety harness. The last bastion of logic has split off into the watch partner I so desperately need, taking control and keeping me calm: Let your eyes dart around at different focal lengths. Don’t assume a horizon in fog. Keep watch 360°.
The blur moves across the bow, and the fuzz becomes dark patches. They are gradually getting larger, yet it is impossible to ascertain the distance. Perplexed and anxious, I wait. My repertoire of songs runs dry.
An hour elapses, and the patches loom larger. Of course it’s a berg, but I can’t figure out how long it will be until it rams us. I start to get dizzy – at the end of my rope. But panic is not an option; when the fear gets this intense, I must go for help. Rolf doesn’t even dress. He opens the hatch, looks and looks some more and before disappearing tells me to come down when I get a chance. I know he hasn’t even seen it.
Fear had stymied logic. Blinded by the fog, I had fought to see; I should have been using my ears. I go back up on deck with purpose. Minutes later, I hear it. It’s getting close. I wake Rolf and tell him it is time to move. He drags himself out of his bunk again. This time he grabs his clothes and asks for some throttle; he’ll turn the key.
It takes us 15 minutes to motor halfway around the base of this berg. The sky clears as Rolf takes over. On his watch he has starshine and a brilliant display of aurora borealis. Hell is a private experience.
‘ I am alone, pinned between fear and icebergs, with both closing in’