Statistics: Day #5 of Voyage

Spew count: 1 (still)
Number of days on anti-seasickness medication: 5
Total items ingested in last four days: 3 apples, 1 banana, 9 Vita-Wheats with vegemite, 2 cups of tea, lots of lemonade
Amount of money I hope to make by selling this to misc. girly mag as new 'sea-slimming' diet: five figure sum

Current location: 130 deg E, 55 deg S
Relative distance to Casey: half-way
Number of days estimated till we see icebergs: 2
Current temperature: 2.7 deg. C
Current wind chill factor: -15 deg. C
Number of minutes I spent on the upper, outdoor foredeck wearing a t-shirt, before I realised the sunshine was deceptive: 5
Number of hours lying down required for every hour mobile: 3, but decreasing

Books read: 2
Currently reading: Moby Dick

Best thing about being on ship: partaking in a heady rollicking south-seas expedition towards the last great wild continent
Also good aspect of ship: endless supply of chocolate biscuits

~~~~~

Now that I'm trying to wean myself off my Kwell anti-sea-sickness dependence, I've been able to enjoy lucid periods where I can feel the voyage as some kind of adventure, and not merely as a claustrophobic, nightmarish fun-fair ride. I got up relatively early today and had a shower, which is like a sub-sub-adventure to the sub-adventure of the voyage (the main adventure, of course, being Antarctica). Showering goes like this:

1. Carefully open the bathroom cabinet to retrieve shampoo, conditioner etc.
2. Pick up razors, soap, washcloths and moisturisers, all of which have immediately been flung out of the cabinet onto the floor.
3. Stuff items back in and slam cabinet shut.
4. Undress; place clothing in some kind of imaginative wedged-in corner so that it won't end up in the toilet, basin, or shower next time the ship rolls.
5. Step into shower cubicle. Brace feet against opposite sides of shower in vain attempt to maintain balance.
6. Hook one arm through support bracket; move side to side under water stream in order to follow it as it sways left, right, left etc as the ship rolls.
7. Wonder where all the fresh water is coming from, and whether if you have too long a shower you will personally be responsible for a lack of drinking water for the rest of the voyage
8. Get out, pick up towels from where they have been thrown onto the floor by the motion of the ship, dry with one hand while steadying self with other, open cabinet to stuff shampoo etc back in, pick up razors, soap, washcloths and moisturisers which have immediately fallen out onto the floor again, slam door shut again.
9. Wrestle with the heavy bathroom door, feel queasy, go straight back to bed.

As I mentioned earlier, I spent some time on the upper deck looking out over the bow around midday today. The stunning sunshine coming in though the cabin porthole induced me to brave my treacherous inner-ear and make the most of the day - and it turned out that I felt quite fine. It looked like such a beautiful sunny day that I dramatically underestimated the -15 degree C windchill and my first attempt at going outside was in a t-shirt, jeans and spray jacket. Pretty soon my throat felt like it had frozen into alabaster so wisely I redressed and tried again. I was all alone up there.

The ocean looks entirely unlike the Moby-Dick-esque cliche of stormy southern swells, which involve (in my imagination) raging, inky-black seas crashing over the heaving deck as sailors in sou-westers slide into the railings and shout frantic instructions and stretch out hands to almost but not quite rescue the guy who gets washed over the side by the fearsome waves as sails tear and masts crack and crash in the formidable night. No: instead the sky is blue and clear with wisps of cirrus, and the ocean is pleasant and wide and punctuated by dainty peaks of gleaming white spray with petrels swooping and hovering between the waves. The lack of objects by which to judge distance makes the horizons seem neighbourly, so the effect is less like we're a small vessel adrift on an infinite ocean, than that we're a toy contained in a summer-sky snow-dome. Without, as yet, any snow.

Other stuff about shipboard life (now that I am finally able to partake of it): the bridge is almost always open, and is a really good place to sit and watch birds and ocean and the big plumes of white spray that are thrown up as the ship ploughs into the water. Not to mention pretending you are important Picard-like figure sitting in Captain's Chair. Sarah, one of the meteorology observers, showed me the system they use to make weather reports every three hours to send back to Aus via INMARSAT. Shaun the enviro guy runs exercise sessions every morning at 9:30 and this afternoon is a yoga session at 4; at 2 p.m. people give slide shows and talks - today was Wade, the Aussie who's going to spend a year at Mawson shooting docos for the BBC, talking about the times he has kayaked around Antarctica and the sub-Antarctic islands. Coming up are talks about seismic measurements in the deep field; how to avoid freezing to death (or something) (that one's compulsory); the Amery Ice Shelf; and so forth. And today someone started the iceberg lottery - for two bucks (which goes to charity) you can buy a half-hour interval in which you guess that the first iceberg that is as big as the ship will pass the bow.

Hooray! I'm going to exploit my suddenly-found sea-legs by going and making myself a cup of tea!