At Sea
There are times in our lives when the body, mind, and spirit require rest, decompression, and reflection. And so our last day of the expedition was to be such. Life itself amounts to a succession of moments. The past is nothing more than a litany of previous moments gone by, a history of timepieces that, when strung together, define one’s existence. The brief spell of awareness that each of us are granted may echo down the corridors of time, but such reverberations are heard by generations not yet born. Ultimately life is for the living, and all anyone has to do in life is decide what to do with the time that has been granted them.
We had all decided to spend a small portion of our time here on Earth in a very special crucible of awareness indeed, exploring the wildest section of the globe – a place that invariably heightens senses and sharpens attention. We had taken a bold leap to a realm seldom seen and hardly trodden. And for such a stroke we will forever remain touched.
We had endured the skepticism of friends and family for making the choice to travel to a notoriously cold and hostile place, braved the infamous Drake Passage, gazed upon a frozen world as alien as a distant moon, sailed in the wakes of the great explorers, crossed the fiery Scotia Sea, strode the shores of an almost unknown southern Eden, and explored a surprisingly vibrant group of islands defined in common culture by a recent and brief but brutal war. Ultimately we found our way back to the starting point of a breathtaking, one-of-a-kind sojourn. With fresh eyes focused by direct experience we had come to a new understanding of Antarctica, South Georgia, the Falkland Islands, and the seas that cradle them all, and perhaps had even come to know ourselves a bit better.
Most of us are writing the later chapters of the tome of our lives. A few of us had just begun penning the early pages of a book that will one day tell the tale of our time on the third rock from the Sun. It matters not how the story is told – what matters is how it is lived. Memories are our own. They can be shared but never fully conferred. Most of us will find a modicum of frustration upon return to civilization, for we will find few others who possess a common frame of reference. It is with our fellow travelers, joined by a principle of moments, united briefly in time and space, that the bonds are (and will remain) the strongest.
We had shared extraordinary experiences, rained down upon us by forces of nature impossible to deny. In the afterglow of achievement we celebrated the discoveries and triumphs of our communal journey, but also during this day at sea we contemplated and discussed what had seemingly so quickly transpired. Three weeks since the genesis of our expedition – was it really so long ago? In a duality of reasoning it seems almost a lifetime, but also all too short – the curious byproduct of time well spent. Digestion of such soul food will take weeks, perhaps months. In that time and perhaps long after, when our individual lives run through stretches that are dull and tedious, or when our minds are quiet, our spirits will be transported back to the southern reaches where time moved more slowly, where the pulse of the great white continent dictated pace and knowing. The end of a journey is always bittersweet; the fleeting charge of success is underscored by the knowledge that it has come to conclusion.
However, Antarctica exerts a powerful hold. We will always keep a piece of the land where the penguins play with us, because as the mind is a canvas and memories the brush, the experience of the Southern Ocean is a Michelangelo forever at work.
There are times in our lives when the body, mind, and spirit require rest, decompression, and reflection. And so our last day of the expedition was to be such. Life itself amounts to a succession of moments. The past is nothing more than a litany of previous moments gone by, a history of timepieces that, when strung together, define one’s existence. The brief spell of awareness that each of us are granted may echo down the corridors of time, but such reverberations are heard by generations not yet born. Ultimately life is for the living, and all anyone has to do in life is decide what to do with the time that has been granted them.
We had all decided to spend a small portion of our time here on Earth in a very special crucible of awareness indeed, exploring the wildest section of the globe – a place that invariably heightens senses and sharpens attention. We had taken a bold leap to a realm seldom seen and hardly trodden. And for such a stroke we will forever remain touched.
We had endured the skepticism of friends and family for making the choice to travel to a notoriously cold and hostile place, braved the infamous Drake Passage, gazed upon a frozen world as alien as a distant moon, sailed in the wakes of the great explorers, crossed the fiery Scotia Sea, strode the shores of an almost unknown southern Eden, and explored a surprisingly vibrant group of islands defined in common culture by a recent and brief but brutal war. Ultimately we found our way back to the starting point of a breathtaking, one-of-a-kind sojourn. With fresh eyes focused by direct experience we had come to a new understanding of Antarctica, South Georgia, the Falkland Islands, and the seas that cradle them all, and perhaps had even come to know ourselves a bit better.
Most of us are writing the later chapters of the tome of our lives. A few of us had just begun penning the early pages of a book that will one day tell the tale of our time on the third rock from the Sun. It matters not how the story is told – what matters is how it is lived. Memories are our own. They can be shared but never fully conferred. Most of us will find a modicum of frustration upon return to civilization, for we will find few others who possess a common frame of reference. It is with our fellow travelers, joined by a principle of moments, united briefly in time and space, that the bonds are (and will remain) the strongest.
We had shared extraordinary experiences, rained down upon us by forces of nature impossible to deny. In the afterglow of achievement we celebrated the discoveries and triumphs of our communal journey, but also during this day at sea we contemplated and discussed what had seemingly so quickly transpired. Three weeks since the genesis of our expedition – was it really so long ago? In a duality of reasoning it seems almost a lifetime, but also all too short – the curious byproduct of time well spent. Digestion of such soul food will take weeks, perhaps months. In that time and perhaps long after, when our individual lives run through stretches that are dull and tedious, or when our minds are quiet, our spirits will be transported back to the southern reaches where time moved more slowly, where the pulse of the great white continent dictated pace and knowing. The end of a journey is always bittersweet; the fleeting charge of success is underscored by the knowledge that it has come to conclusion.
However, Antarctica exerts a powerful hold. We will always keep a piece of the land where the penguins play with us, because as the mind is a canvas and memories the brush, the experience of the Southern Ocean is a Michelangelo forever at work.
