Update by Grace
Feb 21 2023
In Pittsboro, East and West are easy finds. Time and space are defined by which part of the floor a sunbeams lands, one shadow at a time. Long shadow, low sun. Down and out here in a place where pipe dreams bury themselves, the shadows are translucent, rarely visible. The sun comes out of nowhere, leaving no hint of origin.
The sun stays in the same place as long as you call it day. It skirts along the 10 story ice blocks they call icebergs.
There’s a competing Cross up there trying to bring down the unsuspecting sun. It’s always a tie game. It’s like completely different channels that can’t be edited. Suddenly the white caps flatten into a smooth glass top. Wires uncrossed, cameras loaded, down we go into kayaks.
Only the Captain can predict the future. The Captain easily slips eel-like into a solid cloud and is transported right into a yet-to-be-defined Season of Vivaldi. A
“weather-whisperer” of sorts. Jim Cantor, be damned!
Right out of the glass capped Kayak waters onto peaks and trough water moguls, and just like that, we check for holding scopolamine patches, anchoring our ankles
with wires and cords.
See how the main sail sets about now! Under sail to stabilize the situation, diesel motor switches our channels out to “Be Here Now” as if it is no strange thing.
During the thick and thin of what they don’t call a storm, the Scottish Cook, Janey, flashes those daring diamond eyes at each one. She serves the cheese without
showing her hand. We are well on our way to Deception Island which could morf into Dante’s finest moment. Or not. But we are void of tricks and totally trust our
Weather-Whisperer who might turn things around with one data point. Like Bob Dylan says, “it’s not dark yet, but it’s getting there”.
Dips and bobs—way wide, front to back, side to side.
“People-pieces” vacate the bow and crowd the stern. Pepper and salt help themselves from one wall roll to the next. Then the patched up “people-pieces” retreat to their prescribed places like spices, only to reset the channel in 11 hours.
Deceptive Island lures and lulls amongst the gloom. We grow highly suspect of the named place. The waves, “rouger”…could that even be a word? Maybe not, but just
a state of mind. The 10 story icebergs have reached the cloud now. The Cross must surely be up there somewhere. We group-think.
Meanwhile, Jumpin’ Jack Flash all done up in red, has finally gone mad up top. He’s full-framed in red and accuses his fellow “people-piece” of serving him tonic
instead of water.
The sun has yet to extract itself and time can only be measured in wave lengths now.
Watch the horizon we’re told. There is not a horizon. Only clouds. They’re all going mad. Maybe it is the tonic.
Water depth varies: 150 meters, 300, to 1008 , with 20 hours to go. Ocean bottom not well defined here. Send for help.
Chef Janey has retreated down under and pops back up to pass out Fisherman’s Friend to “reset” the occupants. That sun is struggling to remain in the picture. Me too. Still working on that horizon focus with no horizon.
We stayed 12 throughout the night. Die another day.
Yesterday wasn’t very available but today struck up a reality check.
The “Weather-Whisperer”, being cautious around the trailing albatrosses we know are there, but cannot see, once again consults his oracle. It’s strange and surprising like that. One day real, the next, not so much. Deception Island was every bit about deception. The horizon took a believable place as did the sun. We broke through the key-hole clouds, our photographs, as if on cue, lend themselves again to content/context/ and contrast.
Flat maps look like we’re looking straight up from the bottom, like through the bottom. How can we be here and there at the same time?
Not one sound tonight. Not a reason to quit anything.
Fur Seals run Deception Island. They summons up a few penguins to work the camera angles. But the Fur Seals steal the low sun and spar for our shots. Their fur shines golden and rich in brown. The Chef tells of having almost stepped on a fur seat and being chased up the rocks, fear strickened. An Argentinan First Mate breaks his silence to share his own up-close-and personal encounter with a Fur seal as he lands our zodiac on shore at the same place. Nancy could have had her own story to share had a “people-piece” close by said “stop”! The seals are lying
all over the beach and they can work their frames and wrinkles like magic to our cameras. And we forget what we are doing, meaning to die another day.
Woke up to rolling waves and white caps. Basically not going anywhere. Winds are between 40-60 knots and we wait it out, ankles again anchored in cords and wires for a new reading. Ice is forming on the windows and the Tasmanian First Mate has opted for Bermuda shorts. They’ve all gone mad, frequently dipping down into Alice’s world and popping back up with new intentions. I imagine it’s mostly a creative reset. Marc has sharpened his pencils resuming his journal entries.
Captain and captain “people-pieces” switch into full frame. And can see forever. “People-pieces” can only edit the forever.
Conditions here change without warning. Staff stories of rogue icebreakers, many months in situ. The waves are white capped and the ropes fly horizontally across
the deck.The snow-ice plasters itself against the windows. Ocean Tramp only moves in circles. Another 360 degrees. There are still 12 of us. 50 knots, we’re told. Ankle anchors dash any thoughts of mutiny. Captain encourages us to just “carry on”.
Pipe dreams run rampart. There is a huge cruise ship, Europa, out there they seem to think. It cannot see us, nor us, them. Phantom ships, passing through the fog.
