When the Night Comes (27 page)

There is a man.

He is sitting at his kitchen table. Outside it is dark. It has been dark for hours and yet the man has hardly noticed.

It is normal.

It is winter.

It is nothing.

Opposite him sits a small girl—his daughter. It is warm in the kitchen—they are nice and cozy and warm sitting there together eating the dinner that the man has made.

“What should I tell you?” the man says.

“About the ice,” the girl says with a mouth full of fried potato. “What did you do when you got stuck in the ice?”

The man moves a few pieces of sausage about his plate. He looks at the girl.

“Well, we ran out of apples and we ran out of onions. We worked hard.”

“But did you play football on the ice?” the girl asks.

“Yes, this is true. We played football on the ice. We had a tournament.”

“Did your team win the tournament?”

“I don't remember now,” the man says. “Mostly it was just for fun—to pass the time. We all fell over on the ice, we laughed a lot.”

The girl nods. She knows this. There are photos of the tournament and she has seen them. Black-and-white photographs. One was taken from inside the ship through a porthole. The men are standing on the bright white ice, a perfect circle of light against the darkness inside.

“And did you help dig her out? The red ship?”

“Yes,” the man says. “We all did that. We all did some digging. We got her going but it was slow and we were using too much fuel, so we had to stay put and wait. We had to give up on the digging.”

“But who came, Papa? Who came to find you?”

The man smiles. He has finished eating but there is still food on his plate. He puts his fork down, rests his elbow on the table. He leans toward the girl—his daughter.

“You know the answers to these questions,” he says.

But the girl shakes her head.

“Tell me, Papa! Because I have forgotten.”

The man leans back on his chair now, his arms by his sides.

“The
Icebird
came but they nearly got stuck too because they did not listen. They never liked to listen to us, so they had to turn back. That ship could get crushed in an ice field like an empty tin can—not like us. We were safe. We were in no danger.”

The girl nods. “Yes, you were safe,” she says. “And what happened then?”

“The Japanese came in a big icebreaker and they rammed the ice, cracked it like it was just an egg.
Crack, crack, crack,
and it was all broken up. We were finally free. We were moving again, moving after so long.”

“How big was the ship, Papa?”

“It was very big. It made us look like an ant!”

“And what was the best thing?”

“Well, they gave us some apples. A big bag of apples. I think I have never tasted apples so sweet or good. It is funny how you can miss a thing like an apple.”

“I would not miss them,” the girl says.

“You would miss them,” the man says. “You would miss them if you did not have them for so long.”

The girl says nothing then. Her plate is empty and she looks at her papa's plate.

“Do you want some more?” the man asks, but he does not wait for an answer. He picks up his plate, pushes the remaining bits of fried potato and sausage onto the girl's plate.

“Don't tell your mother that I did not eat all of my dinner,” the man says. “She says I am getting too thin!”

The girl laughs at this and he nods. It is their daily agreement.

“Will I go there?” the girl asks. “Will I go down to the ice?”

“If that is what you want, then you will go,” the man says. “You will go anywhere you want to go.”

The girl concentrates on eating for a while. Maybe she is thinking—thinking about the cold water, the color of it. About the albatross that come out of the thick gray to glide on the wake of passing ships. A kingdom of birds. The water rising higher than mountains.

“Will you come with me, Papa? Will you come to Antarctica?”

There is a man.

He is sitting at his kitchen table. Outside it is dark, but he does not see the darkness now.

The light is coming—just early light.
Nella Dan
is sailing up the Derwent, they will be in Hobart for breakfast and after he will be able to
step down onto the solid ground of the small city, a city of hills that climb up and up to the face of a stone mountain.

A family there waiting for him. A family waving. A woman, a small boy with curly hair, and a girl called Isla.

A place he wanted to call home.

“Papa?” the girl says, a piece of fried sausage glistening at the end of her fork.

The man looks at this girl—his daughter. He studies her face for traces of fear, for lines of worry. He looks at the whites of the girl's eyes, at the tightness of her lips.

But there is nothing.

His girl is free.

“I have spent a long time at sea, much of my life. But once you have seen it, you dream about it sometimes, and you know it is there, and that is enough.”

The girl nods. She pops the piece of sausage into her mouth.

Her plate is empty.

“Tomorrow we will pull the rowboat up—it's time,” the man says.

The girl nods again. “I will help,” she says.

T
here was a man and he told me about the sea. About the ice and about the light, about the birds that came out of nowhere to talk to him—to keep him company.

It was another world.

At night my bed became a ship on the slate-green water. I would sail under the open sky—the stars pale there, both the moon and the sun shining down at once, and I was not afraid.

It was light.

He gave me a picture of his ship and I put it on my wall with Blu-Tack.

It was in black and white, and mostly gray, but I could see the colors there. The red of his ship and the white-blue of the ice. The color of the sky changing from light to dark and then opening up to blue in patches—moments.

This gentle kindness in my house.

My brother and I walked on the stone streets, the past there like an owl watching us from the rusty rooftops. Huge eyes and thin sharp claws that tried to pick at us as we walked. Tried to take our warmth—steal our joy—take the light away.

But kindness was a shield.

For a time we walked along untouched, together—a few rays of sun shone down on the crescent that led to our new house. A line of hope.

The little white cottage on the hill. A house that we owned. Red roses against the whitewashed walls. A black heavy door thick and old and solid. A room of my own.

There was a man and he told me about the sea. About the ice and about the light, about a ship called
Nella Dan
. I knew him once, for two long summers—when lots of things happened—and lots of things changed.

His name was Bo.

“She was from another time when ships were built to last, and she had a mind of her own.”

—CAPTAIN ARNE SORENSEN

T
here were four “Dan” Danish ships leased from the J. Lauritzen shipping line—
Thala Dan
,
Magga Dan
,
Kista Dan
and
Nella Dan
—that were used by the Australian government from 1953 to 1987.

Nella Dan
was the most famous of these ships. Commissioned by Lauritzen, with great input from the Australian Antarctic Division,
Nella Dan
was named in honor of Nel Law, the wife of the Australian National Antarctic Research Expedition director of the time, Dr. Phillip Law.

Built by the Aalborg Shipyard Pty. Ltd. in 1961,
Nella Dan
incorporated all the customary features of her elder sisters: an icebreaker stern, ice fins and an ice knife. However,
Nella
had modifications unique to her—a double hull in the engine room and part of the holds, and a dishwasher were two such innovations. The ascent to the crow's nest was through the interior of the mast, and the ship supplied its own fresh water with an Atlas generator. When she was built, the
Nella Dan
was regarded as setting the standard for polar vessels.

Nella Dan
spent twenty-six years in service for the Australian government and she sailed longer and farther than any other ship in history in
the Antarctic region. She visited every one of Australia's Antarctic stations, and supported major exploratory activities along much of the Eastern Antarctic coastline. From 1981,
Nella Dan
provided a research base for Australia's increasingly sophisticated and prestigious marine science program. On 3 December 1987, she dragged her anchor during fierce winds and ran aground off Macquarie Island. After an intense battle to save her, the controversial decision was made to scuttle the
Nella Dan
.

There has never been another ship that worked for the Australian Antarctic Division that has made those who crewed on her or traveled on her so emotionally attached. She was a special ship—old-fashioned, small and comfortable and much-loved. Her crew are remembered as being cheerful and kind, and there was a strong camaraderie on board. For all who worked on her, she was home. Some of the crew were with her for years, a few for more than a decade. Six of the Danish crew remained behind on Macquarie Island watching over their ship in 1987. They would not leave her. They are among a handful of people who really know what happened after she ran aground. But that is their story to tell.