Good ole 42 has arrived, or better said: we, the 42nd overwintering team at the Neumayer Station, have. And it’s about time! We spent quite a while anticipating it and getting ready. On 1 August, our adventure began – and it was incredibly exciting. That was the day when we all first met, and it went like this: until then, we didn’t know anything about each other except that each of us would be meeting the eight people who we would spend the next year-and-a-half together with, through thick and thin. The people we would overwinter in the Antarctic with. At the security gate to the Alfred Wegener Institute’s Building D I picked up the keys to an apartment and drove to the address they’d given me. Just as I was about to unlock the front door, I heard from behind: “Hey, are you maybe overwintering, too?”. It was the peak of summer in Bremerhaven, and there I stood with a huge backpack and a pair of skis strapped to my back. I turned around and the face behind the voice greeted me with a warm smile. “Hi, I’m Werner. I’m the cook. Who are you?” After a brief but friendly round of introductions, we brought our bags inside. Our group was split into flats on three floors. When I got to mine, I could see my flatmate had already been there: her bags were there, together with a very nice note in the kitchen: “Hi. My name is Katrin…” – and at the end: “I’m a little nervous.” Believe me, we all were!
Werner and I decided to relax in his kitchen, have a bit of coffee and chat. We left the door to the flat open, and whenever we heard a key in the lock, we would run out to the stairwell to greet the newcomer. By the time the sun had set, all the future overwinterers were there and the kitchen was full of cheerful faces, laughter and small talk. Here they were, the others who, just like me, had seriously chosen to spend an entire year in the Antarctic. We each told a bit about ourselves and made crazy plans for everything we wanted to do during our overwintering: found a stargazers’ club, a pots-and-pans orchestra, make our own horror movie, acrobatics courses, welding for beginners, first aid workshop, how to bake your own bread, black holes for dummies, Swabian for North Germans, etc. And: secretly introducing a 28-hour day during the long Polar Night, when everybody wants to sleep more anyway (nobody in Europe would notice…). Then we made some jokes about what we would do if they forgot to come pick us up after a year: would we eat Alicia, the youngest of us, or start a penguin farm and a new society that only speaks “Antarctese”? Or try our luck riding an iceberg, with a windmill for power, to Punta Arenas? The kitchen was soon overflowing with ideas and good cheer.
Four months later, we had completed our preparation phase – the time flew by. From glacier training in Tirol to a firefighting course in Schleswig-Holstein, from conflict management to snowcat repair, from scientific fundamentals to drilling teeth – there was something for everybody: a wild mix of additional skills. Because above all, we were meant to become one thing: a nine-headed organism that could face whatever challenges came its way in the Antarctic. This also marked the end of our wonderful time together in our flats in Bremerhaven: dinners with Werner in the “Albatross Galley”, cosy togetherness in the flat dubbed “Ice Gull”, where we worked together to create our overwintering logo, spontaneous get-togethers in the stairwell – probably much to the dismay of our neighbours – and plenty of chitchat (“Anyone in the mood for a coffee? We just brewed a new pot over in “Seahawk.” / “We have a chainsaw course tomorrow. Anyone going in by bike?” / “Aside from the crêpes, do we need bread, too? I can make a quick trip to the bakery.”)…
We greatly enjoyed our free time together: staring into the wonderful sunsets from the roof of the AWI building, taking hikes through the slippery mudflats at the crack of dawn, going for bike rides along the levee, lazy afternoons lying in the sun, boat tours where we shared French fries with one another and shivered together on deck “because it’s still better to be outside”, nights out in the “Alte Bürger” district and at the short film festival, stargazing on an empty crop field, baking cakes, packing our cargo, planning birthday surprises, etc., etc… If we hadn’t had the Antarctic and the prospect of new adventures to look forward to, saying goodbye to Bremerhaven would have been much harder.
Between the end of our preparations and our journey to the Antarctic, we had time for holidays at home. Now it was time to wait for our departure and bid farewell to our loved ones – neither of which was easy. Because of COVID, we did without any holidays abroad or big farewell parties. On the other hand, COVID also gave us a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity: instead of flying to the Antarctic, starting in Cape Town we would get to travel on board the research icebreaker Polarstern. When we heard the news, we couldn’t believe it: Polarstern was on a research cruise and in the middle of a personnel changeover in Cape Town. Since she was bound for the Antarctic anyway, she’d simply take us along for the ride – we felt a bit like hitchhikers who had landed an unbelievable ride at the last minute. We’d all just squeeze in a bit closer together and it would work out fine, as Captain Langhinrichs assured us when we arrived at Frankfurt Airport to leave for Cape Town.
The individual quarantine we had to go through in Cape Town was a walk in the park – thanks to Zoom workouts, quiz nights, online get-togethers and lots of relaxation; we all managed to fill up on quiet and privacy. Then it was time to go, hooray! Out of our quarantine rooms and onto the bus. It took us right to the pier, and there she was, the Polarstern – surrounded by the shimmering water of a brilliant morning, she stole the show from Table Mountain. Going through customs meant dealing with two officials seated at a folding table right in front of the ship: departure with special permission. The crew had been on board since the early morning, and some of them leaned on the railing to observe our chaotic bustle. As we lugged our bags up the gangway, helping hands reached out to us. Our three rooms were on Deck C, and we quickly settled into our cosy quarters. After completing an introduction to the ship and basic safety training, we couldn’t wait to get back out on deck. We lounged about on the topmost deck, exhilarated but lazy, soaking up the sun, wind and the view of Table Mountain, and managed to catch our first sunburns.
Then, the time had come: we were leaving port! We left Cape Town behind us, Table Mountain disappeared from view, and we headed for open water. Night slowly fell on the ocean, draping the African coastline in delicate pastel shades. Accompanied by seagulls and whales, we sailed into the sunset. In the distance, the last lights, and with them, the land masses of civilisation, faded away. Now there would be nothing – except the endless Southern Ocean and, thousands of nautical miles to the south, Antarctica – the continent that would be our new home. We felt an uplifting sense of distance and departure, an indescribable joy. We stayed up on deck for hours, listening to the ocean and taking in the expanse around us. The last coasts disappeared behind us, while the Southern Cross slowly rose above the horizon.
From that point on, there were no more signs of civilisation: no inhabited islands, no ships, not even contrails in the sky. We were on our way to the end of the world.
We spent the next few days exploring, getting to know people and simply enjoying ourselves. We explored the ship, discovering the spots that were the cosiest, most useful, most athletic, offered the best view and offered shelter from the wind. We spent a great deal of time on deck, gazing at the whales, flying fish, tiny birds gliding over the endless ocean, and majestic albatrosses. We spent hours just watching the spray coming off Polarstern’s prow, enjoying the endless ocean, taking in the sunsets and counting shooting stars. We got to know the people who took us along on this wonderful journey: nautical engineers and oceanographers, ship’s engineers and climate palaeontologists, whale spotters, kitchen crew, meteorologists, mechanical engineers, seismologists, deep-sea geologists, sailors, students and many more. We were accepted into the warm-hearted, cheerful and helpful expedition community without much fuss. Great encounters and stories ensued, everyone shared their time and good cheer, and new friendships were born.
As for us overwinterers, our four-person cabin, also known as the “pony farm”, soon became our headquarters. We met there time and time again, just sitting together comfortably or stretching out on every square centimetre of free space like a family of lazy seals. Micha or Katrin would play guitar, Karsten would drop by with a bag of cookies, Benita would do her best to write some postcards while fighting off some mild nausea, Alicia and Hannes would come up with new games to play, Markus would pop in to tell us he’d seen whales again. Only Werner, our cook, was rarely there. He’d hit it off with the kitchen crew and spent a great deal of time in the ship’s galley. We’d see him at night, in between taking a shower and hitting his rack, exhausted but happy. For the rest of us, there wasn’t much to do. I tended to hang around the hospital, where the ship’s surgeon gave me a warm welcome. Once in a while, Alicia, Benita and Katrin would slip on their coveralls and safety shoes, then head up to the working deck in the hopes of being able to help out with bringing in cables or setting up labs. Micha was taking photographs like a pro, while Markus worked on writing a screenplay. Benita worked out nonstop and got the lads from the Heli-Crew to join her. After that you’d frequently find them in the lower gangways, complaining about muscle cramps.
Then it quickly grew colder, the nights became brighter. For those of us who hadn’t taken pictures of the dramatic sunsets yet, now it was too late: we were getting closer and closer to the Polar Day. At 52 degrees S, the first blocks of ice drifted by our porthole: thrilled, we all raced up on deck. The weather and light conditions began changing frequently. We sailed through glaring sunlight on a brilliant blue sea, through dense fog, through grey and choppy waters into drifting snow, through still and brightly lit nights. Then the icebergs came. One morning they were simply there, everywhere you looked, and we ran up to the bridge. That’s where we had the best view. The captain and officers were happy to tell us more about the ship and the unbelievable world around us. On that day, it was simply breath-taking. The icebergs glided by majestically, and every now and then the sun would break through the clouds, casting silver sparkles on the water and making the icebergs glow. As if that weren’t enough, the officer of the watch put on some beautiful music. I think he wanted to finish us off; if so, mission accomplished. Is there anything more beautiful than the interplay of ice, ocean and light?
At night, we sailed through carpets of softly crunching floes, bathed in a surreal light, only to suddenly find ourselves in open water again. We saw seals and, lounging on the ice, the first penguins drift by on a floe. Storm petrels accompanied the ship, only to disappear again, somewhere in the expanses of ice and water.
And all of a sudden, it was time to get down to business! Time to say goodbye to this wonderful ship and the warm-hearted community on board her, who we’d grown very fond of. In several flights, the ship’s helicopter was to bring us and our mountains of polar gear to the Neumayer Station III; everything had already been prepared. In groups of three, we waited on the helideck wearing survival suits, since we would be flying over open water. We hugged our fellow overwinterers, who would be flying a bit later. So long, see you at Neumayer! It was a strange feeling to be separated. Then we got on board, fastened our harnesses. The helicopter dusted off, hovering beside the ship, where our friends from the Polarstern stood at the railing and waved to us. Then the chopper turned and the Polarstern disappeared from view. We were accompanied by so many good wishes: have a great overwintering, keep your chin up and your sail down, never stop smiling, be nice to one another, stay healthy, enjoy yourselves, look after yourselves, dress warmly, it was great having you on board, we’ll miss you.
We flew over blue, open water, calm, nothing to write home about – and then over the edge of the ice shelf and a massive ridge of ice: “just to show you how beautiful the world is”, as our pilot put it. And it truly is a beautiful world! Then we could suddenly see it, the Neumayer Station III. We circled the station once, saw tiny figures below standing and waving, then came in for a perfectly gentle landing. The door opened and we jumped out, started unloading our cargo with the helicopter’s engine still running. One of the helicopter crew made sure that, in all the bustle, no-one stumbled into the tail rotor. And then they came out to meet us: the “old” ÜWIs (overwinterers) in their red polar snowsuits, stomping through the snow. Your replacements are here, we’re the new team. We embraced before they helped us with our luggage. We all put the bags on a skid trailer attached to a snowcat that they had thoughtfully prepared; everything was primed for our arrival.
They had also set up a well-stocked ice bar in front of the station, where a crowd of friendly, curious people awaited us. Though we introduced ourselves, sipped our drinks and made small talk, we were basically overwhelmed to actually be there – in this unbelievable place, so alien, so quiet, so intense. You could even start to believe you weren’t on planet Earth anymore. That night, a very stubbly “old” overwinterer gave us a friendly tour of the station. Though we trudged along right behind him, mentally we could hardly keep track of all the floors, labs, workshops, storerooms, powerplants, sports rooms, stairways, freight containers, snowmelts, vehicle bays, interstitial decks, cold rooms, warm rooms and downright frigid rooms. Finally, on one of the heated floors we found our rooms – with a view of snowcats, cargo containers and the occasional penguin – and wrapped up in our red-and-white chequered blankets for a good night’s sleep. We’d made it!
