Chapter 14 The Albatross
The Albatross
Forty hours into the Drake Passage, the Astralis passes its first iceberg.
It’s nearly midnight. Laurel, Eli, and Silas rush outside with expedition jackets over their pajamas. The iceberg stands alone, colossal and incongruous, as if cut and pasted from another planet. Minutes later, a whale rises beside the boat.
“A blue,” someone gasps: the biggest creature on earth, endangered nearly to extinction, its five-foot heart the largest in the world.
Silas tugs her hand. “Why you crying, Mama?”
Until now, Laurel has seen this trip as a quest: her focus has been the portal, not the continent.
She forgot the cerulean glow of the ice.
And the drama of the light, as if a skirmish between good and evil has been staged.
She forgot the scale of the glaciers, the danger, the smells of the Southern Ocean.
She forgot that water could be so clear.
Laurel holds Silas to her chest and says, “Because I love it here.”
—
The Astralis is the most lavish ship in the Heroic Expeditions fleet.
Laurel, Eli, and Silas arrived in their double room to a dish of caviar and a bottle of champagne.
After a welcome reception, they toured the dining room, the spa, and the medical facility.
The walls are lined with cream sconces and sleek mahogany panels.
The lowest-priced Standard rooms, which include their own, have two portholes.
Prices escalate along with viewing space.
The Triple Porthole is followed by the Quadruple; the Deluxe has one window, while the Superior has two.
In the Penthouse, French doors lead to a private balcony.
The Owner’s Suite features a whirlpool bath, a private dining room, and windows that stretch from floor to ceiling.
The occupant of the Owner’s Suite was no mystery.
Laurel recognized Harry Cooke, a CEO whose energy company was recently sued for concealing oil spills.
In the 2050s, the industry—formerly invested in micronuclear and fusion reactors—discovered a simpler, cheaper source of fuel: natural gas.
Coal followed. Harry Cooke’s genius was to connect this to the problem of plastic.
Plastic waste could be managed, he argued, if you turned it into fuel—and that fuel could power the economy of the future.
Laurel found this profoundly demoralizing.
When Harry Cooke appeared as a talking head on the news, she turned it off.
Still, she couldn’t avoid the mantra he popularized: Coal’s on a roll!
streamed across billboards and ads on social media.
Now Harry is rumored to be lobbying for a new cause: the lifting of restrictions on fossil fuel exploration in Antarctica.
Mining is banned south of sixty degrees latitude, but proponents have argued that the Antarctic Treaty should be renegotiated.
Laurel fears that the treaty will disintegrate in 1959, the year of its founding in her universe.
The other passengers include executives, wealthy retirees, and a travel influencer who doesn’t leave her room without a ring light. All are experienced jet-setters: at meals, conversation often drifts to the best abacha in Lagos, or the least crowded month to visit Cairo.
“It’s my last continent,” said a venture capitalist, spooning hollandaise over his eggs Benedict.
The other diners nodded in agreement.
“It’s so satisfying, isn’t it?” asked an actress. “To check them off your list?”
It was the first day of the Drake Passage. Laurel and Eli decided to spend it in the library.
“Don’t you think it’s kind of gross, the way they’re talking?” asked Laurel, as they left the dining room with Silas.
“I don’t know,” Eli said. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to see the world.”
The Astralis lurched. Laurel put a hand to the wall. Emerald-green barf bags hung elegantly from the rails.
“Not inherently, no,” she said. “But it sounded like they were collecting Pokémon.”
The library was empty. Laurel sat in a green armchair, and Silas plopped on the floor.
“What’s Pokémon?” he asked.
“Um,” Laurel said, “they’re, like—imaginary creatures, with special powers, that live in a fantasy land? And if you catch them, you win points? People play it where your dad and I grew up.”
Silas’s eyes grew wide. “I want to.”
“You can’t,” said Laurel. “I’m sorry. It doesn’t exist here yet.”
Silas began to cry.
Seriously? Eli mouthed.
Sorry, mouthed Laurel. Her pulse had been irregular all day.
“Take a look at this, buddy,” said Eli, handing Silas a photography book. “Whales.”
Silas sniffed as he opened it. To Laurel, Eli added, “I mean, we’re here, too. I don’t think we have the right to be high-minded. We could have put this money into a climate nonprofit.”
“I know,” Laurel said. “But…” She looked at Silas. “He’s our son.”
There are several teenagers onboard, but only one other child: Harry Cooke’s eleven-year-old daughter. Pippa Cooke has a shelf of brown bangs and an impassive countenance. She brings a book everywhere, even to meals.
“Quite the little explorer, eh?” said an attorney, addressing Pippa while looking at Harry.
A member of the British nobility—Laurel couldn’t remember whether he was an earl or a viscount—joined in. “Lucky girl.”
They sat in the lounge, eating dessert. Pippa didn’t look up from her book and plate of cookies. She seemed to scorn the way they talked to her, as if she hadn’t been an adult long before they were born.
—
When the weather is calm, crew members lead excursions from the ship.
They kayak between volcanoes veined with snow and ride to shore in inflatable boats.
One island is filled with chinstrap penguins.
The passengers are forbidden to disturb them, but the penguins approach on their own, making squeaky noises of inquiry: they’ve never learned to be afraid of human beings.
After two weeks at sea, the captain’s voice crackles over the intercom.
The International Date Line, which divides one calendar day from the next, lies ahead.
Guests stream to the deck, where cocktail tables tremble with champagne.
Everyone crowds in for a group photo. At the pilot’s signal, they count down to the crossing.
The next night, dinner is especially sumptuous: four courses over half as many hours. During dessert, the chief mate announces that they’ll reach McMurdo by Thursday.
Passengers clink glasses, cheering. Laurel’s heart seems not to beat at all. Then it begins to thud, as if in compensation.
After tucking Silas into bed, she pulls Eli into the hall. “I think I’m having palpitations.”
“We’re two days out from McMurdo,” Eli says. “Can you try not to worry about it?”
“No,” says Laurel. “I can’t. I don’t know if it’s safe for me to dive.”
Eli retracts his chin in disbelief.
“Do you think I’m faking it?” Laurel asks.
Eli pauses. “I just wonder if you’re…”
“Trying to get out of it? Eli, I’d tell you that!”
A cabin door opens. The actress appears in a state of animation.
“There are cupcakes in the library,” she says.
“Thank you,” says Eli, tightly.
The actress hurries to the stairwell. Eli deflates.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Of course I want you to be safe. Do you think you should go to the hospital?”
“No,” Laurel says. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
She doesn’t tell him what she’s thinking: I have a bad feeling. In bed, the palpitations continue. Laurel kicks off the comforter, hot with anxiety, and tells herself that she’ll feel better in the morning.
The next beat is a gong. She sits up.
A blackout screen covers the porthole, so Laurel finds her shoes with her hands.
She slips into the hall, careful not to wake Eli and Silas.
As she walks, the Astralis pitches. A wall trades places with the floor.
Laurel slams into the railing and stays there, clinging, until the ship rights itself.
On the main deck, she passes the bridge, with its door-sized windows, and cringes at the brightness of the austral summer night.
The hospital entrance is labeled with a red plus sign.
The ship doctor holds a stethoscope, cold, to her chest. “Any other symptoms? Dizziness? Shortness of breath?”
Laurel shakes her head.
“Palpitations often come along with stress.” The doctor loops the stethoscope around his neck. “Are you stressed?”
“Oh.” Laurel laughs. “A little.”
“You shouldn’t be. You’re on vacation,” he says, wagging a finger. “Though some people go a little sideways the longer we’re at sea. The human body isn’t meant to live on water. Good thing we’ve almost made it to McMurdo. You’ll probably feel better back on land.”
—
In the lounge, curved chairs—upholstered in green velvet and bolted to the floor in case of rough seas—surround circular glass tables. A movie screening takes place on the evening before landfall. Silas writes postcards to Victor and Sabrina, his school friends, while they wait for it to begin.
As Laurel addresses Victor’s postcard, she smells whiskey.
The odor transports her. Years ago, after she finished breastfeeding, Laurel celebrated with Maisie at a bar on the Capitol Square.
She bought a glass of twenty-five-year-old Laphroaig, the most she’d ever paid for a drink, and they spent the night inventing tasting notes.
(“Shearing day!” said Laurel. “Urinal cake!” said Maisie.)
In the antiuniverse, scotch, like coffee, is a rarity. A waiter stops at Laurel and Eli’s table.
“Compliments of Mr. Cooke,” he says. From a tray, he transfers two glasses.