November 9, 1975: Sunday

Winds all night gusting well over 50 knots. I woke up at nine o’clock and blew over to the mess tent. We’re advised to evacuate if the winds shift to the northwest.

It’s not really cold, just raw wind power. Visibility is about 15 miles. Low, dark cloud cover. The coastline is obscured by blowing snow. Drifts have piled up on the leeward side of the mess tent. A tremendous amount of snow, considering how clean the ice is between here and the Ice Shelf.

The snow is a blessing as it provides footing against the slippery ice. Fell going to the U-barrel. Slid back.

They had trouble with all three Jamesways last night.

I was afraid my hat (Kay’s hat) would blow away, across the desolate expanse. But it was only snowy in the morning. Very snowy.

They quit drilling about 2:00 a.m. because of the weather. They had another three feet of stratigraphically significant samples. Cal and I put it in a box, but haven’t gotten around to logging it yet.

Went out to the iceberg to gather ice and check on movement along the tide crack about 6:00 a.m. It was moving up and down.

It is possibly the eeriest scene I’ve ever been in, the wind gusting across my face, the large mountain of blue and white flecked ice, behind us the smooth blue sea ice, in front of us the broken blue-green blocks that stretch off in a broken rubble path to the next cubic iceberg, a cave halfway up its side, strange brown cylinder mammals and their gray pups rolling over, eyeing us, while we listen.

And the iceberg creaks and groans and whines, like two slabs of wood being pried apart. The iceberg moves up, creaks, and moves down. But its not the iceberg, it’s us that have been heaved up by the swelling, savage sea, our six foot raft of ice clinging desperately to its anchor iceberg.

The ice has grown one half centimeter since yesterday, according to the devices implanted yesterday.

We had trouble communicating at noon. Must have given Dr. Treves a fright when he thought we had six inch swells, but we got across that it was only one and a half centimeters. We’re advised to leave when new cracks develop around the berg.

Blackpool is England’s Coney Island.