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And taught me to live without regrets
It’s called “The Drake Passage” diet. Food can’t be prepared or served - never mind eaten - during the world’s most terrifying ocean crossing. My wife was so sick she passed out with her eyes open.
I was hypnotized not to be sea sick on our journey from Argentina to Antarctica. So I was merely scared shitless as the ill-fated MV Explorer climbed up and down froth-topped mountains masquerading as waves, occasionally rolling her portholes into the drink.
Pack Mentality
After two days (i.e., an eternity), we reached our destination. Not Antarctica per se. The pack ice abutting the continent. Straight into it bow first, in fact.
The sea was as flat as the worst karaoke singer you’ve ever heard. The sun was shining. Passengers were invited to don their twelve-layer outfits, to recover from The Boat Ride From Hell™ with some free time on the ice.
Like all Rhode Islanders, I’d grown up hearing non-apocryphal stories of skaters falling through pond ice and drowning, weighed down by their skates.
So I was less than thrilled with the outing. Even less so when I saw five-foot wide slush lines running through the ice, stretching from the sea to distant mountains.
My fellow passengers treated their ice-borne recess as what the Brits call “something of a lark.” Some kicked a soccer ball around. Others just kind of wandered off. In Antarctica.
Ice Ice Baby
The pack ice formed around icebergs. My wife and I approached one as big as a house. Led by a guide, tourists climbed to the top of the berg to pose for pictures. My wife joined them. I did not.
There was a deep rumbling sound. Kinda like thunder, with a hint of something cracking.
“Everybody off!” the guide yelled, in her infinite wisdom.
I watched in horror as the group of maybe ten people scurried off the iceberg.
As the last person made it to safety, the iceberg turned turtle. As in rotated 180 degrees.
If anyone had been on that iceberg (aftermath above) when it flipped, they would have been crushed and/or drowned. Their body wouldn’t have been recoverable.
Apologies to my first wife, but yes, I’ve thought about how different my life would’ve been if she hadn’t made it back from Antarctica.*
No, not focusing on bullets I would have dodged. Thinking about how much worse my life would’ve been.
Woulda Shoulda Coulda
For one thing, I would’ve been emotionally scarred. Guilt-ridden for “allowing” my wife to climb the iceberg of death.
For another, the world and my heart would’ve been denied the blessing of our daughters’ existence.
For another, everything. I would’ve missed a lifetime of moments – good and bad – between yesteryear’s rolling ‘berg and today’s scrolling text.
Might Makes It Right
I keep using that word “would.” I don’t think it means what I want it to mean. The correct word is “might.”
I don’t know the future and I can’t change the past, never mind calculate infinite “what if’s" with any degree of certainty.
There’s no way of telling where something “good” or “bad” will lead. If it’s good luck or bad luck. Later, maybe. But not immediately.
My iceberg casino philosophy: the only thing we know for sure about luck is that it will change.
And although REO Speedwagon showed us the way to live with that inescapable reality, Carlos Castaneda said it best: “In a world where death is the hunter, my friend, there is no time for regrets or doubts. There is only time for decisions.”
*I’m sure there are times when my first wife wonders how life would’ve turned out if I hadn’t chatted-her-up in Amsterdam’s Coq Budget Hotel.
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