Every time, it is striking – the return, inevitable, to what could be called “civilization.” A connected world, alive with the pling of devices, the rush of traffic, the immensities of urban populations, bewildering onslaughts of urgency, humanity, values, time. For a while, I called it “real life.” I don’t use that term anymore. What is real? Who is to determine what, if anything, is any more real or valid than anything else?
I no longer have answers when people ask me where I live. I reply: I live here, now. Most often, now, here means on a ship, an expedition vessel, sailing the Arctic or the Antarctic, where I now work most of the year. These frozen seas, their vastness and their magnitude, the mountains and the ice, wildlife elusive or abundant – it comprises the world, most of the time. From our floating home we watch the polar seasons pass: the return of life with the melting of the sea ice, cycles of birth and growth, migration and desertion, the onset of cold. The sun, both summer and winter, skirts the horizon in its tightly wound circles, round and around again.
“You’ve been bitten,” a family friend remarked recently.
“I was bitten a long time ago”, I told him. “Some of us call it being bi-polar.”
It used to be – when all this was still so new – that returning, coming home, shocked me. Moving, anonymous, through airports and trains stations and crowded streets, I would stare in bewilderment at the civilization I found myself amongst. Advertising, consumerism, the whole structure of it seeming designed to constantly remind people of what they don’t have, how they are somehow not good enough. Left and right rushed suit-clad professionals with extra-large coffees and briefcases and beeping devices. Do you know what I have seen? I would think, feeling the experiences must be visible, I must be marked, somehow people must know. Don’t you realize that this isn’t real? Don’t you know what the earth is?
That feeling, of the astronaut’s return to a wayward and confused planet, may never go away, but it has balanced. The world will not change. Coming home is coming home in a way that does not confuse. I jump into taxis with confidence and walk streets like I’ve always been here. Smell flowers, shop for groceries. But inside you know it’s temporary, you know it’s building, you know we’re leaving again soon, the ships are provisioning now and people are packing their bags, we’re going, going, the sea is there, the animals are migrating, the ice is fracturing and starting to melt.
To travel in the Polar Regions is a gift, and to have arrived at a greater understanding of them imbues life with a richness of meaning and purpose. Yet these regions are so vastly, widely, misunderstood. Maybe you should write about them, someone said.
Maybe I should write about them.