Breaking the Ice
by Justin Short
The icebergs were orange and purple tonight, and they were seriously gorgeous. Like, cotton-candy-fingers-against-a-perfect-sunset gorgeous.
“You see it, Gwen?”
Lon pointed over the ship’s railing, and I tried to follow his finger.
There it was. A gigantic iceberg in the middle of all the others. Jagged and hilly. It shot from the dark water like a lonely volcano.
This whole Antarctic thing was tough sometimes. Mainly the temperature part. But it was worth it for views like this.
Did I mention the cold? I’m talking true, lung-freezing cold. And trust me, I wore layers. Lots of ‘em. Three shirts, long johns, flannel jeans, thick boots. A puffy coat that zipped all the way to my chin and made me look like a loofah with feet.
“All right,” Lon said. “Let’s get this over with.” He swung his leg over the railing and dropped into the tiny ship-to-shore boat. I followed him in. The sailor on duty lowered the boat down with the crank and jumped in after us. We hit the ocean with a splash, and I tried to keep the icy water from touching my skin.
“Just look at that sunset,” I said.
Lon rolled his eyes.
Okay, so maybe Lon’s not the friendliest person in the world. But he has other good qualities. I can’t think of any at the moment, but they’ll come to me.
The sailor turned on the trolling motor and we took off in the little boat, chopping along at a slow pace toward the ice. Before we made it very far, I noticed we weren’t alone. A small metal raft moved out from among the icebergs and headed toward us. It was maybe five hundred feet away, so I couldn’t quite make out the people on board.
Correction—the ringlets onboard.
The ringlets are new here. They used to live on the rings of Saturn.
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