Stefán Máni - The Ship

The ship is surrounded by huge icefloes that move on top of the water and scrape against the dented steel day and night. According to the calendar it is the height of summer in Antarctica, but even the summer is winter on this continent of vastness and permafrost.

Above the waterline the rust-brown ship’s hull is covered with a greyish ice, thin to windward and thick on the sheltered side. On the weather deck are snow drifts shaped by the wind, hard as concrete. From the railings and the radar mast hang huge icicles and other ice formations, while in the most sheltered spots delicate ice needles collect, looking like glass crystals or wild vegetation.

The situation on board the ship is bleak. Only one dynamo is working, and only at half speed, because there’s not much left of the 70 000 litres of oil that filled the tanks when they set sail. The water heaters in the boiler room are first in line for what oil is left, since while they have something to burn there is hot water on board the ship. Without hot water they couldn’t heat the cabins, besides which it keeps the oil warm, which would otherwise thicken and be unusable. And it prevents the crew’s limited water supply from freezing. The generator produces electricity for lights and gives off a good deal of heat itself, which is why the doors to the engine room are open. They’ve turned off power to the cold larder, the laundry room and part of the kitchen. The cooker gets power for one hour a day and they make coffee once every twelve hours, but they’ve stopped using any other electrical appliances.

There’s no cleaning going on. It’s cold on board the ship, especially on the upper decks of the wheelhouse. The cabins are cold and damp, and in the corridors the temperature is near freezing. It’s impossible to stay in the bridge for more than an hour at a time, but every two hours one of the crew goes up there to send an SOS over the radio. It seems to be functioning, though they can’t actually hear anything but faint static.

Twice a day Captain Guðmundur holds a prayer meeting in the officers’ mess; these precious moments break up the men’s negativity and build up a sense of community among the survivors. The days are long and monotonous, making it is easy for hopelessness and fear to stifle the will and paralyse the spirit. The officers’ mess is the warmest room in the ship and that’s where the crew hangs out together more or less twenty-four hours a day, sharing coffee, silence and the occasional word. All except Satan, who keeps to himself, either in his cabin or elsewhere…

17 December

The captain is standing by the dynamo that’s still functioning, awaiting the inevitable. According to their measurements, the diesel-fuel tanks ought to have been empty long ago. One would think the dynamo was running on the smell of oil alone. The burners in the boiler room have stopped firing, the hot water is beginning to cool, and it’s cooling fast. The only fuel that’s left is what’s still in the pipes leading to the dynamo. When the dynamo goes off, the lights will go off.

Then the lights will go off.

If only he has it wrong! If only the meters are broken! If only the fuel would last a little longer! Even just…

‘No, no! None of that!’ says the captain when the dynamo starts to stutter. He kicks the dynamo and bangs on the fuel pipe, though he knows perfectly well that nothing he can do will prevent the engine from dying.

When the engine finally stops, the captain’s heart seems to stop beating in his chest – the shock is so great despite the long lead-up. Seconds after the engine stops, the lights begin to dim.

After thirty seconds the only light left is the dying glow of the wires in the dirty lightbulbs.

Then everything goes black and the oil-soaked air in the engine room immediately starts to cool. Within a few hours it’s going to be as cold inside the ship as outside it. At that point living aboard the Per se will hardly be an option.

‘Now what do we do?’ mutters the captain in the dark, which swallows his words and turns them into a metallic echo. He’s still standing by the dynamo, holding his hands over it and feeling how the warmth is slowly disappearing.

He’s distracted and automatically ignores a strange sound that his ears receive. It’s a weak sound yet oddly clear, even piercing. Though it doesn’t actually gain the captain’s attention, it does ring some bell deep in his subconscious.

‘Yes, okay,’ says Guðmundur Berndsen with a sigh. ‘All right, all right! Daddy’s coming!’

Daddy’s coming?

The captain is startled out of his deep thoughts about the ship and the fate of its crew and starts listening.

Did he hear some sound? Or…

Waaahaaa…

Yes, he heard a sound – and it’s like a baby crying. A baby crying! Is he going crazy?

‘Go! Get thee behind me, Satan!’ says the captain out loud and he covers his ears with his hands. Then he strides across the metal floor, though he can’t see a thing, and tries to find the door to the storeroom.

18 December

Sæli, wearing a parka and headphones, is sitting in front of the communications console on the port side of the bridge, calling into the radio.

‘Mayday! Mayday! Echo, Lima, Whiskey, Q, 2! Mayday! Mayday! Echo, Lima, Whiskey, Q, 2! Mayday! Mayday!’

But there’s no answer.

Nothing except the hum of static that tickles his ears and irritates him. His fingers are red with cold, his backside is numb and his breath freezes as he exhales.

One more time!

‘Mayday! Mayday! Echo, Lima, Whiskey, Q, 2! Mayday! Mayday! Echo, Lima, Whiskey, Q, 2! Mayday! Mayday!’

Sæli listens intently. At first he hears only static and hum, hum and static, and then detects a fitful tune and broken, stuttered song about words of music and lights. He tears off his headphones and throws them aside.

What was that? The Doors? On the ship’s radio? Is he going crazy or…?

‘That’s enough for today,’ he says, turning off the radio. He’s not going near this contraption again. No way! The others can send out a distress signal if they feel like it. Or just not bother. It doesn’t make any difference! Nobody’s answering anyway!

Sæli leaves the bridge and makes his way down the stairs, which are covered with ice and very dangerous. It’s dark in the ship but outside reddish-pink sunlight penetrates the clouds. He puts his hands on the icy-cold railings and walks carefully from one step to the next.

His mind turns home, to Lára and young Egill. What might they be doing now? Do they know the ship is lost? Has Lara developed a bulge? Of course she has a bulge! She’s – what? – six months along. Which means she’s only got three…

‘I have to get home,’ says Sæli, stopping on the stairs between E- and D-decks. He stares into the darkness and listens to his own heartbeat.

Home.

If only he—

Waaahaaa…

‘Daddy’s coming!’ says Sæli and he starts back down the stairs. Then he stops suddenly.

Daddy’s coming?

He holds onto the railing and listens intently.

A baby crying? Had he heard a baby crying? Was that possible? But there’s no baby on board the –

Waaahaaa…

‘I’M COMING! I’M COMING!’ Sæli calls out and goes down the slippery stairs as fast as he can.

Is he going crazy? Doesn’t matter! Crazy or not crazy, he can’t listen to a baby crying without doing something about it!

‘I’M COMING! I’M COMING!’