'Holy Mackerel Snivelling skipjack and frozen kippers' bellowed the bearded fellow as the bread knife slipped from the edge of the can and gouged a sliver of skin from his thumb knuckle.
'Why the hell did we not learn eskimo hunting techniques, instead of opting for this mass-produced 21st Century shit? We should have learned from Shackleton's icy end that local knowledge is best'.
Picking up the can of skipjack from beside the leg of a battered wooden stool and placing it on the gnarled old counter he once again lined up the bread knife with the top of the can and knocked it with the ball of his hand. Brine oozed from the can as he punctured the tin, rendering it open to oxidisation and contamination if not eaten swiftly.
'That's more like it, too bad that the skipjack won't be around for much longer' I chipped in.
Looking up from his yet-to-be prepared lunch and fixing his eyes on me, I was taken back. Many times my eyes have met with those of a killer, and I have seen horror and suffering, but never anything which chilled me to the bone as the intensity with which those eyes shone.
From above the nose and a hairy jaw line, the most cosmic depths of awareness shone with a candescence which penetrated my very soul, and what I saw was terrifying. The eyes swirled like giant eddies, wider than the seven seas and deeper than the Atlantic trench. In them, ice caps were melting and fish were suffocating. Tuna, mackerel and kippers all flapped in the final frenzy of their distress. Deep down in King Neptune's very cave, octopi clung to rocks with their eight tentacles and umpteen suckers, seeking the final algae which could sustain them in the warm upwelling of the southern currents. Enenemies and urchins boiled on rocks, while crab and other crustations became living cookers, their very innards awash in bubbling blood. In the man's eyes I saw the very misery of the ocean's future.
I offered him my hand and introduced myself - 'Jeremy De'tochs'
Wiping the brine from his palms with a grubby clothe, he gripped my hand - 'Douglas Maroon-Foster', he said in a soft voice with a grin.
This first encounter at the Polar Marine Research Station was to mark the beginning of a seven year journey which would expand my horizons limitlessly. Revelation upon revelation would lead to a world view which would go on to influence governments and organisations around the globe, giving rise to the survival programme for life on earth known as the KSM - Klime Sea Manual. A 64 page pamphlet which described the basic processes required to live in a world turned on it's head by climatic change. But let us not paint too bleak a picture of our fate. After all, we are spinning on a rock in space. We are little more than algae anyway. So let us not loose sight of the bigger picture.
Before my arrival at the Pole, I had been following the news through a variety of portals since being laid off by the Navy and it was startlingly apparent that we were in dia straits. In a way I was happy that the Rock-Scraper had been scrapped. One less piece of destructive ordnance on the waters. The concentration of wars and ideological clashes around the globe meant that our planet was reaching a bottle neck tighter than the Suez Canal. Figuratively speaking, there was only a thin line of choice between instant calamity on either side. This is part of what motivated me to seek work in the remote areas of the earth. I had seen wars, actively taking part in them for a healthy pay packet and adrenalin rush even, and for this I felt guilty. Only the constant inhalation of domestic chemicals could clear my mind of the misery I had caused in the world.
After painting all day at Sloane Square I would return home and reach below the kitchen sink for a bottle of Domestos or Toilet Duck, pour a fair measure into a cup, then sniff the cleaning agent in deep breathes while I waited for the water to heat up in the boiler for a shower. This had become my routine. Following my first hit I would take a cold shower then prepare and eat supper before settling into an evening of job hunting and writing tales of my travels.
The more I wrote, the more I began to realise that there were certain universal truths around the world. We are all descended from a common root, us humans, and biologically speaking therefore all related, so why was there a disparity in viewpoints which had brought us to a point of self destruction? The only place where such notions could be explored with a clear mind was that place furthest from human kind, where a man could once again forge a connection between himself and nature.
I had been thinking along these lines as I moved the paint brush back and forth across the exterior of those grand houses. Back and forth, back and forth. The monotony of the role had helped me develop a meditative state in which i could deeply contemplate the more important issues facing us. When my coworkers let me know it was time for a break, we huddled together in a doorway - Poles, Lithuanians, all manner of races discussed the very meat and potatoes of the human condition. It also became clear to me that we all sought the same common ground. We were all looking for a less savage life, one where we could create something to be proud of. Not just maintaining the pocket linings of the rich, but developing a way of life which benefitted us all. We were no intellectuals, but among us was a chemistry which could develop ideas to rival those of many in high powered positions in society. On the pavement we developed our philosophies and worked together by these ideals. It did not matter what we were doing now, it was our vision of the future which counted. That is where we were headed and we were worried about it, seriously worried.
When my chance came to work at the South Pole, I knew that I was on to something special. Few of the 6 billion people in the world have the chance to spend time on this most remote and ungoverned of landmasses. Out there in the wild I would be faced with possibilities I only have dreamt of in my past life.
