Originally written Feb 17 aboard the Shokalskiy.

This may well prove to be a vomitous lesson in futility, but I am going to try to write while rolling across these blue, frigid seas aboard the Akademik Shokalskiy . I am lucky enough to find myself in my own cabin, a relatively large room amidships on deck three with a porthole looking out to starboard (in case you skipped that sailing lesson in Boy Scouts, starboard is to the right if you are standing on deck and facing the bow). Our boat of 26 primarily well-to-do international tourists representing at least seven countries is getting rocked – rather gently for the area I might add -- from starboard to port by the five-meter swells rolling across the Drake Passage. It’s an interesting experience, getting your sea legs. I’m lying here in my bunk watching the green curtains sway back and forth from my paneled walls at twenty-five degree angles. It’s a lot like being drunk only without the whole fun part.

I have learned they aren’t kidding when they tell you “one hand for the boat.” When the big swells surprise us, even the most acrobatic passenger can be sent wildly into the lap of his neighbor. The most impressive display of agility I think I have ever seen has been the ability of Olga, our tiny, young Russian hostess to pour hot coffee into a cup while the boat is being tossed around like this. That girl hasn’t spilled so much as a drop. It’s damn near miraculous, really. It takes thought just to get a cup to your lips sometimes.

As it stands, we’ve been lucky so far. By Drake standards, I’m told this swell rates as a four on a scale from one to ten. On the last trip from Antarctica, the boat was crashing up and over swells taller than the bridge. Just making a rough guess, but I would put those waves at above twelve, maybe fifteen meters. Maybe more.

Before boarding I was put into a hotel with two other guests. I came halfway around the world only to be put into a room with a fellow yuppie from Ladera Ranch. D. is very nice guy, a workaholic M and A consultant with an alphabet soup of acronyms after his name. But he is totally wrapped tightly around the life I have been trying to leave behind. Money and toys and work and money and work and money. I dig him, but he’s a strong reminder of the life waiting for me so many miles away.

I haven’t been much of myself on this trip. Although our long motor out of the Beagle Channel was so calm I could have been skipping stones over the surface of the water, the Drake proved to be as difficult for my head as I anticipated. Although I haven’t been doubled over the sink, the combination of rolling waves and the sedative effect of my meds have left me generally miserable and subsequently not very social. The crew is indeed quite Russian and generally friendly from what I can tell. They are virtually hidden. Occasionally popping out of some corridor or doorway to adjust or collect or clean something or another. Hard looking men with thick necks and heavy brows, frequently bearded as sailors tend to be, and serious in their duties. I’ve chatted a bit with some of the men on the bridge, but the language barrier is proving to be just exactly that. A barrier. And again, in general, I haven’t felt too much like talking.

Basically, for the Drake, I like it best right here. Horizontal. In bed. Frankly, the next time I spend this much time between sheets, I should hope that’s it’s me rocking the boat and not the South Atlantic.