Thoughts, rants and musings about absolutely everything except photography. Or cats.


Should I stay or should I go ?


in Site Admin , Wednesday, July 09, 2014

I recently received my annual web hosting invoice for this site. This, together with domain name registration, costs me around £100 per annum. And, by the way, if you’re looking for a reliable independent web hosting service with excellent technical support, full features and non-USA hosting, I can safely recommend Meirhosting.

The reminder that all this costs money as well as time gives me cause to reflect on why I’m doing it. My data on Google Analytics makes quite depressing reading: I get very low traffic, my most popular posts are the few dedicated to gear, and the least popular are those talking about photography and photographers in general. Earlier this year, the stats were trending upwards. Now they’ve slumped.


Lies, damn lies, and statistics. According to Google’s monthly view, of the 40-odd visitors I get daily, 75% are new. So they don’t come back :-(


AWStats shows a similar story - the levels are pretty flat.

I’ve maintained a website since around 1996. I registered the snowhenge domain in 2001, I think, and the earliest version of went live in or before August 2001, according to the Wayback machine. I added blogging through MovableType in mid 2003. My first post was made at 04:32 PM on 17th July 2003. Apart from a pause of a few months in 2007 when I transitioned to Expression Engine, and switched hosting, I’ve been adding material fairly constantly. So far there are 673 blog posts. There have been several design overhauls and refreshes, but the current look has been around for 4 or 5 years. The photographic content has changed over time, as I tried to improve presentation and focus, and the non-photographic stuff has dwindled to very little. The one constant in all of this, though, has been the flatlining statistics.


The Grey Period: in early 2003

My original motives for having a web site included a large part of experimentation with web technologies, which fed into my various “day jobs”. This is now gone, my day job has no need for such frippery. So it is now essentially a platform for publishing and talking about photography, and the arcana surrounding photography. The question is, then, is it working? At present the answer has to be no. There’s very little conversation, although what there is tends to be of above average quality, and statistics on my galleries show little interest from the outside world.

So why so little traffic? A number of reasons spring to mind: the content is uninteresting, I’m not an engaging writer (or photographer), it’s all too self-serving, it’s all too idiosyncratic or weird, the presentation is poor. Or, also, I have no reach, I don’t publicise the site well, my search engine optimisation doesn’t work, I don’t network enough. Or the site performance is bad and the navigation is confusing. Or the Disqus comment platform is unpopular and puts people off. Probably a combination of all of these factors means that the site fails to get noticed in the vast ocean of similar voices clamouring for attention on the web.

So what next? Should I just call it a day? It would be a shame, after close to 20 years of uninterrupted web presence, then again you could say after 20 years of failure I should have got the message. I could run a survey to see what my audience thinks, but there’s a bit of a snag in that plan. And then again, I’m not even sure I could keep up with things if I started getting a lot of feedback.

It’s clear that one criticism could be that the site is too generalist, that is has a split personality. This is true enough, but it’s not accidental. It reflects my personality: I’m not just interested in photography - far from it - and not even in one particular field of photography. Personally I find that photographer “portfolio” sites get boring pretty quickly, however good the photographer is. I like to understand some of what makes the artist tick, not just photographers, but writers, musicians too. And I’m interested in science, and in much else. So the somewhat “warts and all” approach is me basically trying to create the type of website that I’d enjoy visiting. Seems I’m in a minority! One reason I axxed my Facebook page is that I was feeling increasingly uncomfortable about the wide cross-section of “friends” I had: I felt that by posting stuff on say, Antarctic science, I was letting down people who followed me as a landscape photographer.

The ultimate goal of is to promote my photography. That isn’t working, and the years are ticking by. My feeling at the moment is that I’ll give it another year, and seriously put some effort into improving traffic. I don’t hope for thousands of visitors - I’m happy if just one person gets some benefit from an article I post - but I don’t want to carry on shouting into the void. So in the coming weeks I need to settle on some realistic expectations and measurable objectives, and work out a plan for achieving them. If trends start to improve, fine. Otherwise, in one year it will be time to call it a day.

This is the point where, ironically, I ask for feedback. It would be great to get any opinions, suggestions thoughts, advice on all of this, but also just to let me know that you’re reading my writings and getting some sort of value out of it.  There are many blogs which I read frequently, but never comment on. Maybe it’s a similar story here.

Hey, maybe the problem is that all my posts are too long ?


prisoners of our own device

in General , Thursday, April 24, 2014

Over the past 5 years or so, I’ve blown hot and cold on Facebook. Or rather tepid and cold. I’ve never much liked it, I find it fundamentally invasive and cynical. Basically it’s another advertising agency, like Google, and it’s users are it’s product, which it sells, with no holds barred, to advertisers. But a few years ago I had to engage on a professional level, when building applications (an awful experience), and so I kept up my public profile.

Most of my posting has been generated from this website, so most of it is essentially photography-orientated. But the majority of my Facebook Friends are probably not very interested in this. At the same time, I’m finding a lot of content pushed at me is various kinds of soft and not so soft selling. Certainly, there are people I want to remain in contact with who I only really “see” on Facebook, and I’ll be sorry to diminish that, but really, we all have each other’s email addresses, and, Heavens forbid, phone numbers, and I’m really starting to feel that Facebook has a corrosive influence on me. I’m spending too much time checking in, and getting far too distracted.

Of course, it’s about as easy to check out of Facebook as it is from Hotel California. You can deactivate any time you want, but you can never leave. And that’s another very disturbing trait.
So I’ve decided, I’m opting out. Back to the relative basics of email, and maintaining my “brand”, if that’s what I want, on my own website, with my own rules, and no advertising. I’m sorry if anyone feels slighted by this, but I’m not hiding. Even if you don’t know my email address, Google certainly does. And of course thanks to Facebook’s evil data retention policy, I could always change my mind.

But for now, I’m trying to find the passage back, to the place I was before.

A bakery in Antarctica

a guest blog at The Antarctic Book of Cooking and Cleaning

in Antarctica , Wednesday, February 12, 2014

I’m delighted to announce the publication of what I think is my first ever “guest blog”, over at The Antarctic Book of Cooking and Cleaning.

A bakery in Antarctica: David Mantripp Guest Blogger | The Antarctic Book of Cooking and Cleaning

I hope you enjoy, and also the rest of the highly entertaining, informative website.  My review of the book is working its way up the to-do list.


The Aurora Programme saga: Part 4


in Antarctica , Saturday, January 18, 2014

As a working scientist, publications keep you employed, and employable, and in our case, good field data was vital fuel to these publications. We had invested a lot of time, effort, and ultimately reputation (not to mention risk) in our fieldwork, and this led to a degree of friction with what we inevitably saw as the quixotic, ego-driven Amundsen’s Tent sideshow. It was something we were happy to co-exist with, but when it became clear later in the day that practically everything, up to and including the safety of the expedition team was secondary to The Tent, it led to serious tension and strong words. I am still convinced that it was largely due to the insistence of the Aurora’s captain to depart immediately that a disaster was averted. As the ship sailed rapidly north, it was ploughing through slushy frazil ice that would very soon turn to solid sea ice. The Aurora was not able to break through such ice, and furthermore was easily the last ship in the region. A few days later could have seen it stuck fast. This was a fate which Kristensen only just escaped several years earlier in the Ross Sea, in similar circumstances. It was not a situation which an experienced polar expedition leader should have gotten into, and certainly the kind of risk which Amundsen himself would have avoided.

Some of the story of the Aurora field season had preceded us on our return to the UK, and the Establishment’s tenuous relationship with the Programme had all but broken down. It seems that various agreements had been broken, various bills unpaid, and everybody wanted to wash their hands of any involvement. On the scientific side it was, perhaps, a qualified success, but it was clear that there was to be no repeat, and the foundations we had laid were not going to be built upon.

In some ways the judgements were unfair. The fatal blow to the Aurora Programme was probably struck by the combination of airfreight delays and the Montevideo dock workers. These and the later problems with sea ice seriously curtailed the time remaining. Then again, without the dock strike we’d probably just have got stuck in sea ice earlier and longer. The other issues included over-ambitious goals, underfunding, and a ship right at the extreme edge of its effective range. The Aurora Programme was sometimes unlucky, but all Antarctic expeditions need to factor in a lot of contingency. And actually, one could also argue that when it really mattered, we had been very lucky indeed.

All in all, the operation was a toxic blend of brilliance and neglect. The staggering feat of actually getting the expedition off the ground and overcoming all of the obstacles placed in its way to get into the field cannot be overstated. The Blaenga base was a masterpiece of Norwegian ingenuity and logistic skill. Monica’s logistics manager can take a lot of credit for the way he managed such a disparate group of people with humour and patience, but there was no question at all that the driving force was Monica herself. But on the other side, the scrappy surveying of the Twin Otter’s fateful depot strip was unthinkable. Any other field party would have checked, and checked again, ten times over, and marked out a perfectly safe strip, before asking an aircraft to land in such critical circumstances.

Later in 1992 we presented the results of our field work at the first ERS-1 congress in Cannes, France. Although our new Department Head was not particularly impressed - he was of the opinion that theoretical modelling could solve everything - my talk on the range validation of the radar altimeter was well received, and at least one eminent remote sensing scientist went out of his way to commend our methodology. The work helped to lead to a three year European Commission funded project which I led to establish a climatological baseline for the Filchner-Ronne Ice Shelf.

Jeff’s work with the scatterometer and associated experiments led to two published papers, which was a pretty good result.

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Jeff Ridley in his improvised field laboratory.


Although I criticise the “Establishment” for its lack of support for the Aurora Programme, in one very important respect, this proved to be sadly justified. The crew of the Aurora, although perfectly ok people, were normal Norwegian sailors. They had no understanding of, or interest in, the Antarctic Treaty. Wildlife protection was not a concept they were sympathetic with, and waste disposal basically meant chucking stuff overboard, even in Antarctic waters. When this became known back in Norway it caused quite a scandal, and as Expedition Leader, and owner of the vessel, Monica Kristensen had to take responsibility for this. But as a woman, even in Scandinavian society I’m not sure she had much sway over the seamen.

In 1993/94 Monica Kristensen made a further attempt to reach Amundsen’s Tent, this time without the hindrance of a scientific programme. I assume she and her team departed from Blaenga, but I have few details. Apparently they wanted to fly an excavator to South Pole to dig and the area they claimed to have found a cavity. This again required laying fuel depots for an aircraft, and this time it went badly wrong. In fact I have very little knowledge of exactly what transpired, but I do know that it ended in tragedy, in the Shackleton Mountains, with the death of Jostein Helgestad [uRL] in a crevasse field.  The report from the United States Antarctic Programme [URL] (USAP) team which rescued the 4 person party, hundreds of miles from the Pole, makes it bluntly clear that they had put themselves, and the USAP personnel, in considerable danger. It also states that the Kristensen party had no idea of how to travel over crevasses, or how to rope up.  I find this quite hard to believe - Monica herself certainly had plenty of experience of overland polar travel. However, it does correlate somewhat with an experience I had on Filchner Ice Shelf, where our team had encountered a mildly crevassed area near Snowhenge and roped up to cross it, using techniques I was taught at BAS.  A Norwegian party which had joined us for a few days looked at us in disbelief, jumped on their snowmobiles, and simply accelerated hard, trusting in momentum to cross any rifts.

These days I have little contact with my former crew-mates. Jeff Ridley now works at the UK Meteorological Office, and has helped me with writing this saga. Elisabeth Isaksson is now with the Norwegian Polar Institute in Trømso. Me, after developing what I thought was an interesting proposal to explore past behaviour of ice streams as proxies for climate change, backed by senior colleagues of the Australian Antarctic Division, was not given any support by my boss, I decided I’d had quite enough of academic backstabbing and went off to enjoy industry backstabbing instead. Probably I should have dug my heels in, but what the hell.

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Me, in desperate need of a haircut, and ready to go home

I don’t think Blaenga was ever used again - I think not. However, I have found a photo on the web of one of the huts deeply buried in snow, in 1996. Quite a sad sight.

Blaenga in 1996. Photo by Manu_mdq at Panoramio

Monica Kristensen, it seems, ended up in some kind of exile as the manager of a mine in Svalbard. These days, however, she has reinvented herself as a successful writer of Nordic crime thrillers - so far only translated into German as far as I can tell. But I doubt that she’s ever contrived a tale of a character quite as unique as herself.

The Aurora Programme saga: Part 3.

Into the field

in Antarctica , Friday, January 17, 2014

This article is the third in a 4-part series about the Aurora Programme, a privately-funded expedition to Antarctic which took place in the 1991-1992 austral summer/autumn. Read Part 1 here, and Part 2 here.

The Aurora’s hold was pretty full. Apart from the science and logistics equipment, there was a full prefabricated base to unload, and move up to above the ice cliffs. This is what the helicopter was mainly for - a sky crane. With a combination of very skilful flying and good teamwork, the unloading went well.

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Monica asks if anybody’s seen a tent

Once the unloading had been done, the various groups dispersed. A building team remained to construct the four pre-fabricated huts that would form the base.  The geology team set off for the Shackleton Mountains region. Another team set off to survey glacier grounding lines on the East coast of the Filchner Ice Shelf.  The Pole team started working on surveying landing sites and laying refuelling depots for the Twin Otter to reach and return from South Pole, since the Americans at Amundsen-Scott weren’t going to refuel it. And we were flown out to the Filchner Ice Shelf.

Me jeff and otter

Myself, one of the GLACE crew, and Jeff, raring to go.

In order to do our validation work, we needed to find a location under the ERS-1 satellite track, as flat as possible, and free of obstructions or significant topography within 50km or so. The middle of an Antarctic ice shelf was therefore the ideal location, provided there were no crevasses. There wasn’t a huge amount of time to choose a site, so we were quite fortunate to find a suitable spot more or less in the middle of the Ice Shelf, at S80° 06´, W41° 53´, which we would later dub “Snowhenge”. We were equipped with three tents, two excellent Yamaha snowmobiles, a UHF radio to keep in touch with the Aurora (and as it turned out the Australian Flying Doctor …), and plenty of supplies. Although the pyramid tents were Norwegian-spec single skin design, rather than the seemingly more robust, but much heavier British twin layer version, they were fine. Generally speaking the quality of equipment and supplies matched or exceeded British Antarctic Survey standards. The only problem was this: it was now mid-January, and the sun was sinking towards the horizon. By this point, most deep-field parties such as ours were wrapping up their work and preparing to be flown back North. We had not begun, and yet we’d planned at least a month’s fieldwork.

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The Filchner Ice Shelf camp

Our work schedule from then on was to be governed by the heavens, or to be more prosaic, the orbital paths of the ERS-1 satellite and those of the GPS constellation.  ERS-1 would pass directly overhead every 3 days. At these times, Jeff needed to get scatterometer data. The GPS constellation was still in its infancy in 1991, and we only had sufficient coverage (3 satellites visible with reasonable separation) for 4 3-hour periods every day. Since there were only 3 of us, it soon became clear that we were going to have to split the work between us. The scatterometer was quite cumbersome, and Jeff really needed Peter’s assistance to move it. The GPS surveying, on the other hand, could technically be done by one person, even if this was an absolute no-no for Antarctic fieldwork. Pragmatically, there was no other choice. But we tried to take what precautions we could. First, we surveyed a 40 km route southwards along the ERS-1 orbital path, taking two snowmobiles and carefully checking for crevasses. This established a path I could later follow alone.  We also checked out several parallel routes offset 10km east and west. This determined a safety area in which we could build up our ground survey.  To the east we did discover some crevasses, but they were large, open, not in our way, and easy to spot given good conditions.  A more crevassed area was found to the north west of Snowhenge, in the direction of Berkner Island, so we decided to position our survey area mainly to the south of our camp.

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Peter, David & Jeff, and scatterometer: furthest South official photo.

We then settled into a routine. Since Jeff & I were sharing a tent, and Peter was enjoying his polar superhero fantasies alone, it ended up with one or the other of us clambering out of the tent at some ungodly hour trying not to wake up the other one. The theory of the GPS work was fairly straightforward. One antenna was strapped securely to a snowmobile, and a receiver was hooked up to it.  The receiver sat more in less in my lap. The second antenna and receiver were set up at the camp. The idea was to use the differential method, recording two signals and post-processing to remove errors in the track recorded by the moving receiver (you don’t have to do that these days - young people today have it too damned easy!).  In addition, to help things along, it was generally a good idea to stop every kilometre or so to let the mobile receiver get a better fix. And, based on the advice on the NERC experts, it was also a good idea to switch off all possible sources of interference, including the snowmobile engine.  This was not something I felt all that happy about, especially when alone, at 3am, 40km from camp, at around -25C, and with no radio contact. Actually, there was no way on Earth I would have done that with a BAS-issue Bombardier Skiddoo snowmobile, but the Yamaha was much more confidence inspiring. And we had an agreement that if I didn’t turn up by a certain deadline Peter would come to look for me, following my tracks (there was a bit of a flaw in that plan, considering that Filchner Ice Shelf is quite a windy place, and that wind and whiteouts can rapidly conceal snowmobile tracks), and I had a survival pack. Well, it all turned out fine, but yeah, it was bloody stupid. But we’d come all that way and I wanted my data.

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The GPS surveying set-up

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A long way from nowhere

Did I mention -25C ? Well, that was something that we hadn’t fully factored in. Probably, had we been backed up by a full national program logistics organisation, somebody might have pointed out that at such temperatures, batteries might not perform quite to optimum levels. The first sign I got of this was returning to camp on one of the first trips, and hearing a strange high pitched sound. This was actually not one of my team-mates snoring, but the second, reference Ashtech receiver using up it’s last few millivolts to emit a warning “battery-low” buzz rather than saving and securing it’s RAM data. This was, in my colourfully expressed opinion, a bit of a design flaw, and a sound I would come to dread. Essentially it meant that the post processing would be tricky, and in some cases impossible. Certainly, it couldn’t be done in the field with the primitive laptop software we had.

Ah yes, the laptops. At one point, we noticed that the laptop hooked up to our ARGUS weather station was showing remarkably steady weather conditions.  Temperature, wind speed, wind direction, humidity, none had changed for ages. At this point somebody noticed that the laptop’s liquid crystal display (this was 1991, remember) had frozen solid. Oh well. After it warmed up it was fine.

When not surveying in one way or another, we carried out some more traditional glaciology, digging snow pits to record melt horizons (which could be very significant for the ERS-1 radar altimeter echoes) and measuring 10m depth temperature profiles using a superbly hand crafted set of thermistor cables. These data, together with the weather station data, could be used in future to plug into out model of how the ERS-1 13.8 GHz radar waves interacted with and penetrated into the snow. On days when ERS-1 was not overflying us, Jeff used the scatterometer and associated equipment to measure physical properties of the snow which combine to reflect the radar signal.

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Jeff hard at work pushing the scatterometer and pulling the electronics sledge

And we put the snow blocks extracted from the snow pits to good use, building the structure which gave our camp - and this website - its name.

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GLACE Flight 999 approaches Snowhenge International Airport

Although things started out well, some snags were on the horizon. First of all, our generator broke down, and we were unable to recharge batteries, including our radio battery.
The glacier survey team turned up and brought us a new generator, but also requisitioned a large proportion of our fuel reserves, seriously restricting our GPS surveying. It seemed that in general there was insufficient fuel to satisfy all the fuel parties’ snowmobile needs. We were also running low on paraffin for heating and cooking. And the scatterometer suffered a broken diode, making it unusable. But the worst blow fell further south. 

While landing at a depot towards the south of the Ice Shelf, the Twin Otter grazed an unspotted crevasse and tipped slightly into it. It escaped with a damaged ski, which was extremely lucky in the circumstances, but there was no way to repair it. This was the final straw. The GLACE crew had no option but to fly all the way to Canada to get it fixed. This took several weeks (a Twin Otter’s top speed is about 120 knots), and during this time, our field party was effectively stranded.  We had insufficient fuel to travel overland to Blaenga, or indeed much anywhere, and we were well out of helicopter range. Fortunately nothing went wrong, and the Twin Otter eventually returned, bringing as a bonus a new diode for the scatterometer.  But by this time, a late field season had turned into an extremely late one.  Nevertheless, Monica wasn’t going to give up the Tent, and all efforts were focused on that.

Before, however, we were to be evacuated from Snowhenge to a location from which, if necessary, we could reach Blaenga under our own steam (and in Peter’s dreams). We still wanted to try to get a second dataset in a more plateau-like environment with undulating terrain, and we had selected a site on Coats Land, which we dubbed “Newhaven” - as it turned out craftily concealed in a hollow and invisible from a km or so away. We packed up Snowhenge, and the Twin Otter arrived to carry us to our new home in the hills. Soon after we arrived, a snowmobile party from Blaenga turned up, bringing Elisabeth and Axel to join us.

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Our new home at Newhaven

Meanwhile, the South Pole party had finally got going, delivered by the Twin Otter, to start the search for The Tent.  There are conflicting stories about what actually happened next. According to the South Pole log the ground-penetrating radar was never used. However, Jeff recalls that the team claimed to have used it and to have found a cavity in the snow close to the predicted location of the tent. Personally I’m skeptical, but either way, the Tent was not found.

Feb 16 1992: Monica with the marker tent set up at South Pole. Read the full story (scroll down to the 1991-92 section) at

There’s also some contradiction about whether or not the US National Science Foundation supported the Tent search. Again according to that South Pole log they did, but my recollection from field radio chit-chat at the time was that there was some serious resistance in-situ - indeed, we had the impression they were practically hostile and refused to even allow the team to enter Amundsen-Scott base.

In fact, I’m sure there was a radio exchange something on these lines…

[Blaenga] "Blaenga, Blaenga Station calling Amundsen-Scott"
[A-S] "Who???"
[Blaenga] "Yeah, hi, er, look, we'll be dropping in tomorrow to pick up Amundsen's Tent"
[A-S] "Say again? What tent ?"
[Blaenga] "Amundsen's Tent.  He left it there in 1911"
[A-S]  er, Hold 5 …(static, unintelligible background chatter, laughter)…
[Blaenga] "Hello ? Amundsen-Scott? Do you read?"
[A-S] "Blaenga, yeah, um, you, er, know that it isn't here any more, right?"
Blaenga huts

Blaenga Base. Great location, ample parking, winter sports, suit nature lovers

Meanwhile at Newhaven things were getting a bit gloomy. It was now getting darker at night and quite chilly, and we had very little idea of what was going on, generally. The option of travelling to Blaenga by snowmobile was looking more likely, but we were not well equipped, or experienced, for such a journey. Conserving fuel also restricted our field work, and morale was declining.  I seem to recall that the scatterometer was either not working, or its frame had collapsed, but for my part I was able to do some basic GPS surveying. This time, rather than a long, along track grid, I settled for a cross-shaped survey centered on Newhaven. Elisabeth had her own work to do, digging pits for snow samples, and we took advantage of these to make more thermistor measurements. I do remember that we set up a hot shower tent, though. That was definitely a high point!


The complete Aurora Programme transport pool huddling in a snowstorm

Eventually we were airlifted out and back to the Aurora which had returned to the vicinity of Blaenga.  But this was not the end of the saga. Blaenga had been closed down for the winter, but Monica’s team was still as South Pole, and apparently were not making much progress. She was reluctant to leave, and with the weather closing in on the Aurora, emotions were rising and things were getting tense. And yet, this was the Antarctic, and it had a few gifts for us.  We were blessed with several days of gorgeous weather, stunning, endless sunsets, and the visit of a very chilled-out group of curious emperor penguins (and some of their Adelie friends). These days I’d have to pay $20,000 for an experience like that. But eventually, some vestige of common sense, and the combined pressure of the Aurora’s captain and the GLACE crew won over, and the Pole team were pulled out. The Twin Otter immediately set off North West in the direction of the British Rothera base in the Antarctic Peninsula. And the Aurora left almost as quickly.

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Some Emperor penguins come to inspect us

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The Aurora hurries off into a darkening Weddell Sea

The return journey was uneventful, once we had left the Weddell Sea, although we had a very strange encounter when the bridge watch reported seeing the conning tower of a submarine rapidly heading south into the Antarctic night. I volunteered for watch duties and spent most of my time on the bridge, hearing stories of the Lofoten Islands from the captain. We stopped off for a few days at Grytviken, in South Georgia, which was a pleasant surprise, before finally returning to warmer waters and summer in Uruguay. Relations with Monica remained tense, and she kept herself largely to her cabin. My own relationship with Monica became extremely strained, and was only more or less repaired as we finally went our separate ways some 4 weeks later at Paris airport.

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