When I was in my 20s, I seriously looked into getting a job in Antarctica. I kept looking at Raytheon’s job page to see if anything applied. There was no wooden ship, but it still sounded so romantic to me that I really thought it would be a great adventure.
Shackelton did do that. He personally interviewed every crew memeber.
And he did a good job too. When thier boat became trapped in the ice they had to spend the entire antartic winter held up inside the immovable ship. I think it was like 9 months.
They had no altercations and were generally in good spirits.
My roommate went to Omega Mart a few days ago and all she got me was this pack of chewing gum and maybe covid. Hopefully not the covid, but she’s got it right now. :/
Just imagine if they’d given the command of the British Antarctic expedition to Shackleton instead of Scott. I still think Amundsen would’ve beaten the Brits to the pole, but I very much doubt Shackleton would’ve gotten himself and his men killed.
There’s some evidence that he was passed over for the command for political reasons having to do with him being Irish.
I read this as leaving one’s job because the boss asked them to go on a ship for the office tembuilding exercise or something. I’d have to sleep on it myself, I think.
Buddy. First I want to say, I upvoted you both times purely because you made me laugh, but after seeing this comment from you on two threads, I have to say it’s absolutely fucking unhinged. You cannot possibly expect millions of people to conform to you and only post dark images, that’s literally insane. Most people don’t even know how to use dark mode for stuff, they certainly aren’t going the extra step and using things like Dark Reader, etc. You might want to just pack this gripe up because it’s only going to continue to frustrate you fruitlessly.
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
How am I supposed to traverse Antarctica (a continental land mass) in a big wooden ship? Does the ship have wheels and sleds? Because Antarctica is a desert. A cold one, yes, but still a very-much-hostile-to-sea-faring-wessels desert.
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