The Day The Sun Never Set
The Field Review: TFR-040
Yesterday was my 28th birthday.
I don’t put too much weight on birthdays, and I definitely don’t ask for birthday wishes, recognition or Facebook posts. Like New Year’s Eve, I feel like birthdays are one of those days that tradition tells us we need to celebrate, even if it feels like any other regular day.
Maybe it’s because I have no personal memory of that cold February day outside of Detroit, Michigan in 1997.
Maybe it’s because there are many other days in my life that I think are worth celebrating more than my birthday.
I don’t remember the day I was born.
But I do remember December 23, 2016.
I’ve never told this story in full to anyone. Not because I don’t want to, but because it’s a story I don’t think will translate to anyone but me. I already know that words and photos will never do it justice.
But I’ll tell it now anyways.
Alone at the Bottom of the World
On December 23, 2016, I was nineteen years old. I found myself sitting on the edge of the Antarctic Peninsula.
I can’t tell you exactly where, because I have no idea where it was. I know it was somewhere north of Almirante Brown Research Station, along the Gerlache Strait.
It was a plateau surrounded by ice, rock and ocean, with snow-covered mountain peaks that looked like they’d just been chiseled out of black stone with a dull knife.
The closest port city was Ushuaia, Argentina. About 680 miles north across the roughest sea channel in the world, the Drake Passage. A week earlier, I had left civilization behind on a 364 foot Soviet research vessel named Akademik Ioffe.
I hadn’t seen a tree in ten days.
December 23rd was our last night on solid ground before making the return trip back to Argentina. We wouldn’t step foot on land again for three days and spent Christmas on the open ocean, the midnight sun never setting, just rolling across the horizon.
On that final night, we were given the option to camp given that it was summer down here at the bottom of the world. No tents though, just a subzero sleeping bag, a foam pad, and a shovel to dig out a coffin-sized hole in the snow to protect ourselves from the Antarctic wind.
After I dug my sleeping hole, I took my camera and walked away from camp, alone.
I wanted to capture the never-setting sun without anyone else in my shot. I found a lookout below our camp, set up my tripod, and started an hour-long photo timelapse. And then, I just sat.
I was alone in a way I had never been before and haven’t been since.
Antarctica has no history like the other six continents. No native or indigenous people. No wars. Never permanently settled. It has value, but for all purposes it is the definition of a wasteland.
Another world forgotten within ours.
My gut told me that no human had ever been in the exact spot where I was now sitting. I was the first person in the history of our planet to ever sit here.
And as as far as I know, I was the last.
The Weight of a Decision
There’s something about setting up a timelapse that forces stillness. The camera does the work, and you’re left alone with your thoughts while the shutter clicks away.
Some people talk about life-changing moments like they talk about lightning strikes. But in my life, moments of clarity usually happen in silence. Single thoughts that form with no outside witness.
At nineteen, my thoughts were mostly questions.
I had no clue what the rest of my life was going to look like, but I had convinced myself that I was on the right track. I was an international studies major at Ohio State, specializing in security and intelligence. The plan was to work for the government.
But if I was being honest with myself, that plan had started to form cracks. I didn’t know if I wanted that life. I didn’t even know if I understood what that life actually meant. I didn’t have anyone to point me one way over another.
Over the course of this study abroad trip, I spent time with people whose ambitions ran in different directions. Conversations about career paths, about their own uncertainties, made me start to reconsider mine.
As I sat on that snow-covered ridge at the bottom of the world, I decided to stop hiding from myself.
I wasn’t going to work in intelligence. That wasn’t my path. I made the decision then and there that I’d keep my major, but shift my specialization to economics and business. I’d use the foundation I had built, but in a way that actually made sense for my goals.
When I got back to Columbus, I’d start applying for business internships.
It was the first big decision of the night, and I felt the weight of it settle in.
The second wasn’t far behind and I started to think about the people I called my friends.
I made a mistake my freshman year of college. Instead of finding my own group of people, I fell back on familiar faces from high school. Not because we had much in common, but because it was easy and comfortable.
Prior to this trip, I knew that didn’t belong in that circle anymore.
We weren’t headed in the same direction. We didn’t want the same things in life. I had spent too much time making excuses for why I stayed. Why I surrounded myself with people who added absolutely no value to my life.
I decided that was over now. When I got back home, I’d start carving my own path and find new people to help me get to where I wanted to go.
And then, there was the third decision.
The one I had been thinking about the most.
My girlfriend and I had been together since high school. We were in our second year of college long distance dating. Me in Ohio, her in North Carolina. The seven hour drive between us wasn't an easy thing to overcome, but I still found myself hopping, skipping and jumping my way to see her every few months.
I had convinced myself not to think too far ahead. We were still nineteen. There were multiple years of school (and graduate school) left, careers to figure out, “life” to sort through.
But as I sat there, watching a sun that refused to set, I took down another mental wall.
I was going to marry her. There was no doubt in my mind.
I didn’t know how many years were between me and that moment (spoiler: we got married seven years later), but I didn’t care. I knew we’d figure it out.
And once you know something like that, you can’t unknow it.
A Day Worth Remembering
I don’t know how long I sat there after that last decision. The camera was still clicking away, capturing frame after frame, but I wasn’t thinking about the shot anymore.
I was thinking about the weight of those decisions.
Three choices, each one showing me the direction of where my life would go next. A shift in major, a break from the wrong people, a lifelong commitment to the right one.
In my head, I’m not sure whether to file the memory of this day under ‘Reckoning Day’, ‘Redemption Day’ or ‘Remembrance Day’. In a way, it was all three.
It’s rare that you can pinpoint an exact moment where your life changes. Usually, it happens so slowly you don’t notice until you’re looking back. But I know mine.
And I have a picture of it.
Eventually, the camera stopped clicking. The timelapse was done.
The sun never dipped.
I packed up my gear and walked back to camp, dug myself into my snow bed, and attempted to sleep under a sky that wasn’t dark.
I don’t talk much about divine intervention. I don’t go to church regularly. But I believe in something, even if I don’t have a name for it. And that night, sitting at world’s end, I wasn’t alone.
I doubt I’ll feel that level of clarity again until the very end, when my sun finally sets.
I don’t think I need to.
I went 3/3 on every decision I made that night. Each one was successful, setting me up for success and putting me on the path I’m still walking today.
Needless to say, December 23, 2016 is a day worth remembering.
From My Desk:
Like I mentioned up front, I didn’t have plans to share this story. But I also never thought I’d have a place like Substack to share it.
I’m still trying to find a balance for The Field Review between ‘heavy topics’ like this one and fun topics about my hobbies and interests.
One of the restrictions I put on my writing is to never act like I have ‘it’ all figured out. All I can do is share my thoughts and experiences, and hope that someone else can relate and find value.
If that changes, I hope you’ll let me know.
From The Field Review Archives:
The Field Review is a space for exploring the intersection of work, life, and the great outdoors. It’s about figuring ‘it’ out—whatever your ‘it’ might be.
Every Sunday at 10AM EST, I share ideas, insights, and conversations that help break through the noise, offering a real look at how we can all keep moving forward.
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Venture Onward,
Jack
Thank you for sharing that story and the decisions you made. Rarely does one experience such clarity. I'm glad it worked out well for you (and the girl!)
Great story brother. I too believe in mystical moments like these. It’s like an unexpected nudge that life gives us to put us in the right direction towards something.