The polar bears of Kolyuchin Island

(Excerpts from the diaries of Officers Jeffrey, McKenzie, Robinson, McGregor, Draper)

1400 hrs. From the ship the rocky cliffs and shores are visible, but only intermittently as gales play with the clouds, lifting them for periods of thin sunlight, then dropping them, plunging the horizon into grey foggy thickness.

Eventually binoculars and drones provide evidence of life on the old Soviet outpost. A gigantic polar bear sits on his haunches outside a weather-battered building. White-yellow fur fresh against grey mould-streaked walls. Above him two cubs share a window hole, peering out at their wide, wild domain. More cubs by an oil barrel. I’d say we have a maternity ward here.

Fact: Polar bears breed once every three years. Fact: The female needs stores of fat before implantation takes place. Fact: Polar bears can smell prey from 30 km away. Summer may be lean for ice hunters, berries hard to locate, but who knows when a succulent dead whale will wash to their shore?

1600 hrs. It was startling to see bear heads poking through the window of an abandoned building. They seemed so at home there as if they’d just paused their cooking to glance out over the ice. We had no idea of the original route to the polar weather station. But the closer we got, the stronger the smell became. It wasn’t as musky as a sea lion smell, nor of the cold waters of the Chukchi. It was fishy, but also oily as though dozens of barrels of whale blubber had broken open. The bears were wary of us. We kept our distance, our balaclavas pulled up over our noses.

With the wind, came the noise. Rusty roof irons flapping, some already lifted and flung at random around the site. The occasional thump of an empty barrel rolling over the tundra.

The cubs looked to be adolescent males. They stared out the window holes as if they expected an Uber delivery of food. Their small black noses twitched the air. Maybe it was the scent of a carcass… a Beluga whale still swaying between the floating sea ice.

Out of the arctic mist emerged the body of an enormous white polar bear. We caught sight of his front paws stained an oxidised blue. His eyes fixed upon us. He padded forward slowly, his claws scratching divots from the glacial ground.

1800 hrs. To while away the time I tried my hand at poetry. The bears had no care/ for the stench that filled the air/ putrid paws could tear my flesh/ eat me raw/

I’m the only medic on board. It weighs heavy on me when the officers land on the island.

1400 hrs. At first sight we could make out the angular shapes of the buildings of the former Soviet weather station. Then movement. Initially we thought the animals were sheep. Then, from spitting distance from our vessel, we saw a polar bear watching our arrival. It leaned out a window frame, front paws resting on the yellow cladding. So relaxed, almost as if it were human. Many times have I seen exactly the same scene in Mediterranean countries. On mild summer evenings it is common for people to watch the world go by from their window in exactly the same way the bears were watching us.

The bear remained still. It barely moved its neck, eyes tracing our vessel, twitching nose and ears picking up boat and human smells and sounds. Once we’d sailed past, the bear grew bored. His gaze returned to the open sky, following the paths of the wheeling seabirds.

2200 hrs. Fact: Temperatures are hotter than last year. Fact: The Arctic is warming twice as fast as the global average. During a lull in the weather comes the noise of ice chiseling away from the floes, slipping towards the edges.

All night I have the same feverish dream. I’m in a retreat centre, once an Eastern Orthodox monastery. The polar bears are there. It’s hard for me to be contemplative. The bears wrestle, hopscotch and chant sea shanties in Polarish, interspersed with chuffings and whimpers, growls and moans. Then they’re off on a hunt for seal pups. The crackling of the bones in their jaws is a further strain on my nerves. A bear with a Scottish accent digs me in the ribs. ‘Hey, the human lies down with the bear,’ he says. Eventually we all sleep. A large icon of Christ glows over us in the dark.

Robinson wants more sleeping pills. Am hoping things will improve once the boat gets moving again. We lie there listening to the shrieking gulls and the north easterly.

From the warmth of our well-provisioned ship, we debate another landing, to more closely observe the polar bear village, a rare opportunity to witness nature’s adaptive prowess. The consensus is no. Leave it alone. We take our leave of the bears of Kolyuchin Island. From our foredeck, faces to the weather, we officers salute.

Notes: This collaboration was inspired by a photo essay in the Guardian about the polar bears living in the abandoned buildings of Kolyuchin Island. Students of the Linwood writing class, tutored by Frankie McMillan, imagined themselves as officers on board a ship, recording their observations of the island. The resulting pieces were then shaped and ‘stitched’ together to form a longer work. No polar bears were harmed in the making of this piece.

Sam Draper lives in Christchurch. She is new to creative writing. Besides classes at the Linwood Community Arts, she enjoys reading, travel, the outdoors and fun family gatherings.

After decades of teaching tertiary academic writing, Ōtautahi-based Rowan Jeffrey is exploring her creative style through poetry and short fiction. Her work has been published in AANZPA Journal, the 2024 Ōtautahi is Flash! installation, and the narrative medicine journal Intima.

Verena McGregor is a new writer based in Ōtautahi. She is attending the creative writing classes at Linwood Community Arts Centre. Apart from reading and writing she likes tango dancing and comedy.

Andy McKenzie lives in Christchurch. His writing has been published in JAAM, Landfall and takahē.

Frankie McMillan is an award-winning poet and short story writer. Her latest book, The wandering nature of us girls, was published by Canterbury University Press in 2022. She teaches creative writing at the Linwood Community Arts Centre in Ōtautahi.

Paul Robinson was born in Ōtautahi, New Zealand. He is a semi-retired chef and a developing writer currently learning this new craft alongside the Eastside Scribes of the Linwood creative writing class.