The fruits of life ... and station

How do you like them apples?

Some things just don’t make sense. Like how on earth do we still have ‘fresh’ fruit from February? Apples last arrived aboard the Orange Roughy (RSV Aurora Australis) some eight months ago, and are still going strong. As a lad from the NT, prior to the voyage south I couldn’t get anything to survive more than a few days, so it blows my mind that the fruit bowls remain overflowing with the shiny red and green delicacies. What is in them? What is on them? How? Maybe they were cross-germinated with Chuck Norris DNA. The things won’t die. It’s incredible!

Ok so there’s that, we have fruit. But with this comes the guilt of giving up the pomme crunch for that of the perfectly baked sausage roll at smoko. You can feel the Royal Galas staring at you, asking “shouldn’t you be eating me?" But instead of the nutritious juice of the Granny Smith glistening on one's beard, it is infested with the crumbs of chicken tenders, curry pies and blobs of the perfectly crafted laksa.

Moving on. Besides eating apples, we also reside in them. When you see their shape and colour it makes sense. And when you have a rough night's sleep, from the howling winds and the orchestra of snores, waking to a mask of icy condensation strewn across your face, yes, you do feel seedy. The apple is complete. They are the quaint AirBnBs of Davis and form part of the core experience for expeditioners squatting throughout the Vestfolds. There is of course the luxury of the huts, spacious and well supplied with water, fuel, mi goreng and the occasional dart board. But the dear apple? Sturdy, cosy, reliable. I have been fortunate to stay in many of them here, and although visited regularly in the summer months, they spend the winter in lonely solitude, occasionally accommodating those who seek the same escapism.

Rhys Harding