Skiing in the Dark - Alone in Antarctica: The First Woman to Ski Solo Across the Southern Ice - page 201

belief that I would get myself home safely. The knowledge that
I would let them down by venturing out of my tent when the
risks felt so high only added to my misery.
I lingered over the remains of my coffee, listening to the
wind. I knew it was the worst thing I could possibly do, that
in allowing myself to imagine the feel of that wind, the sting
of the cold, the empty hours of the ski, I was making the task
ever harder. I knew this and yet I couldn't stop myself. I tried to
understand the emotions I was wrestling with in the hope that
being able to pinpoint the cause and rationalise them would
reduce their potency. What is it about the sorrowful voice of
the wind that cuts through all reason and logic to make us feel
instinctively lonely and vulnerable? I searched my memories
for any experiences that would make me associate the whine
of the wind with fright or loneliness but found none; most of
my storm memories involved being cosy and secure inside, safe
from the weather. So was it conditioning by culture? Or is it
something about the pitch and the form of the noise itself that
unnerves us? Perhaps it is the fact that the mournful notes of the
wind can sound almost human. Maybe it is not the noise itself
but the constant movement causing it which brings loneliness
to mind. We naturally associate movement with displacement,
and displacement with sadness.
I noticed the shifting of air inside the tent pulling the steam
from my coffee into ragged zigzags and then realised that it
was in fact my hands shaking. Seeing the physical signs of my
inner turmoil only heightened the fear.
'I'm not brave,' my mind wailed. 'I'm not courageous. I'm
just Felicity and I can't do this.'
I had no special ability, no profound wisdom or technique
that would help me get through this crisis of confidence. I had