Phil Broughton explains what it takes to be a bartender in Antarctica:
I learned to spot the signs that someone was likely to wander drunkenly into the Antarctic night, and had heard too many stories of people returning to base with hypothermia and frostbite. My theory was that it’s easier to recover from too much drinking than to grow back a missing limb; I was happy only when everyone was safely tucked up and accounted for, even if it meant leaving them passed out on the bar’s couch.
I wasn’t just a detached observer, though; I was as enthusiastic a drinker as most of the patrons. One drawback was the hangovers: after a particularly heavy session, I would have to nip outside to be sick. Any liquid that came into contact with the ice froze immediately and, if left alone, it would remain so for ever. It was a point of honor to clear up after yourself, which meant chipping away with a pickaxe.
Olga Khazan spoke with Broughton last month:
Eventually, workers who were predisposed to seasonal affective disorder were hit hard. The darkness and cold caused sleepiness and memory problems, and over time some of the winter-overs became disoriented and lethargic.
“You were supposed to write copious notes to yourself in a notebook,” Broughton said. “Life gets rough when you can’t remember things. My strangest thing was that I lost complete command of written grammar. And I pretty much don’t remember the month of October.”
There were occasional tee-totalers and plenty of moderate drinkers, but for some, alcohol became a refuge.
“You see things that leave you uncomfortable. There were a good dozen people who were drinking to kill the days — that was hard to watch, and it was hard to serve. Though at some level, I’d rather have you drinking in front of me than drinking on your own.”
The Dish 