COLD AS ICE by FOREIGNER. Story by Katherine Kovacic.

Melbourne/Canada 2018.

Saturday night, his car, sitting out the front of my house after a less-than-stellar dinner. Relationship status: terminal.

The radio was playing softly – classic rock, golden oldies, and I was readying myself to deliver the, it’s not you it’s me, speech.

But he got in first. ‘I think we shouldn’t see each other anymore.’

‘Okay,’ I said, mentally calculating how quickly I could get out of there without seeming rude.

It was the wrong response.

‘See? That’s the whole problem!’ He whined.

I stared, unsure where this was going, fairly sure I didn’t want to know. Suddenly, he lunged for the radio, cranking up the volume.

Foreigner. Cold As Ice.

‘This is you! You’re an Ice Queen!

The next day, not so much broken hearted as mildly pissed off, I did what any self-respecting Ice Queen would do. I embraced my frosty core and booked a solo trip to the Arctic.

Months later, there I was, aboard a Russian research vessel, standing on the deck as we embarked on a crossing of the Northwest Passage, the storied sea route connecting the Atlantic and Pacific via the Arctic Ocean.

The pack ice was bad that season, forcing the crew to chart a course through waters where none of them had sailed before, narrows in an area so remote, they’d never been fully surveyed.

Was it the siren song of an Ice Queen aboard their vessel that caused those self-same sailors to turn off the echo sounder’s low water depth alarm? Or was it because real men don’t need help with directions and besides, that depth thing makes an annoying beeping noise?

We’ll never know.

We ran aground. Hard.

The ship was listing at about thirty degrees, there was serious damage to the hull, and a fierce wind blew across the icy waves.

Multiple agencies raced to our rescue – the Canadian Coast Guard! The  Armed Forces! – and at dawn the next day after a sleepless night (and a Titanic selfie on the prow) we were transferred to a rescue ship.

We were dropped ashore at Resolute, a remote Inuit hamlet, still almost 1000 km north of the Arctic Circle, but the nearest place where a plane could land for us.

Wearily, we trudged towards the airstrip, a line of people, strung out across the barren Arctic landscape. A noise from behind made me glance back. A large four wheel drive was nosing its way toward me, forcing people to move aside. It drew level and slowed to my walking pace.

Emblazoned on its door was the shield of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. The window buzzed down and the driver leaned out, one hand on the wheel, still rolling forward, matching my speed.

With his free hand, he pulled off his mirrored sunglasses.

‘Need a lift?’ His voice was deep and smooth like whiskey.

‘Thanks, I’m okay.’

‘Are you sure? It’s dangerous out here. There are polar bears.’

Apparently, Mounties can spot an Ice Queen at 100 paces, and in the Arctic, Ice Queen is a compliment.

Two days after arriving in Canada, I was on my way back to Australia, via LAX.

At the customs desk, I watched as the border protection officer clocked my turnaround time.

‘You’re from Australia?’

‘Yep.’

‘You’ve been in Canada for two days, and now you’re going back?’

‘Uh-huh.’

He locked eyes with me and slowly reached for his phone.

Turns out he thought I was an Ice Queen too. Or at the very least, a Snow Queen.

Stereo Story #734

Williamstown 2023. Photo by Eric Algra.

Katherine Kovacic narrated this story, backed by the Stereo Stories band, at the 2023  Queenscliffe and Williamstown literary festivals.