chapter 1

“Monday April 24th . . . We took Good bye with our companions. & set sail on our 870 miles to South
Georgia for assistance at 12–30 & at 2 P M we came to a stream of ice which we managed to get through
in about an hour. Then we were in the open sea wet through but happy through it all.”
McNeish’s log.
“Monday, 24th. April.
“Wild Camp for Rating Chron. 192/262
“Took departure in James Caird at 12-30 p.m. Steered N.N.E. 8 miles, then E. 1 mile to a break in the
stream ice here running E and W
“Wind: to 4 p.m. WNW 6 [approx. 30 MPH] . . .”
Worsley’s log.
The little group of dark figures waving good-by were silhouetted against the white snow, and they
made a pathetic picture from the Caird as she lifted to the increasing swell.
Worsley held her on a northerly course and Shackleton stood beside him, alternately peering ahead
at the approaching ice, and turning again to look at the men he was leaving behind. It was only a short
time, it seemed, until they were no longer discernible.
Before long the whole of Elephant Island widened out astern, its great craggy headlands and glacier
walls catching the sun. Off to the right, tiny Cornwallis Island, rising steeply out of the sea, came into
view from behind Cape Valentine; and a little while later the snowy peaks of Clarence Island could be
seen, delicately half-hidden by the violet-tinted mists. In the water, an occasional seal or a small flock
of penguins swam past, looking curiously at this strange creature that was moving across the surface of
the sea.
It was just two o’clock when the Caird reached the ice, which proved to be a thick line of ancient floes
that had been broken and melted into a myriad of different shapes. They rose to the long westerly swell
in stately cadence, producing a hoarse, rustling noise.
Worsley swung the boat east, parallel with the ice, to search for the opening that he and Shackleton
had seen from the spit earlier in the day. It took them almost an hour to reach it, and they discovered
that it was nearly clogged with floe fragments and patches of brash ice. Nevertheless Worsley brought
the Caird’s bow around and they started through.
Almost at once the boat was dwarfed by weird shapes of ice, some of them twice the height of the
mast. They swayed and bowed in the lazy movement of the sea. Above the water they were pure, snowy
white; beneath it they shaded into ever deepening blue.
Worsley tried to steer the boat safely amongst the lumps, but several times, turning to avoid one
fragment they bumped into another, and Shackleton decided they had better row.
The sails were dropped and the men carefully crawled up onto the decking and put out their oars.
Rowing was extremely awkward, sitting as they were, flush with the oarlocks. Fortunately the wind died
down. Shackleton had taken over the helm and he urged the rowers on. It was after four o’clock and
the light was beginning to fail.
 However, after almost an hour the ice began to thin out and they soon came to the northern edge of
the pack, then emerged once more into the open sea. The rowers happily scrambled back inside the
cockpit and everyone was enormously relieved.
The wind had gradually swung around to the southeast, the perfect direction for driving them north.
Shackleton ordered the sails set, and after they were up, he sent Crean, McNeish, Vincent, and
McCarthy forward to get some sleep, saying that he and Worsley would stay on duty throughout the
night to watch for ice.
When everything was squared away, Shackleton turned and looked astern. It was just possible to
make out Elephant Island as a hulking, shadowy mass. For several minutes he stared without
speaking.
A forbidding-looking place, certainly, but that only made it seem the more pitiful. It was the refuge
of twenty-two men who, at that very moment, were camped on a precarious, storm-washed spit of
beach, as helpless and isolated from the outside world as if they were on another planet. Their plight
was known only to the six men in this ridiculously little boat, whose responsibility now was to prove
that all the laws of chance were wrong—and return with help. It was a staggering trust.
As the darkness deepened, ten thousand stars pricked through the blue-black sky, and the little wisp
of a pennant that fluttered from the Caird’s mainmast described an irregular circle across the sparkling
heavens as the boat rolled before the quartering sea.
The two men sat side by side, Worsley steering and Shackleton huddled close up against him. The
southerly wind was cold and the sea was picking up. Their primary concern was ice, and Shackleton and
Worsley kept a sharp lookout. They passed an occasional lump early in the evening, but by ten o’clock
the sea appeared to be clear.
From time to time Shackleton rolled cigarettes for both of them, and they spoke of many things. It
was obvious that the burden of responsibility Shackleton had borne for sixteen months had nibbled
away somewhat at his enormous self-confidence. He wanted to talk and to be assured that he had acted
wisely.
He confided to Worsley that the decision to separate die party had been a desperately difficult one,
and he abhorred having to make it. But somebody had to go for help, and this was not the sort of
responsibility which could be delegated to another person.
As for the journey itself, he seemed strangely doubtful, and he asked Worsley’s opinion of their
chances. Worsley replied that he was sure that they would make it, but it was evident that Shackleton
was far from convinced.
The truth was that he felt rather out of his element. He had proved himself on land. He had
demonstrated there beyond all doubt his ability to pit his matchless tenacity against the elements—
and win. But the sea is a different sort of enemy. Unlike the land, where courage and the simple will to
endure can often see a man through, the struggle against the sea is an act of physical combat, and there
is no escape. It is a battle against a tireless enemy in which man never actually wins; the most that he
can hope for is not to be defeated.
It gave Shackleton a feeling of uneasiness. He now faced an adversary so formidable that his own
strength was nothing in comparison, and he did not enjoy being in a position where boldness and
determination count for almost nothing, and in which victory is measured only in survival.
 But more than anything he was dreadfully tired, and he wanted simply for the journey to be over,
and as quickly as possible. If only they could make Cape Horn, he said to Worsley, they would cut one-
third off the distance they had to go. He knew it was impossible, but he asked Worsley whether he
thought the southeast wind just might hold long enough for them to do so. Worsley looked at him
sympathetically and shook his head. Not a chance, he replied.
Just before six o’clock, the first light of dawn crept across the sky and as it grew brighter, both men
relaxed. Now if they came upon any ice, at least they could see it.
Shackleton waited until seven o’clock and then he called the other men. Crean rigged the Primus, and
after a considerable amount of trouble getting it to light and keeping the hoosh pot in place, they finally
had breakfast.
When they had finished, Shackleton announced that the watches would begin, four hours on and
four hours off. Shackleton said he would take the first trick with Crean and McNeish, and Worsley would
have the other with Vincent and McCarthy.