The Antarctic Journals, Chapter Thirty, Going Home

The Quest arrives at the whaling station of Grytviken on South Georgia Island on Jan. 4, 1922, six years after all the men of the Endurance were rescued.  Ernest Shackleton is greeted warmly by his friend the station manager and they spend the day revisiting favorite sites around the station.

That evening, Shackleton dines aboard the Quest and goes to bed.  At two in the morning, Shackleton summons his friend Alexander Macklin, a surgeon, to his cabin.  Macklin is concerned about The Boss’s health and notices the cold in the cabin.  He leaves and returns with a heavy blanket which he tucks around Shackleton.

Macklin remains and talks with Shackleton, carefully suggesting that perhaps he should take it easy for a while.

“You are always wanting me to give up something,” replies Shackleton  “What do you want me to give up now?”  Suddenly a massive heart attack hits and he dies shortly before 3 a.m.

He is 47 years old.

Sir Ernest Shackleton

***

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Ten days previously in this voyage.

The Fram moves slowly into East Cumberland Bay on the eastern coast of South Georgia Island and drops anchor in the pristine water.  Sunlight glints off the frothy wake of a Polarcirkle boat as it takes me to land on a beautiful and peaceful day in this remote place.

 

I step out of the boat onto a small rocky beach and watch the seals and penguins nearby.   

 

Then I walk up a gentle rise of low grass punctuated with mounds of tussock grass and pass through an opening in an immaculate white fence.  I carefully watch where I’m stepping as I proceed to the far side of this small enclosure and stop at a stone monolith several feet high.

Before me is the final resting place of Ernest Shackleton, explorer, author, and leader extraordinaire of men.  Though most of the graves here are oriented east, Shackleton's is oriented south towards Antarctica.  The remains of Frank Wild, his devoted right hand man in life, are buried at Shackleton’s right.

 

The Scottish granite marker, topped with the mariner's star.

Whaler's church at Grytviken

It is customary for visitors to this remote and stunningly beautiful place to pause here and pay their respects to the man who was arguably the last man of the heroic age of explorers.  It is also customary to dribble a shot of Scotch whisky over Shackleton’s grave, which was his favorite drink.

A few years ago, five cases of Scotch were discovered buried under the hut Shackleton built in Antarctica for his Nimrod expedition.  After great effort by the distiller, the whisky’s flavor  was duplicated and a bottle sold for £100, or about $160 a bottle.  Even the glass maker took pains to make the bottle look as if had been made a century ago.

The whaler's cemetery can be seen to the upper right of the small white building with the red roof.

I turn around and look at Shackleton’s final resting place. Tall mountains, slowly losing their snowy duvets, sparkle in the sunshine of early austral summer.   

Before me, a freshly- painted black and white expedition ship bobs at anchor as little orange boats deliver visitors to the beach.

 

To my left are the carefully preserved remains of the Grytviken whaling station, a monument to a bygone era.  The seals and whales and penguins that once were slaughtered here for their oil are now protected.  Inside a small museum building is a replica of the James Caird.  

Rising above the vats and conveyors and rusting ruins of whaling boats is the steeple of a white church where a service was held for Shackleton.  After Wild’s grave was located a few years ago, and his remains transported to South Georgia, another service was held in the church for him.

 

 

Elephant and fur seals haul out on the beaches and slumber unmolested.   Three King penguins waddle down from a snow patch to peer at the newcomers in blue parkas.

 

This is a peaceful and lovely place.  It's a fine place for eternal rest.

 

  

The Antarctic Journals, Chapter Twenty-four, Backtracking Shackleton

The men are beyond exhausted when they land on Elephant Island and a more inhospitable place would be hard to find.  Uninhabited, rarely if ever frequented by whalers and sealers, and with treacherous beaches for landing, the island is exposed to the worst of the ferocious weather for which this area is known.

The next day, they move to a slightly larger beach seven miles along the coast.  Other than offering a place to get farther away from the waves, it offers nothing more in the nature of shelter.

All of them understand that had the weather driven them past this small spot, they would surely have perished in the Drake Passage of the southern ocean.  Many of the men find themselves incapable of doing anything but lying in their wet sleeping bags.  A blizzard blows up during the night.

Ernest Shackleton, ever conscious of the well-being of his men, brings them breakfast in bed the next morning, delivered with cheering words, as the blizzard rages on.  The next day, he calls the men together and announces that he and five others will attempt to sail to South Georgia and secure rescue from the whaling stations there.

Cape Horn and Tierra del Fuego is several hundred miles closer, but that would mean sailing across the westerlies in the Drake Passage.  Shackleton chooses to sail with the wind and hopefully find South Georgia.

Dragging the James Caird up the beach on Elephant Island.  The figure seated at left most likely is Perce Blackborow, the young stowaway, whose feet are severely frostbitten.

That energizes the men, and with tasks assigned, they busy themselves making preparations for the hazardous trip.  Chippy McNish, the dour carpenter, puts his skills to the James Caird, strengthening and adapting it.  He scrounges what lumber and fasteners he can and builds a framework to enclose the open boat, over which they stretch a canvas sail, leaving an opening hardly large enough for three men to stand near the stern.

Making the James Caird as seaworthy as possible for the impossible sail to South Georgia.

None of the work is easy.  McNish has frostbitten hands.  The canvas sail is frozen and has to be thawed foot by foot.   All of the men are exhausted.  The weather is horrid.

Several days later, with 2000 lbs, of rock ballast, the James Caird is stocked with provisions for four weeks.  Even this is difficult as the supplies must be ferried out beyond the reef to the Caird by the small Stancomb Wills.  The bad weather abates and Shackleton decides this is the day to start their 800 mile journey.

Launching the James Caird from Elephant Island.

He chooses his five crew with care, noting their capabilities as well as their faults:  Capt. Frank Worsley for his exceptional navigation skills and Tom Crean for his endurance.  He added McNish, despite his rebellion of the ice, for his sailing and carpentry skills, and also because he does not want to leave him behind to cause trouble with the remaining men.

John Vincent, boatswain, is selected for the same reason.  Timothy McCarthy, able seaman, was the sixth man.  He, along with McNish, Crean, and Vincent, are some of the several men singled out for commendation during the seven-day boat voyage.

Shackleton leaves Frank Wild, his right hand man, in charge during his absence, with instructions that if no rescue appears by the austral spring, they should make their way to Deception Island where whalers are found frequently.   Unspoken is the obvious—the journey ahead for Shackleton and his men is unprecedented and indescribably dangerous, and the odds of its success are minimal to nothing.

Eight hundred miles of the most treacherous water in the world, frequent gales and blizzards, the freezing cold of austral winter, the notorious Cape Horn rollers some 60 feet high, do not make for a successful sail in a 22 and a half foot, over-loaded boat with slightly more than two feet of freeboard.

On April 24, 1916, the James Caird sets sail for South Georgia, trying to get ahead of the advancing ice pack.

On shore, the 22 remaining men give the departing crew a raucous send-off until the small boat is out of sight.  Then they turn back to their own plight.  They have little to eat, no shelter, ragged clothing, wind-shredded tents, wet and rotting sleeping bags, and endless days of boredom ahead of them.  It is a bleak situation, indeed.

The James Caird departs Elephant Island.

The green line marks the route from the ice pack to Elephant Island.  The red line is Shackleton's intended sail to get help.

Black and white photos by Frank Hurley courtesy of

         South with Endurance: Shackleton's Antarctic Expedition 1914-1917

        The Photographs of Frank Hurley

        Book Creation Services, Ltd., London, 2001

        ISBN 1-932302-04-2

        

***

I’m standing on the deck of a comfortable ship anchored in Halfmoon Cove, a part of Admiralty Bay on King George Island, part of the Antarctic Peninsula.  I wait my turn for a ride to shore in the Polarcirkle boats.  For now, I take photos.

Polish research station of Arctowski.

Before me is the Polish research station of Arctowski, named for Henryk Arctowski (1871-1958), a meteorologist who originated the notion of a wind chill factor, arguing that wind could be as damaging to human flesh as cold.

It is a glorious and clear afternoon.  We arrived here after several days at sea, fighting gale force winds, 15 foot waves and the incessant westerly wind from Drake Passage for almost 900 miles.

I thought of Ernest Shackleton and the astonishing voyage he attempted in a life boat less than 23 feet long, all the way from Elephant Island to South Georgia some 800 ,miles distant through the same waters we encountered.  It was rough enough int he comparatively moderate seas we encountered on our 350 foot ship. 

I would not have wanted to be in that tiny craft with Shackleton and five others, no matter how desperate and sick I was of penguin and seal meat and little else.

The penguin lookout.

Soon it’s time for my boat group to go ashore.  Under the terms of agreements by tour operators licensed to bring passengers to the Antarctic, only 100 passengers, plus guides and necessary crewmen, are allowed on shore at any one time.  Thus, when each boatload off-loads, the passengers are given a specific time to return for transport to the mother ship.

Waiting to return to the ship.

Since each Cirkle boat carries only eight tourists, by the time the number onshore reaches close to a hundred, many are already returning to the ship.

What a souvenir tee shirt!

I wander around a huge rock and find---a gift shop.  Cool.  I have to borrow money from another passenger to buy a tee shirt I desperately want because I'd left mine on the Fram.

Then it’s off to see the penguins.  A rocky point is tough to walk along, but eventually I reach a snow-covered area where walking is easier.  The Adelie penguins try to outwalk me.  I hang back, then try to get ahead of them, but it only makes them waddle faster.  Finally, I veer away and stop to watch three seals slumbering on the beach.  

Adelie penguins.

A little farther on, I see the one and only Chinstrap penguin of the trip, mixed in with Gentoo and Adelie.  The three are related, both genetically and in crime.  They build a nest with stones, then line it with grasses.  They are not averse to stealing stones from each other’s nests, either.

This Chinstrap penguin is standing in front of another penguin.

Gentoo penguin.

Some passengers visit the station itself, welcomed by the Polish staff there.  Somehow the penguins take up all my time and soon it’s too late for me to trudge over to the buildings.

Back on board, I watch the sunset as the Fram pulls out of Admiralty Bay headed south to the British station of Port Lockroy, 220 miles away.  It will be an overnight sail for us, but in the shelter of the peninsula islands, a quiet one.