Chasing Shackleton

by Tim Jarvis

  I took the first watch of the night from midnight to 3 A.M. as small bits of kelp did now start to occasionally drift past as we sat stationary on the sea anchor. I read Worsley’s account of the Shackleton boat journey by candlelight, occasionally looking up to reassure myself that an island hadn’t appeared while I had been distracted. I listened out for the sound of waves crashing against rocks but all was silent.

  After perhaps an hour, as the others slept, I became aware of a solitary light on the horizon. Knowing no one lives on South Georgia (save the twelve people in the metropolis of Grytviken, on the northern side), I assumed it must be a ship. No sooner had I registered this than Howard Whelan’s unmistakable American brogue came over the VHF calling his daughter Skye on board Australis. He was expedition leader aboard Polar Pioneer, the ship that had originally brought the Alexandra Shackleton to Arctowski and that would, in a month or so’s time, take her back to Poland.

  Why we didn’t see South Georgia at first: the boat at night on sea anchor, in a shot taken from Polar Pioneer.

  Courtesy of David Unite

  Unaware I was listening in, after some general father-daughter conversation Howard mentioned how amazed he was that we’d made it so far and so fast. I decided it was best to chip in at this point and let him know I was listening lest they give something away. Howard immediately greeted me warmly: “Could we come by and get a closer look at you?” he asked. I agreed. The lights approached until the previously empty horizon was occupied by a 1,000-tonne vessel and we were bathed in the ethereal yellow of its sodium lights piercing the swirling mist as several of us waved from the deck of the Alexandra Shackleton. It felt like an alien encounter, with this the moment immediately prior to us being experimented on by creatures with distended heads and large eyes, until I heard unmistakably human strains of “Hip hip hooray!” followed by camera flashes. Moments later, all was dark again as the lights receded into the distance, Polar Pioneer anchoring five or so miles away.

  How different it was for Shackleton on his arrival at South Georgia. On day nine of his voyage, the painter rope was severed by a mound of ice that had formed around it and was lost to the gale, taking the sea anchor and the stability it provided with it. In addition, all six men were tormented by a raging thirst so dire their tongues were swollen and they could not touch their food. Despite their suffering, they were “irradiated” with happiness when Timothy McCarthy spied the lowering cliffs of South Georgia that, as Shackleton put it, indicated “the job was nearly done.” But their optimism was premature. In view of the fact that it was near nightfall, Shackleton decided to stand off until the following morning, as, in his words, “to attempt a landing at that time would have been suicidal.” Unfortunately the wind shifted in the early hours and brought with it what Shackleton described as “one of the worst hurricanes any of [them] had ever experienced.” For eleven hours they battled the terrifying wrath of the storm, bailing ceaselessly. “It was the most awe-inspiring and dangerous position any of us had ever been in,” recalled Worsley. “It looked as though we were doomed—past the skill of man to save.” The hurricane blew them southeast until they almost ran aground on Annenkov Island. Then, when all seemed lost, miraculously the hurricane abated just in time for them to save themselves and begin tacking into King Haakon Bay from the south. Like a defiant parting blow from a defeated adversary, almost as soon as the tempest abated the pinlock that held the mast in place fell out, apparently having been on the point of doing so throughout the hurricane. In Shackleton’s words, had it gone any earlier, “the mast would have snapped like a carrot” and they would certainly have been lost. “I have often marvelled at the thin line that divides success from failure,” Shackleton reflected when recounting this ordeal.

  For our part, we could barely control our excitement as we waited for dawn and the first sight of our promised land, but the ocean wasn’t prepared to let us go either without a parting shot. While Shackleton had had a hurricane, for us dawn broke with good winds but a thick blanket of fog that meant we dared not move. Five of us were below as Seb took the post-dawn watch in the mist. Suddenly he shouted, “Land ho!,” eliciting a crush of bodies through the hatch and onto deck. Sure enough, there on the horizon, still many miles distant, was the unmistakable dark outline of land coming in and out of view through the fog. It was difficult to make out what it was we were actually looking at except, of course, it was very evidently South Georgia.

  What excitement and disbelief there was on board at that moment. Sun sightings and estimated positions were one thing, but evidence that we had actually made it across the Southern Ocean to this point was something else, like a lifetime of faith rewarded by incontrovertible evidence and magnificent to behold.

  In typical fashion one challenge replaced another. Our latest was to work out which bit of the ninety-mile band of gray that marked the coast of South Georgia we were now looking at. Our plan to triangulate back from known reference points on the island was great in theory but totally impractical if nothing was visible more than a hundred meters above the waves. Intense discussion followed about what it was we were looking at as the cliffs loomed in and out of focus in the fog. The final consensus was that we were at the northwestern end of South Georgia. The gap between a series of headlands that could have been a bay, the far side of which we could not see, was in fact the gap between the final headland of South Georgia and Bird Island just offshore. It was important to get this right as we now headed southeast with a northwesterly wind behind us that would allow us to move offshore if we felt in danger of being pushed onto the rocks but would not allow us to come back north if we were actually farther down the coast than we thought.

  After the initial euphoria of seeing South Georgia, Nick focuses on the task of making landfall.

  Courtesy of Tim Jarvis

  The distinctive “Saddle Island,” visible beneath the mist, indicates that Haakon Bay lies just to the southeast.

  Courtesy of Magnus O’Grady

  Boiling cauldrons of surf indicate rocks lurking just below the surface.

  Courtesy of Magnus O’Grady

  We pulled up the sea anchor and headed southeast, an appointment with destiny beckoning as we hoped that the favorable wind would take us south to King Haakon Bay. Initial progress was good as the lively wind sent us southeast, our judgment as to where we were confirmed by passing an island that, by its distinctive appearance, could only be Saddle Island.

  The cliffs were dark and menacing, vaulting straight out of the ocean, waves crashing against their bases and green tussock grasses clinging improbably to any slopes less than vertical. The ocean up to a mile offshore was alive with boiling cauldrons of breaking waves, indicating multiple banks of rocks submerged just below the surface. Nick’s face was racked with concern as the realization dawned that the headland marking the northern end of King Haakon Bay protruded farther into the sea than he’d thought. This combined with a marked shift in the wind to westerly from northwesterly meant that we were now in a lee shore situation that threatened to dash our tiny boat to pieces on the rocks.

  Australis came through on the VHS: “You’re on your own, guys; we can’t go into the water you’re now in without risking everything.” We understood entirely and couldn’t—and wouldn’t—expect them to venture into the place in which we now found ourselves, one that would be suicidal for them with their deeper draft. “I think everyone should get below with their life jackets on immediately,” said Nick, his and Larso’s faces the picture of focus and worry. Ed, Seb, Baz, and I did so without question, keeping our weight low so as to allow the boat to head upwind and give the helmsman an unobstructed view of the rocks all around. Sitting in the half-light below deck we spoke little, half expecting a bone-shaking impact, splitting timbers, and a deluge of green to pour into our world at any moment. It was a grim prospect, our fear being of failure as much as of the physical harm that would inevitably follow as we tried to negotiate the last hurdle approaching South Georgia
.

  We had all agreed back in Arctowski that the most dangerous part of this expedition was likely going to be trying to force-fit the weather we would be given with landing where Shackleton had in King Haakon Bay. Now here we were with the Southern Ocean pushing us onto this rugged, windswept coastline. All our fears were being realized in the strengthening westerly wind and the more we tried to sail out to sea to get around the peninsula, the farther out to sea it seemed to extend and the more our hitting it appeared inevitable.

  Desperately threading our way through the labyrinth of breaking waves and shallow reefs, Nick aimed for the seaward end of the spine of rocks that marked the end of the headland. Both focus and faith were required as the possibility of being dashed on rocks and turned into driftwood at any moment became very real. It was a grueling literal and mental rite of passage that we were glad to have survived as, finally, after the longest one and a half hours of the voyage, we emerged into calmer waters on the northern side of King Haakon Bay, the rocks of the headland so close we could feel the spray coming off them and smell the dank vegetation. Providence had seen us through.

  9

  IMPATIENCE CAMP

  Arrival: towering over us are the glaciers at the head of King Haakon Bay.

  Courtesy of Skye Whelan

  “To wish is little. We must long with the utmost eagerness to gain our end.”

  Ovid

  Team meeting in the cave at Peggotty Bluff.

  Courtesy of Paul Larsen

  We had endured a scare of our own as we sat in the dense fog knowing the island was so close at hand, but that was now behind us. Safely to the south of the appropriately named Krakens Teeth, a line of rocks that sit like a row of rotting molars in the middle of King Haakon Bay, a palpable sense of relief and elation began to set in. The fact that we were about to realize our dream of landing where Shackleton had was still too much for us to process; we just knew that passing the last of our serious obstacles was overwhelmingly good news. Conversations began to drift to loved ones back home and future plans as the unrelenting pressure of having made it to here afforded space to consider things beyond survival on the boat.

  For the first time since we’d left Elephant Island, it appeared that nothing could now stop us. The Krakens Teeth were behind us and the risk of grounding our little boat on unseen rocks was slim. The absence of a keel, which we had all rued so many times during the ocean crossing, was now an advantage as knotted clumps of kelp slipped quietly below us, unable to get purchase on our smooth hull. Now there was no need for any mind games, hoping for the best while expecting the worst, or keeping one’s guard up. Even if we grounded, we could virtually wade ashore unscathed. The Alexandra Shackleton had done her job, transporting her human cargo safely across the roughest ocean in the world.

  King Haakon Bay was an impressive feature, ten kilometers long and several kilometers wide, with sides of vertical granite like a photograph from a geography textbook. Shackleton was similarly impressed, recalling, “The long bay had been a magnificent sight, even to eyes that had dwelt on grandeur long enough and were hungry for the simple, familiar things of everyday life.” It was reminiscent of a Norwegian fjord—appropriate since it was named after a Norwegian king—and would have made the Norwegian whalers on South Georgia feel very at home.

  Approaching the head of the bay in glorious sunshine with the westerly wind at our backs, we found it difficult to remember the doubt and fear that had stalked us at every moment of the journey thus far. Now the dominant emotion was nervous anticipation of the final piece of our journey—crossing the mountainous interior of South Georgia. With our confidence buoyed by having survived the ocean crossing without serious mishap, conquering this terrain—familiar territory to me—would surely be a mere victory lap. How wrong that would prove to be.

  The ice at the head of the bay was separated into two streams: the smooth ice of the Shackleton Gap and the heavily crevassed ice of the Briggs Glacier. The first was a moderately steep icy slope bookended by a rock-strewn bank at its base and a towering cloud-laced nunatak at its summit several kilometers inland; the second was a glacier so chaotic that even the desperate Shackleton and his men would not have tackled it. Anyway, this would be another day’s problem. For now the beach beckoned and spirits were high.

  We progressed toward shore rapidly and suddenly there was little time for the landing party to position themselves to jump in and guide the Alexandra Shackleton home. Elephant seals casually glanced at us, unaware that their home was about to be invaded by six humans. The fact that our fetid smell and filthy appearance were unthreatening to them gave a clue as to the state we were all in. Certainly we’d been living like them below deck for the past several weeks.

  Adrenaline coursed through us, a charged mix of anticipation and apprehension. We couldn’t afford to get the landing wrong: the Alexandra Shackleton weighed three tonnes with the combined weight of boat, crew, ballast, and equipment, and that was enough to crush a man, not to mention damage the boat against the rocks. Shackleton, knowing that it was far too dangerous to attempt to sail around to the inhabited side of the island, had dismantled the Caird’s topsides to make her light enough to haul up the beach. In the process of dragging her over the rocks the men had broken two masts but, according to Worsley, “did not grieve as [they] had had enough sailing to last [them] a lifetime.” We, on the other hand, couldn’t afford to damage the Alexandra Shackleton. She still had one more onward journey—to Grytviken, on the sheltered northern side of South Georgia, where she was to be collected a month hence by Polar Pioneer.

  All smiles as we head up King Haakon Bay.

  Courtesy of Tim Jarvis

  Nearly there: invading the home of the elephant seals.

  Courtesy of Skye Whelan

  The three men assigned to plunge into the icy water to guide us in would be Nick, Larso, and Seb, the sailors whose role would now be to support the climbers—me, Baz, and Ed. They jockeyed for position on the prow, looking for a suitable landing place in the clear, knee-deep water, then jumped in, immediately struggling to control the boat even in the light swell. As they steadied her, Baz, Ed, and I jumped off the Alexandra Shackleton onto terra firma, the shingle crunching with a reassuring solidity under our boots.

  We had done it. Dazed, we hugged one another, unable yet to grasp the enormity of what had been accomplished. Then, like free-falling parachutists, we regrouped in a huddle, shutting out the view of the camera crew who had landed just ahead of us intent on encouraging “spontaneous” celebration. Our group hug perhaps represented our desire to shut out the world just for a few seconds while we tried to appreciate what we’d achieved as a team. It was Sunday, February 3, twelve days since we had left Elephant Island, although this didn’t mean much to us. We had come from a time capsule with little appreciation of time in any conventional sense; it felt as though we had been on board for months.

  As we broke formation, the two cameramen singled out Nick and Larso and began asking them for their thoughts on the expedition. I approved of the selection of skipper and navigator for the first interviews, as they had much to say on the navigation and performance of the boat. Questions came thick and fast on a range of topics including sun sightings, how much water there was in the boat, and initial thoughts on what we’d achieved. As Nick and Larso fielded them as best they could, Baz, Ed, and I wandered down the beach toward the Shackleton Gap, trying to size up the challenge that lay ahead and to imagine ourselves picking our way up its icy slope.

  We walked drunkenly down the beach like marionettes, lifting our knees high with each step, our legs buckling with each footfall. Nearly a fortnight of cold and inaction, combined with numb feet and bodies accustomed to compensating for the roll and motion of the boat, now threw us off balance. The Gap for now looked innocuous enough, although I was surprised at the extent to which the ice had melted on its lower slopes.

  We returned after twenty minutes to find the interviews still going on. E
ven from a distance I could see the telltale signs of cold beginning to creep into Nick and Larso’s body language as they shifted their weight from one foot to the other impatiently. I approached, gesturing off-camera to my wrist to let the camera crew know the importance of winding the interviews up quickly to ensure my men didn’t get any colder. The cameramen acknowledged me somewhat dismissively: for them this was classic television and it was important to get a complete download while emotions were raw and unsullied. I could see their point and let it go but was conscious we needed to keep on top of the distraction of filming now that we were back on dry land. I was also aware that Seb had not yet started his interview and was getting progressively colder, sitting as he was wet on the beach.

  Team huddle on the beach at Peggotty Bluff.

  Courtesy of Skye Whelan

  With the first two interviews over, Nick, Larso, and I decided that the three sailors should live aboard Australis from now until we began the land crossing. In the meantime they had got extremely cold, having stood for a considerable time in thigh-deep water as they maneuvered the Alexandra Shackleton to shore and then onto a towing line to take her out to be moored alongside Australis. They then had been subjected, still wet, to lengthy interviews. To add insult to injury, it had now started raining heavily. Dry, modern gear and a hot meal awaited them on board Australis—important as we needed them to remain in good physical shape. It seemed an innocuous decision and the right one at the time, but it was one I would come to question in the following days.

  Meanwhile, Baz, Ed, and I had decided against erecting tents and establishing a camp on shore. We’d be soaked by the time we got our tents, gear, and food from the hold of Australis, then found an area that was sheltered from the wind but far enough away from the fur and elephant seals that had commandeered all the best spots in the tussock grass. If the weather lifted overnight, we’d still be too wet to attempt the crossing. Soaking wet clothes at sea level are one thing but where “storm demons work their wild will and wreak their fury,” as Worsley described the snow and ice of South Georgia’s mountainous interior, they would be disastrous. Better that we stay on board the Alexandra Shackleton while the sailors assume their new identity on board Australis, which had anchored several hundred meters offshore in the lee of the Vincent Islands at the head of the bay. With Seb’s interview complete, he, Larso, and Nick boarded the Zodiac and set off.