Chasing Shackleton

by Tim Jarvis

  Baz and I, unsteady on our feet after two weeks on the boat but happy to be on land.

  Courtesy of Jo Stewart

  Next, Baz, Ed, and I got our interviews out of the way. Many of the questions related to how we were feeling. To be honest, I couldn’t articulate my feelings because the enormity of what we’d so far achieved hadn’t yet sunk in. There was, above all else, simply a sense of relief at having made it. We could stop dreading what the ocean might throw at us and knowing that our survival relied on the judgments of others, regardless of how much we trusted them. Baz and I suggested that the wet and cold were now beginning to take hold. It was our way of saying that the interview was over as far as we were concerned. With that, we returned to the Alexandra Shackleton.

  With only three on board, she suddenly seemed spacious compared to what we’d become accustomed to for the past few weeks. Shutting the hatch as the rain continued to fall, we fell asleep after an army ration meal and a couple of tots of Mackinlay’s to the surreal sound of merriment on board Australis only ten meters away on the same mooring line.

  The following day the heavy rain and wind continued unabated. Life below deck continued unchanged, save for the fact that being in full view of Australis’s living area was less conducive to hanging your backside over the edge of the boat for toilet duties than the unbroken horizon of the Southern Ocean. Still, there was no chance of setting up a tent onshore, so we used our time well, reorganizing the clutter of wet clothes, food, and unclaimed gear that lay about the boat. “Gear before beer,” Baz used to say, adopting the Marines’ edict of returning things to order before starting celebrations. We could be forgiven for not having done this earlier—it’s not every day you cross the Southern Ocean in a replica James Caird using traditional navigation.

  By lunchtime we had sorted and re-sorted everything to our satisfaction and were beginning to tire of being stuck on board, unable to get to shore or to Australis. Sleep punctuated by conversations about gear and weather was the order of the day—that and Ed’s concerns about his feet, which were stubbornly refusing to come back to life. He had stoically put up with them until now, but Baz and I both knew things were not good. Trench foot in the wet, cramped, and cold conditions on board had affected everyone, but Ed was suffering more than most, perhaps because he’d decided to keep his boots on more of the time in readiness for filming at a moment’s notice. Whatever the case, he’d lost sensation in most of his toes and thus far there was no sign of it returning.

  Our slumber was broken by Nick’s voice on the radio suggesting I come to Australis to discuss something. Although keen not to break the spell of living the traditional way, I realized something was amiss and that it should not be the subject of a radio conversation broadcast to all or a shouted conversation between the stern of Australis and the Alexandra Shackleton.

  After the world’s shortest Zodiac journey (ten meters), I boarded Australis, feeling immediately out of place in my wet, drab, foul-smelling clothes. Nick ushered me to his cabin and got straight to the point. “This is a very difficult and sad decision for me, but I can’t do the climb.” His words were typical of him—clear, measured, and unambiguous. They came as a blow but not a shock. Nick’s problems with his feet had gotten worse, his toes were swelling and he felt a lumpy discomfort in the soles of both feet. The doctor confirmed he had serious trench foot and that the consequences of him exposing his feet to further cold or extended periods walking or climbing in South Georgia’s icy interior could be dire. The lack of circulation could lead to the more rapid onset of frostbite, loss of toes, and even gangrene. Given the inevitability of his being exposed to conditions that would worsen the state of his feet, and the fact that he perhaps felt his work was largely complete with his having skippered us successfully to King Haakon Bay, I completely supported his decision.

  I spent the next few hours deep in thought, with an increasing sense of unease borne of a combination of the continued rain, Nick’s news, the feeling that control of events was somewhat out of my hands, and the inevitable low after yesterday’s high. Late in the afternoon Nick’s voice again came over the VHF. He sounded somber, saying he wanted to come aboard to have another face-to-face discussion, this time about the weather. Minutes later the radio crackled into life with the film crew expressing their intention to join him, at which point I instantly assumed the worst. They would hardly appear if the news were good: there was no jeopardy in good news. Alarm bells rang as I realized half of the Alexandra Shackleton crew and the film personnel had been reviewing Ben’s satellite weather information and interpreting this in the context of the land crossing, not just for when was best to tow the Alexandra Shackleton. It was something I naively hadn’t considered. What had seemed an obvious decision to have the sailors from the Alexandra Shackleton live aboard Australis was, I realized now, going to cause some challenges.

  The satellite weather information being received by Australis was relevant to two aspects of the expedition from this point on. First, we needed to know when the weather would be good enough to tow the Alexandra Shackleton around the northwestern end of South Georgia to the more sheltered northern side from where she would later be collected. Light winds of twenty knots or less were required, especially if they were headwinds or were different from the prevailing wave direction. Second, there were the implications of what the same weather information meant for planning our land crossing. The first application I was happy with, the second somehow didn’t feel right to me, as it seemed to give us an unfair advantage over Shackleton. It was impossible, however, to look at the weather information for one aspect without making judgments as to how it affected the other, although the data was actually only good for up to ten meters above sea level, making it unreliable for predicting conditions in the high interior of South Georgia.

  I mulled over Nick’s request for a discussion with the uncomfortable realization that I couldn’t control access to the weather information on board Australis. I also wondered to what extent the film crew would start to impose on us now that we were accessible again. I suspected I was about to be presented with weather information I didn’t want to hear and people’s judgments based on that information; I wasn’t happy about the prospect of either.

  An hour later, it was crowded below deck, with Baz, Ed, and me having to revert to life with multiple bodies crammed together as our guests wriggled into the semidarkness through the hatch. After much commotion, they all contorted themselves into position. This group of seven sat squashed uneasily in an area about the size of a kitchen table, as if about to enter into awkward peace negotiations. There was me, Baz, and Ed plus Nick, Joe the cameraman, Dr. Alex Kumar, and Jamie, the series producer, complete with camera.

  Nick kicked off first, the camera light illuminating his face in a strange white glow as he spoke. “The weather doesn’t look good for the climb,” he offered, Joe nodding in support as the camera focused on my face, trying to capture my thoughts about the news. Nick went on to ask me if I wanted to know what it held in store for us. This was somewhat rhetorical: I knew I was likely to be told anyway and that people’s reactions would speak for themselves if I suggested we begin the climb when they were in possession of information that suggested to them we shouldn’t. I told him to go ahead. Nick revealed that Ben’s satellite imagery showed that the first towing opportunity for the Alexandra Shackleton was going to be lunchtime on Sunday, six days away. If she left at noon, Australis could be in position with the Alexandra Shackleton by 1 or 2 A.M. on Monday, February 11, at which point we could start the climb. Joe added his support to this being the best option, “recommending” that we wait until Sunday to do the crossing. My interpretation of this was that Joe had no intention of traveling before Sunday, regardless of my decision. The wind then would apparently be only twenty knots from the northwest with little rain—good for towing and theoretically good for the climb.

  Everyone waited for my reaction. I was annoyed on so many levels, I didn’t know where
to start. I didn’t like being put in a position of disadvantage by not having information in front of me on which to base a decision. Nor did I like that detailed discussions about the weather and the best time to cross South Georgia had been taking place without me, the result being that everyone aboard Australis had formed his own opinion as to the best course of action, independent of Baz, Ed, and me. Since we were the ones actually doing the climb the Shackleton way, I felt it wasn’t even their decision to make. Resentful, accusatory thoughts raced through my mind, jostling with a more reasoned voice that tried to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. In innocently looking at the information in order to determine when to tow the Alexandra Shackleton, they couldn’t help but consider what the same weather might mean for the climb. As they were going to be climbing across the mountainous interior too, perhaps they would have been remiss in not having looked at the weather and then asking me for my opinion on it. Nevertheless I felt irritated at what had just happened and wasn’t entirely sure why.

  I didn’t like that the weather information was being used to determine when we should climb as much as when to tow the boat. I was also annoyed with myself for not having set out clear guidance on who should have access to weather information and what it should be used for. Now I didn’t like the fact that this information was being given to me in the form of an ultimatum, with questions about whether we should wait until Sunday or Monday being put to me in a rhetorical fashion. Most of all, I didn’t like that the main, self-appointed arbiter of taste and judgment about the crossing seemed now to be the TV crew, who in reality were there to film what happened, and not to say when or whether things should happen. I hated too that the camera was rolling and that all of this was being used to get a reaction from me for the purposes of the film. That so much dissent and disharmony were being stirred up only forty-eight hours after having pulled off one of the great feats of ocean navigation and survival felt deliberate for the purposes of creating film drama, and I hated it.

  Although not really the point, the reality was I knew too that the satellite weather information was only good for up to ten meters above sea level, the pressure isobars and rainfall contours for the island simply being applied as if South Georgia was more ocean rather than a massive island with its own unique weather. Plus forecasts five days out couldn’t be relied on. In all likelihood we were arguing about information that was of little use for our purposes anyway.

  As I tried to process all my conflicting thoughts while keeping a lid on my frustration, the doctor chimed in with some unwelcome news of his own. The camera focused on him and Ed as he calmly revealed to Ed that he was unlikely to be covered for the climb by the film company insurance due to the severity of his pre-existing injuries. On that basis the doctor’s professional recommendation was that he not go. My instinctive reaction was that this whole scenario was being conjured up for some on-camera drama, but when I saw Ed’s dismayed reaction it was clear that the news came as a bolt out of the blue. Again multiple thoughts crossed my mind. Had Ed been keeping the extent of his trench foot injury from me in order to keep his place on the team? If so, I could understand it—revealing the pain he was in might have forced me to take him off the team, and I knew how much doing the land crossing meant to him. In addition, if he didn’t take part, what would this mean for the historical accuracy of the expedition? What would it mean for our permits and our insurance, all of which clearly stated that we would cross as a three-man team in authentic clothing supported by a team of five in modern gear? Moreover, could the doctor make these determinations, effectively ruling Ed out, or was the final decision still Ed’s or mine to make? I wasn’t at all sure.

  I had been presented with a bewildering amount of information on which to make decisions but knew two things immediately. First, I hadn’t been in possession of the facts long enough to make a clear decision on either situation and felt I had been put in this position by those who were keen to get a shocked reaction. Second, the film team was seemingly calling the shots about both when to climb and Ed’s participation. This combined with Nick’s withdrawal meant that our permits and insurance were likely to be invalidated. I felt the film team had overstepped the mark and my anger erupted as I told Jamie in no uncertain terms to turn off the camera. He protested, but I wasn’t going to give anyone the satisfaction of filming my reaction and reaction it was.

  The row of rocks in the distance are Krakens Teeth, the last obstacle to reaching King Haakon Bay.

  Courtesy of Tim Jarvis

  Clockwise from top left: After our trip we were too smelly even for the seals; the leather boots we’d be wearing on the walk over the glaciers; keeping warm in Travis Cave as we wait out the weather.

  Courtesy of Tim Jarvis

  With an intensity that surprised me, I let rip about much of what I had heard. I felt drama and dissent were being generated that could potentially undermine the expedition, and I found it unacceptable that detailed conversations about the future of the expedition had taken place without me with decisions virtually having been made already. Not least of all, I objected strongly to the use of modern weather information to make these judgments and felt there was a distinct lack of commitment to the task at hand. When I had finished, people left quietly, there being nothing more for anyone to say.

  The following morning, having decided that the Pandora’s box of satellite weather information was well and truly open and my hand forced, I had a look at it myself to ensure I was better informed. I called a meeting in order to clear the air, refocus our energy, and put an end to the decision-making-by-committee approach that seemed to be taking over. Ed also gave me the good news that he was insured to do the climb, it being his decision as to whether to live with the risk of further injury, which he’d decided to do. The aims of the meeting were to remind people what we had achieved so far, what our goals now were, and to set out some rules as to how we needed to operate from this point on. I chose Travis Cave as the meeting venue, as much to keep out of the constant rain as for dramatic effect. Curiously Shackleton never mentioned the cave, despite it being an obvious place in which to shelter, avoiding the need to be bent double in a tent or, in his case, under an upturned boat. Everyone chose a rock and listened intently as the surf crashed only meters away.

  I started with the weather. To me, an early morning Friday departure in forty-eight hours’ time looked viable, with twenty- to thirty-knot northwesterly winds and some light rain and snow predicted over the subsequent twenty-four hours, if the weather model held true. Short of no wind and blue skies, it was as good as might reasonably be expected on a sub-Antarctic island. We’d have a wind at our backs and wouldn’t be too wet. I reminded people in no uncertain terms that we were here to retrace the most difficult survival journey of all time and not to go for a Sunday afternoon stroll in the Cotswolds. I also reminded those with climbing experience who the previous night had questioned the weather that we were doing something that under normal circumstances you wouldn’t advise anyone to do anyway. This, therefore, required a change in mind-set. As these northwesterly winds were too strong for towing the Alexandra Shackleton for the first seven or eight hours of her journey to round Bird Island at the northwest end of South Georgia, she would unfortunately have to be collected later. If worst came to worst and the weather window for the climb changed, we could retreat back down the Gap to King Haakon Bay. Australis could be back by Saturday and thus still take advantage of the Sunday towing window. The climbers could then regroup and leave again early on Monday morning. Effectively this gave us two bites at the cherry.

  In terms of injuries I wanted to be kept informed of any developments and wanted no more talk of such injuries invalidating people’s insurance cover. If someone felt they honestly couldn’t go on, I would understand, but it wouldn’t be insurance that held them back. It would come down to an individual’s personal decision as to whether he was prepared to live with the risk of what we were doing, and I reminded everyone that we all kn
ew what we had been letting ourselves in for when we signed up on this project. And we had all been given details of the insurance; if some people hadn’t taken the time to read it, that was not my problem. It was important, however, to realize we were all in this together, our permits and our insurance being based on us undertaking the expedition as a team. We had two lots of insurance: that which I had taken out to cover every aspect of the expedition and that which Raw had taken out for its people, between which there was considerable overlap. I was at pains to state how long it had taken me to negotiate the insurance and how much it had cost. It wasn’t done on the back of a crisp packet; this was an exhaustive policy that everyone had been made aware of before we left. It was time to step up and do what we came here to do.

  I went on to comment on one or two of the disparaging remarks I’d heard from the film team about the historical authenticity of the tented accommodations that Baz, Ed, and I were by now in on the beach and the food from Australis that we were consuming. I reminded them all that while Shackleton had lived under the upturned Caird, we could not do the same because we had to relocate the Alexandra Shackleton to Grytviken undamaged as part of our permit obligations. Dragging the Alexandra Shackleton onto the beach would obviously not allow us to do this. With regard to food, I asked for alternative suggestions as to how we could supplement our diet while at Peggotty Bluff short of clubbing elephant seals and eating albatrosses and their eggs as Shackleton had done. Save for the sound of breaking waves, there was silence, which I took as agreement.