The Storm-Wracked Landfall

In May 1916, the James Caird had brought them to South Georgia, but the voyage was not over; it had only entered its next phase.

On that same day, 8 May 1916, on the opposite side of the Antarctic continent, Aeneas Mackintosh and Victor Hayward of the Ross Sea party decided to walk across the unstable sea ice to Cape Evans. They were caught in a blizzard and were not seen again. The five survivors there slowly recovered their strength with a diet of seal meat at Murdo Sound, but the ice was too thin for them to risk the final trip to Cape Evans. The monotony of their diet and surroundings became wearisome. Against the strenuous objections of their companions, Mackintosh and Hayward departed and within the hour disappeared into a blizzard.

At noon on 8 May 1916, Frank Worsley wrote in his navigation log that he had sighted birds—cormorants, which were known never to venture far from land. Shortly after noon, the black cliffs of South Georgia rose from the grey horizon. Shackleton recorded the moment in his diary with characteristic compression: land had been sighted, the voyage accomplished, deliverance at hand. The men in the boat shook hands and wept. Fourteen days at sea had driven them to their physical limits.

Two hours later, the hurricane struck.

The contrast between those two moments—the elation of sighting land and the immediate violence of the weather that prevented any approach to it—frames the forty-eight hours that followed. The achievement of the open-boat voyage, eight hundred miles across the wildest ocean on Earth, was immediately supplanted by a new and more intimate form of peril. The James Caird, her hull patched with canvas and her seams sealed with marlinspike work, now faced a lee shore in a full gale. The men who had endured sixteen days of freezing spray, inadequate rations, and constant bailing now discovered that arrival offered no relief. South Georgia had received them, but it would not let them land. They later learned the same storm had sunk a 500-ton steamer bound for South Georgia from Buenos Aires.

The island of South Georgia lies like a broken spine in the South Atlantic, a hundred miles long and thirty miles wide, its peaks rising to ten thousand feet, its coastlines a succession of glaciated fjords and precipitous cliffs. The whaling stations that represented civilization—Grytviken, Husvik, Leith, Stromness—clustered on the island’s northern and eastern shores, sheltered from the prevailing westerlies by the mountainous interior. To reach them from the south, a vessel would need to round one of the great capes of the island, fighting wind and current in waters notorious for williwaws and sudden squalls. The James Caird, having made her landfall on the uninhabited south coast, now confronted this geography at the worst possible moment.

Worsley’s navigation had brought them to the entrance of King Haakon Bay, a deep indentation in the island’s southwestern shore. The bay offered potential shelter, but the entrance lay open to the swell rolling in from the ocean, and the cliffs on either side concentrated the wind into a funnel of near-hurricane force. To enter required beating against the wind, a maneuver impossible for a twenty-two-foot open boat overloaded with six men and their gear. The alternative—running before the storm—meant being driven back out to sea, away from the land they had fought so hard to reach.

Shackleton made his decision. They would stand off the coast through the night, riding out the gale as best they could, and attempt a landing when the weather moderated. It was the only option that preserved the possibility of reaching the whaling stations without undertaking an overland crossing of the island’s unexplored interior. But it meant another night at sea, another night of bailing and freezing and watching the cliffs loom closer with each gust.

The men’s physical state made this decision a gamble with their lives. Sixteen days in an open boat had reduced them to skeletal figures: clothing sodden and stiff with salt; hands swollen and cracked from cold and constant work at sails and bailer. Rations had run low days before; they ate the last hot food on 6 May, then subsisted on fragments of hardtack and occasional pieces of raw albatross flesh. Water was nearly exhausted; strength nearly gone. On 5 May a north-westerly gale had almost destroyed the boat as it faced what Shackleton described as the largest waves he had seen in twenty-six years at sea.

The psychological state of the crew matched their physical depletion. The sighting of land produced a surge of hope, a release of tension building since they left Elephant Island. But hours of fighting the storm drained that hope and replaced it with profound despair. They could see salvation; they could smell vegetation on the cliffs; they could hear surf breaking on rocks. But they could not reach it. Being within reach of safety yet unable to grasp it exceeded anything they had experienced in open ocean.

Shackleton understood this danger better than anyone. In his account of the expedition, he would later write that the hours after sighting land were among the most trying of the entire voyage. The responsibility for the lives of his five companions weighed on him with every gust of wind, every wave that broke over the bow, every moment the boat drifted closer to the cliffs. He had brought them this far; he could not fail them now.

The night of 8 May was a continuation of the nightmare. The wind increased to full hurricane force, estimated at seventy miles per hour, and the seas rose to heights that threatened to swamp the boat with every roll. The Caird’s ballast—rocks and bags of sand taken aboard at Elephant Island—kept her upright, but only just. The crew took turns at the pump and the bailing bucket, working in shifts through the darkness, their hands numb, their bodies shaking with cold.

Vincent and McCarthy bore the brunt of physical labor. Timothy McCarthy, youngest at twenty-five, proved throughout as most resilient: good humor unbroken by cold and wet. John Vincent was harder—a man who clashed with Shackleton during expedition and would clash again—but whose strength in crisis was undeniable. Both worked oars and pump beyond exhaustion.

McNeish, the carpenter, lay in the bottom of the boat, too weak to stand. At fifty-six, he was the oldest of the party, and the voyage had taken a severe toll on his health. His feet were swollen with frostbite, his legs too stiff to bend. He had done his part—without his work strengthening the boat before departure, they would never have survived the open ocean—but now he could only wait, huddled under the canvas cover, praying for the storm to break.

Crean and Worsley completed the crew. Tom Crean was an Irish petty officer who served with Shackleton on Scott’s Discovery expedition: few words; immense endurance; thirty-five miles across ice to save a comrade’s life on an earlier expedition; now turned his strength to keeping Caird afloat. Frank Worsley was captain of lost Endurance: navigated eight hundred miles open water with sextant; chronometer; wet blurred horizon; work not done even in storm; calculating position; looking for chance to make shore.

The night passed in a blur of cold and darkness and spray. The boat drifted closer to the cliffs and then was blown out to sea, the distance to the shore varying with the gusts. At times they could see the white foam of the breakers; at times they could see nothing but the black wall of the island rising above them. The wind screamed through the rigging, and the waves struck the hull with a sound like a hammer on an anvil.

Shackleton did not sleep. He sat in the stern sheets, one hand on the tiller, the other on the mizzen sheet, watching the shore and the sky, looking for any sign that the weather might moderate. He knew that another day at sea might finish them. Their water was almost gone. Their food was almost gone. Their strength was almost gone. If the storm did not break soon, they would have to attempt a landing regardless of the conditions.

Dawn on 9 May brought no relief. The wind had shifted to the southwest, still blowing with hurricane force, and the sky remained a solid mass of grey cloud. The island was visible in fragments—the cliffs, the glaciers, the snowfields above the shoreline—but the entrance to King Haakon Bay remained blocked by the breaking seas. The boat rolled violently in the swell, shipping water with every wave, the crew bailing continuously just to stay ahead of the flood.

Worsley attempted to take a sight of the sun, hoping to fix their position, but the clouds defeated him. He estimated by dead reckoning that they were drifting to the east, parallel to the coast, carried by the current and the wind. If the drift continued, they would pass King Haakon Bay entirely and be driven past the southern tip of the island, back into the open ocean. The thought was unbearable. They had reached land; they could not now be denied it.

Shackleton made a decision. They would attempt to enter King Haakon Bay, regardless of the conditions. The risk of capsizing in the surf was high, but the risk of drifting out to sea was certain death. He ordered Worsley to bring the boat about, to try to beat into the wind and make the entrance of the bay. The crew strained at the oars, pulling against the waves, fighting for every yard of westing.

The attempt failed. The wind was too strong, the seas too high, the boat too small. Each time they brought the bow into the wind, a gust would drive them back, and a wave would break over the gunwales, filling the boat with freezing water. They bailed and pulled and bailed again, but they could not make headway. After an hour of struggle, Shackleton ordered them to fall off and run before the wind.

They were being driven east, away from King Haakon Bay, away from the shelter they needed. The coast of South Georgia slid past them, mile after mile, the cliffs unbroken by any cove or inlet where a boat might land. They were watching their chance slip away.

And then, in the afternoon, the wind began to moderate.

The shift was gradual at first, a slight lessening of the gusts, a small drop in the height of the seas. By evening, the hurricane had subsided to a strong gale, and the clouds had begun to break. Worsley was able to take a sight of the sun, fixing their position at the entrance to King Haakon Bay. They had drifted past the bay during the storm, but the current had carried them only a few miles. If the wind held, they could beat back and make the entrance before full dark.

The crew summoned their last reserves of strength. Vincent and McCarthy took the oars, Crean manned the pump, Worsley conned the boat from the bow, looking for the opening between the cliffs. Shackleton held the tiller, steering by the feel of the wind on his face. The Caird crept westward, fighting the swell, inching toward the bay.

Darkness was falling when they cleared the headland and entered the shelter of King Haakon Bay. The wind dropped abruptly in the lee of the land, and the seas subsided to a gentle roll. For the first time in two days, the boat was not fighting for her life. The men slumped over the oars, too exhausted to speak.

But they could not rest yet. The bay was deep, and the shore was still a mile away. They needed to find a place to land before the tide carried them back out, before the wind shifted again, before any of a dozen possible disasters overtook them. Worsley scanned the shoreline, looking for a beach, a cove, any place where they could bring the boat ashore.

He found it: a small cove on the north side of the bay, where a shingle beach rose above the tide line. The approach was clear, the water calm. They rowed toward it, the oars moving slowly, the men’s movements mechanical. When the keel grated on the shingle, Shackleton jumped overboard, waist-deep in the freezing water, and hauled the bow up the beach. The others followed, stumbling ashore, falling to their knees on the stones.

They had landed. After seventeen days at sea, after the hurricane, after the long fight against the wind and the waves, they had set foot on solid ground.

But the landing was not the end of their trial. The beach where they stood was on the wrong side of the island. The whaling stations lay on the northern coast, separated from King Haakon Bay by a range of mountains that no human being had ever crossed. The map showed no passes, no valleys, no routes through the glaciated interior. To reach the stations, they would have to either sail around the island—a journey of days in their weakened condition—or walk across the mountains. The condition of the James Caird, and the physical state of the party, particularly Vincent and McNish, meant the crossing was the only realistic option.

Shackleton surveyed the beach and the cliffs above. The men were collapsing where they stood, their strength utterly spent. They needed rest, food, water, warmth. They needed to recover before they could attempt anything further. He ordered the boat hauled above the tide line, the gear unloaded, a camp established. They would spend the night here, on this stony beach, and decide the next move in the morning.

The men worked mechanically, setting up the tents they had brought from Elephant Island, gathering rocks to anchor the guy lines, spreading the sodden sleeping bags on the ground. McCarthy found a stream of fresh water running from the cliffs and filled the water cans. Vincent and Crean managed to start a fire with dry grass and driftwood, the first fire they had had since leaving Patagonia months before.

They had no food left except a few fragments of hardtack and some pieces of albatross meat that had been stored in the boat. Shackleton took the meat and soaked it in water, trying to soften it enough to eat. The men chewed it slowly, sitting around the fire, too tired to talk. The taste was foul—the meat had been stored in the bilge, soaked in salt water and diesel oil—but they ate it anyway. They needed the strength.

The night passed in a restless half-sleep. The wind had picked up again, blowing in gusts across the bay, and the tents shook and flapped. The men lay in their sleeping bags, shivering, their bodies slowly warming for the first time in days. McNeish’s feet had swollen further, the frostbite turning the skin black. Vincent was coughing, his chest congested from the cold and the wet. The others lay still, too exhausted to move.

Shackleton did not sleep. He lay in his bag, staring at the canvas above him, thinking about the next move. The boat was damaged—the keel had been stove in by the landing, and the planks were working loose. The men were weakened, some of them barely able to walk. The whaling stations were on the other side of the mountains, at least thirty miles away as the crow flew, much farther by any possible route. They had no maps, no knowledge of the terrain, no idea what lay between them and salvation.

But they had no choice. The boat could not make the voyage around the island, not in its current condition, not with the crew in their current state. The only way forward was across the mountains. Shackleton began to plan the crossing, visualizing the route, estimating the time, calculating the supplies they would need.

Morning came grey and cold. The wind had shifted to the north, blowing off the glaciers, and the air was filled with spindrift. Shackleton rose early and walked the beach, examining the boat, assessing the damage. The keel was cracked but not broken through. The planks had opened at the seams but could be caulked. With work, the Caird could be made seaworthy again.

But the work would take days, and the weather could change at any moment. Another storm could drive them back out to sea, or keep them trapped on this beach until their supplies ran out. Every day they waited was a day the men on Elephant Island were dying. Shackleton made his decision.

He would take Worsley and Crean and attempt the crossing. They were the fittest of the party, the most experienced in polar travel, the best equipped to handle the unknown terrain. Vincent, McCarthy, and McNeish would remain at the beach, in a camp they would christen Peggotty Camp after the boat-dwelling family in Dickens’s David Copperfield. They would rest, repair the boat, and wait for Shackleton to return with help from the whaling stations. Their destination was Stromness, which had been Endurance’s last port of call on their outbound journey, roughly twenty-six miles away across the edge of the Allardyce Range.

The decision was a gamble. If Shackleton, Worsley, and Crean failed to cross the mountains, if they were caught in a blizzard or fell into a crevasse, the three men left behind would have no way to escape. They would die on this beach, or attempt the voyage around the island and die at sea. But the alternative—waiting for conditions to improve, for the boat to be repaired, for a rescue that might never come—was worse. Shackleton chose to act.

The morning of 10 May was spent in preparation. The boat was hauled further up the beach and secured with rocks. The supplies were sorted, the tent pitched, a cache of food established. McNeish, despite his frostbitten feet, managed to repair the stove they had brought from Elephant Island, and a hot meal was prepared—the first in days. The men ate in silence, aware that this might be their last meal together, their last moment of relative comfort.

Shackleton outlined his plan. He, Worsley, and Crean would leave the following morning, weather permitting. They would travel light, carrying only three days’ rations, a primus stove, a small tent, and the basic tools for mountaineering—an Alpine rope, an adze, a compass. They would move fast, counting on speed to compensate for their lack of supplies. If they failed to reach the whaling stations within three days, they would not return.

The men listened without comment. They knew the odds. They knew that Shackleton was taking the best men and leaving the others behind. They knew that their own survival depended on the success of a crossing that had never been attempted, over terrain that had never been mapped, by men who had barely survived an open-boat voyage of eight hundred miles.

Shackleton stood at the edge of the beach, looking up at the mountains that rose above the camp. The peaks were hidden in cloud, the slopes streaked with ice and snow. No trail marked those glaciers, no cairn or survey point showed the way. The interior of South Georgia was a blank space on the chart, a region of ice and rock that no surveyor had ever penetrated.

But somewhere beyond those mountains lay the whaling stations, and beyond them, the ships that could carry rescue back to Elephant Island. The storm-wracked landfall had delivered them to the wrong coast, on the wrong side of an island that had never been crossed. The James Caird lay on the shingle, her hull battered, her seams opening, her voyage at an end. What lay ahead was not a voyage at all, but a walk across mountains that no map had ever shown.