Every day I take out the triangles, parallel rulers and dividers and draw our course upon an Admiralty chart of the Weddell Sea. The route we have followed looks utterly erratic and whimsical. Anybody not familiar with these waters might think we’ve had a drunk at the helm, but every swerve, hard right and handbrake turn we have made has been in response to the ice. As Shackleton once said when they were in their boats and picking their way through densely noddled waters, ‘The old adage about a short cut being the longest way round is often as true in the Antarctic as it is in the peaceful countryside.’ I heard our mate put it more succinctly when one day he growled: ‘Down here we don’t do bloody beelines. — 89: 1257-1262
On the wall in my day room is a large hydrographic map of the Weddell Sea: the well-known Admiralty Chart Number 4024. The greatest danger to ships at sea, apart from fire, is land, and usually the nearest land is that which is under your keel. Knowing the depth of water beneath you is, therefore, fundamental to safe navigation. On a chart the depth is usually expressed in a series of contour lines, or isobaths, which give you not just the depth but the topography, or relief, of the ocean floor. And this is where my chart of the Weddell Sea becomes interesting. The contour lines are there and follow the normal conventions, but when you come to the sector which is permanently covered by pack – that is to say, the part of the Weddell Sea where we are now – there is nothing. The contour lines stop dead in their tracks. There aren’t even any conjectural dots. It’s just blank and void. Right now, we are, literally, off the map. — 111: 1575-1581
To mint an adage, normal people do not go to sea. — 115: 1623-1623
The story of what happened to those men after they left England has been shaped almost entirely by South, which was presented as a factual record of their epic journey. The book appeared in 1919, three years after they got back from Antarctica, and (the ultimate accolade in publishing) has never been out of print since. Back in the ‘60s, when I first read South, I was happy to go along with its every word, but now I am not so naive – now I want to get closer to the truth of what happened. South was all about myth creation. Shackleton was hungry for fame and fortune and to be seen and adored as a hero. This he had achieved with the publication of The Heart of Antarctica, about the Nimrod expedition, in 1909; but that book was later knocked into the shadows by the 1913 publication of Scott’s harrowing diaries, which established him as the pre-eminent British explorer of the era. Scott might have been dead, but the bitter rivalry between the two continued. South was Shackleton’s last chance to carve his name in legend and, if not eclipse Scott, at least ensure his place beside him. For books of this type there was a template which, fortunately for Shackleton, perfectly matched the vision of himself that he wanted to project: the noble hero, the fearless leader of a loyal, selfless, body of men who, inspired by his example, worked seamlessly for the good of all. In other words, the perfect expression of the Imperial ideal. Certainly there was much to admire in those 28 who went into the Antarctic on the Endurance – they were a remarkable group, capable of great fortitude and generosity of spirit, and they were in large part loyal and brave. But, as the diaries reveal, they could also be snarky, nitpicking, jealous, self-serving and vindictive. They were not, every one of them, chin-up and valiant-all, and they were definitely no band of brothers. In short, they were – as my mother used to say when I was venting my frustration over some bonehead who was complicating my life – ‘people, dear. Just people — 115: 1633-1648
There were great bergs and floes all around. It was as if we were in a maze. I watched the mate as he wove the ship back and forth between channels. After a manoeuvre that reminded me of a racing car going through a chicane, I threw him a compliment. ‘Nifty,’ I said. He gave a rare smile. ‘I’ve got more moves than a fiddle player’s elbow.’ Good one, I thought; but Shackleton said it better when he compared it to ‘steering a bicycle through a graveyard’. This expression came to him at the end of the 1903 season when, on Scott’s orders and very much against his own wishes, he was being invalided out of Antarctica on a relief ship. As — 200: 2882-2887
the star in our firmament is undoubtedly Nico Vincent. I think he might have saved the project. Back in Sweden, when he was taking charge of the Sabertooths, he spotted an old winch in storage and asked if he could also have that one for the project. Everybody was of the opinion that the two new ones would be entirely reliable, but Nico’s view was that they were not tried and tested, whereas the old one, despite its years, was. Both of the new winches have now failed and so Nico has switched to the 25-year-old winch, and it is working. It did not like the cold, but they constructed a tent over it and put a heater inside, and it has performed perfectly. The subsea team say that bringing the old winch was an act of whim, but to me it betokens the kind of wisdom that only comes with experience. — 276: 3969-3975
One of the best things in life is to enjoy the respect of those whom you respect, so to be complimented in this manner by Knowledge, Freddie, John, Nico, JC and Chad means a great deal to me. So what now? We have found the — 316: 4551-4553
‘You know what gets me?’ says Chad. ‘I mean, about the whole Shackleton thing. It’s that those guys got away with it. They shouldn’t have. Twenty-eight went in and twenty-eight came out.’ I think about this for a bit. ‘No,’ I gently correct him, ‘not twenty-eight. There were twenty-seven of them, and Shackleton.’ — 363: 5263-5265