Something Lost. Something Found

There are few exploits of discovery as compelling as the one of Sir Ernest Shackleton, and his failed attempt to traverse the Antarctic in 1914.

During the early stages of his expedition his ship, “The Endurance” was caught up in an ice flow, and was frozen solid. With no hope of being freed from its icy bondage, the ship began to break up, and sink. Black and white footage still exists of the demise of this once proud sea-going vessel.

As the result of the loss of their ship, Shackleton and his crew were forced to set off towards the northern coast of the Antarctic; while the entire time dragging three lifeboats.

As the 27 men reached the coastline, they mounted the boats and sailed for Elephant Island. And having reached the comparative safety of dry land, Shackleton nominated several of the men for an additional one boat voyage to South Georgia Island; the site of a manned whaling station, and hopes of rescue.

Shackleton’s 800 mile, 16 day journey across frigid and storm-tossed seas, (with waves as high as 60 feet) is still remembered as one of the most miraculous feats of navigation in naval history. At that time there were no GPS or satellite capabilities, and all navigation was done with a hand-held sextant, and the use of sun and stars.

Ultimately, the courageous little crew reached South Georgia, and prepared to cross 26 miles of mountains and crevices which separated them from the whaling station, and a ship capable of rescuing those they’d left behind on Elephant Island. It is enough to say here, (since the outcome is not the focus of this blog) that the men on Elephant Island were rescued, and returned home to Great Britain.

And having given away the ending, it is obvious also that Shackleton and the two other men who accompanied him on the trek across the mountains succeeded in reaching the whaling station; though the journey was cold and perilous.

As the famous explorer and his teammates neared the object of their quest, and just prior to mounting the last rise which separated them from the whaling station,

… they heard it.

A whistle signaling shift change.

And at that moment, it occurred to Sir Ernest that this was the first sound generated by the devices of a man, (outside of those who accompanied him on the expedition) in the two full years he’d been marooned in the Antarctic.

*Following is an insightful account of Shackleton’s trek across the mountains of South Georgia.

With provisions for just three days, screws in their boots for traction, threadbare clothing and no sleeping bags, the three malnourished, frostbitten, exhausted explorers set out to cross South Georgia at 2 a.m. on May 19, 1916, hiking by the light of the full moon. The terrain was rough, and the interior of the island had never been charted. The three men were roped together, with Shackleton in the lead and Worsley navigating. After several miscalculations, the three had to retrace their steps, finding themselves back where they had been several hours earlier, fatigued and frostbitten.
They faced a dilemma. Night was falling, they were making little progress descending the slopes, and they would freeze to death at their high altitude. With nothing to lose, and the lives of their 25 companions in their hands, they took a risk: they slid down the steep slope. "We seemed to shoot into space... For a moment my hair fairly stood on end," Worsley later wrote.
They proceeded through the night. In the morning, they heard a whistle sound from Stromness, which confirmed that the whaling station was still manned. By mid-afternoon, after 36 hours of travel, they walked into Stromness. Covered in blubber smoke, with long hair and beards, the three men, who'd spent months at Stromness at the beginning of the Endurance expedition, were not recognized when they arrived. After identifying themselves, they were treated to grand hospitality and hot baths, pleasures they had missed since they had left this island 17 months earlier. 
(Courtesy Nova Online & PBS – Interviews)

(Cont., see previous story)

The year was 1992. The month was August. The date was the 24^th. The day was Monday.

Do the words “Hurricane Andrew” mean anything to you? (Well, my friend, they sure do to me).

Though I spent 35 years among four components of the military, (mostly reserve service) I was fortunate to never see combat. I suppose the closest I ever came to it involved stateside service in Homestead, Florida in the aftermath of the most costly hurricane in American history, up to that time, in terms of the physical destruction of property.

I think the thing which struck me first and most about that 20x20 square mile block of homes, condos, trailer parks and businesses was the lack of color. For you see, every (and I do mean every) building had been somehow impacted by the 200+ mph wind gusts of that Category 5 hurricane, and many had been reduced to rubble. And every (and I do mean every) tree, bush, hedge and shrub had been rudely stripped of their leaves.

Having passed the perimeter which separated the unaffected parts of south Florida from the pathway of the storm, what greeted the eyes of every soldier in the convoy was sheer devastation. And as I have previously inferred, the absence of but four colors:

White, Brown, Black and Gray

And so much like those biblical passages which allude to the significance of the number “40,” I was privileged, (yes, privileged) to spend 40 days amidst that devastation (August 24, 1992 – October 3, 1992). Privileged since I took from this experience the satisfaction of a job well done; having served the unfortunate people in the southern area of my state; alongside 34,999 of my brothers and sisters in green.

And so unlike our northern parts, it is altogether odd in Florida to witness the absence of foliage on every formerly green thing, and equally odd to watch it all come back again; at once, and before we took our leave from that place.

When I returned from my own unique expedition, I realized the most severe fatigue I’d ever realized, and a few days elapsed before I understood why.

That God-awful absence of color

And whereas, Shackleton’s experience was macrocosmic in nature, having been marooned in the Antarctic for two years, my own experience had been relatively microcosmic; having served a scant 40 days, and in a more civilized place. And yet, I think it interesting that a common thread is woven into both our stories.

Shackleton had his whistle

The stimulation of one of five senses which had been denied for far too long.

I had my color

A stimulus upon which we all depend, but which was altogether absent in the place from which I had only just returned.

Something Lost

Something Found

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 23. Copyright pending

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