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      Loading the Alexandra Shackleton onto her mother ship, Polar Pioneer, for the 10,000-mile journey south from Gdynia, Poland.

      Courtesy of Rob Goodhart

      When we’d arrived at the farm, I’d insisted on our friend Tom telling me what jobs needed doing around the place while he was away. Reluctantly he’d mentioned a large fallen tree that needed cutting up. At one point I went into the barn and looked at the modern chainsaw that could dispatch the tree in less than a day. But in the shadows lay a rusting, heavy, blunt ax. With gladiatorial flourish I took up the ax and used it over the course of several days to batter not only the tree but also my problems into submission. Some days the pile of logs I chopped was the only tangible evidence of having made any progress; it kept me going.

      I was getting tired of new problems presenting themselves each day. To (badly) paraphrase the Dalai Lama: “There are two types of problems: the ones you can overcome, in which case don’t worry, and the ones you can’t, in which case don’t worry.” I tested this philosophy to the limit most days.

      I needed a break and made plans to spend three days visiting my godchildren in Brussels. It was quite something to think we were about to board a train that would take us under the English Channel while 100 meters above us, at exactly the same time, the Alexandra Shackleton would be on a Channel ferry. I hadn’t planned it that way but that’s how the dates had fallen. And I was now looking forward to having no phone reception for the half-hour tunnel journey. Just minutes before I was due to drive our vehicle onto the train, my phone rang. It was Seb. “French customs won’t let the bloody boat onto the ferry and it’s boarding in fifteen minutes!” “Why the hell not?” I snapped. Apparently they needed final ownership details, including my UK National Insurance number, expedition bank account, and expedition company particulars. Sensing my frustration, Seb launched into a tirade about our cross-channel neighbors, beginning with our victory at Agincourt. I cut him short, knowing I had less than eight minutes before I lost phone reception. “Wait for my call and keep the line free.”

      I hung up, asked Elizabeth to drive, and jumped into the passenger seat, rummaging for my laptop, which was buried under kids’ toys and holiday bags. I found the bank account details and could for some unknown reason remember my UK National Insurance number even though I’d not used it for many years. It was 10 p.m. in Australia and with three minutes until boarding time, Ramona, my PA who had been helping me out on planning issues, was my only hope. Her Canadian burr reassuringly came down the phone line, but she said it would take a couple of minutes for her to fire up her laptop and find what I needed. Elizabeth drove onto the train but mercifully it remained motionless as Ramona quoted the necessary numbers and letters to me. I called Seb and gave him the information as the train set off, hanging up seconds before we entered the tunnel. We emerged half an hour later and I turned on my phone immediately. A text message popped up saying, “All fine.” It wasn’t really—it was incredibly stressful—but somehow I’d got used to it.

      When Polar Pioneer finally set sail with the Alexandra Shackleton on board, I was relieved beyond compare. Now I could turn my attentions to our support vessel. With just over a week to go before sailing south herself, she still needed to have an upgraded satellite communication system installed and her fire alarm system repaired, not to mention repairs to a big dent in her side obtained when a bow wave from a passing ferry caused her to break free of her moorings. Plus we still had to negotiate for 13,000 liters of diesel to be made available for her journey home from South Georgia and they had no space for the spare Zodiac I told them they needed (nor had they even purchased one). I was feeling very uneasy, but finally she left the UK bound for the Caribbean en route to Punta Arenas, Chile. Relations with her team had been strained for the past few months as we bickered over whether I was behind on payments to them or they were behind on delivering what was required in order to justify me paying them. Churchill famously said about the end of the Second World War, “Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.” I for one felt as if I’d been in a war of attrition, and the end of the relationship was nigh.

3

       WOODEN BOATS

      On the high seas: jib and mainsail up at sunset.

      Courtesy of Magnus O’Grady

      “They traveled in wooden boats but were iron men.”

      Anonymous

      The reincarnation: our replica boat, the Alexandra Shackleton, at Portland.

      Courtesy of Tim Jarvis

      The onboard camera showed the gravity-defying sight of bilge water eerily snaking up the wall as the boat turned through ninety degrees, the test mannequin’s neck slumping awkwardly to one side. Within seconds the same water was pooling on the ceiling and the mannequin was dramatically launched upward to join it. From our vantage point, we could see the little boat sitting improbably on her side until, ten degrees beyond vertical, she flipped suddenly onto her topside, her hull left sitting out of the water, glistening in the sun. Gunning its generator, the crane now pulled the Alexandra Shackleton back onto her side until her deck was not quite perpendicular to the water. In a split second she rolled back to normal-looking as a boat should.

      We stood watching the capsize test, our feet firmly planted on the quayside of Portland marina in March 2012. At least we now knew the boat could go beyond vertical on its side before capsizing and didn’t need to be quite vertical to roll back over from being fully inverted. In other words, she would reright more easily than she would be knocked down. That was, of course, until one realized that the waves that would help with this would find it difficult to gain purchase on the smooth, rounded hull once she was upside down. Plus the mast and sails would be vertical in the water, anchoring the boat into position. Having no keel was the issue, and capsize along with man overboard were the things we were most worried about. Basically, if the Alexandra Shackleton went over she would be very difficult to right. There would be no keel for a man in the water to grab on to, and even the combined weight of five men below deck would not be enough to do the job. In the meantime, any man exposed to the icy water would lose his ability to swim in as little as ten minutes, his muscles becoming paralyzed by the cold. Nature would have to be our savior with another big wave helping to right her, and that was down to luck.

      Ninety degrees from vertical during a capsize test; water improbably snakes up the right wall of the Alexandra Shackleton.

      Courtesy of Tim Jarvis

      These rerighting difficulties were because the Alexandra Shackleton, like the James Caird before her, was a whaler—a narrow, symmetrical boat with

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