The advancing ice, accompanied by a large
wave, appeared to be travelling at about three knots; and if we had not
succeeded in pulling clear we would certainly have been swamped.
We pulled hard for an hour to windward of the berg that lay in the
open water. The swell was crashing on its perpendicular sides and
throwing spray to a height of sixty feet. Evidently there was an ice-
foot at the east end, for the swell broke before it reached the berg-
face and flung its white spray on to the blue ice-wall. We might have
paused to have admired the spectacle under other conditions; but night
was coming on apace, and we needed a camping-place. As we steered
north-west, still amid the ice-floes, the 'Dudley Docker' got jammed
between two masses while attempting to make a short cut. 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. The 'James Caird' got
a line aboard the 'Dudley Docker', and after some hauling the boat was
brought clear of the ice again. We hastened forward in the twilight in
search of a flat, old floe, and presently found a fairly large piece
rocking in the swell. It was not an ideal camping-place by any means,
but darkness had overtaken us. We hauled the boats up, and by 8 p.m.
had the tents pitched and the blubber-stove burning cheerily.
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