The wind shifted from the south to
the south-west, and the shortage of oars became a serious matter. The
'James Caird', being the heaviest boat, had to keep a full complement
of rowers, while the 'Dudley Docker' and the 'Stancomb Wills' went
short and took turns using the odd oar. A big swell was thundering
against the cliffs and at times we were almost driven on to the rocks
by swirling green waters. We had to keep close inshore in order to
avoid being embroiled in the raging sea, which was lashed snow-white
and quickened by the furious squalls into a living mass of sprays.
After two hours of strenuous labour we were almost exhausted, but we
were fortunate enough to find comparative shelter behind a point of
rock. Overhead towered the sheer cliffs for hundreds of feet, the sea-
birds that fluttered from the crannies of the rock dwarfed by the
height. The boats rose and fell in the big swell, but the sea was not
breaking in our little haven, and we rested there while we ate our cold
ration. Some of the men had to stand by the oars in order to pole the
boats off the cliff-face.
After half an hour's pause I gave the order to start again. The
'Dudley Docker' was pulling with three oars, as the 'Stancomb Wills'
had the odd one, and she fell away to leeward in a particularly heavy
squall.
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