About 11 a.m. the boat suddenly fell off into the trough of the sea.
The painter had parted and the sea-anchor had gone. This was serious.
The 'James Caird' went away to leeward, and we had no chance at all of
recovering the anchor and our valuable rope, which had been our only
means of keeping the boat's head up to the seas without the risk of
hoisting sail in a gale. Now we had to set the sail and trust to its
holding. While the 'James Caird' rolled heavily in the trough, we beat
the frozen canvas until the bulk of the ice had cracked off it and then
hoisted it. The frozen gear worked protestingly, but after a struggle
our little craft came up to the wind again, and we breathed more
freely. Skin frost-bites were troubling us, and we had developed large
blisters on our fingers and hands. I shall always carry the scar of
one of these frost-bites on my left hand, which became badly inflamed
after the skin had burst and the cold had bitten deeply.
We held the boat up to the gale during that day, enduring as best we
could discomforts that amounted to pain. The boat tossed interminably
on the big waves under grey, threatening skies. Our thoughts did not
embrace much more than the necessities of the hour. Every surge of the
sea was an enemy to be watched and circumvented. We ate our scanty
meals, treated our frost-bites, and hoped for the improved conditions
that the morrow might bring.
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