The sea went down in the early hours of the morning (May 11), and
after sunrise we were able to set about getting the boat ashore, first
bracing ourselves for the task with another meal. We were all weak
still. We cut off the topsides and took out all the movable gear.
Then we waited for Byron's "great ninth wave," and when it lifted the
'James Caird' in we held her and, by dint of great exertion, worked her
round broadside to the sea. Inch by inch we dragged her up until we
reached the fringe of the tussock-grass and knew that the boat was
above high-water mark. The rise of the tide was about five feet, and
at spring tide the water must have reached almost to the edge of the
tussock-grass. The completion of this job removed our immediate
anxieties, and we were free to examine our surroundings and plan the
next move. The day was bright and clear.
King Haakon Bay is an eight-mile sound penetrating the coast of South
Georgia in an easterly direction. We had noticed that the northern and
southern sides of the sound were formed by steep mountain-ranges, their
flanks furrowed by mighty glaciers, the outlets of the great ice-sheet
of the interior. It was obvious that these glaciers and the
precipitous slopes of the mountains barred our way inland from the
cove. We must sail to the head of the sound.
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