Fending the ‘James Caird’ off the rocks in the darkness was awkward work.  The boat would have bumped dangerously if allowed to ride in with the waves that drove into the cove.  I found a flat rock for my feet, which were in a bad way owing to cold, wetness, and lack of exercise in the boat, and during the next few hours I laboured to keep the ‘James Caird’ clear of the beach.  Occasionally I had to rush into the seething water.  Then, as a wave receded, I let the boat out on the alpine rope so as to avoid a sudden jerk.  The heavy painter had been lost when the sea-anchor went adrift.  The ‘James Caird’ could be seen but dimly in the cove, where the high black cliffs made the darkness almost complete, and the strain upon one’s attention was great.  After several hours had passed I found that my desire for sleep was becoming irresistible, and at 1 a.m.  I called Crean.  I could hear him groaning as he stumbled over the sharp rocks on his way down the beach.  While he was taking charge of the ‘James Caird’ she got adrift, and we had some anxious moments.  Fortunately, she went across towards the cave and we secured her, unharmed.  The loss or destruction of the boat at this stage would have been a very serious matter, since we probably would have found it impossible to leave the cove except by sea.  The cliffs and glaciers around offered no practicable path towards the head of the bay.  I arranged for one-hour watches during the remainder of the night and then took Crean’s place among the sleeping men and got some sleep before the dawn came.

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.  Swirling clouds and mist-wreaths had obscured our view of the sound when we were entering, but glimpses of snow-slopes had given us hope that an overland journey could be begun from that point.  A few patches of very rough, tussocky land, dotted with little tarns, lay between the glaciers along the foot of the mountains, which were heavily scarred with scree-slopes.  Several magnificent peaks and crags gazed out across their snowy domains to the sparkling waters of the sound.