At dawn of Friday, July 21, we were within a hundred miles of the island, and we encountered the ice in the half-light.  I waited for the full day and then tried to push through.  The little craft was tossing in the heavy swell, and before she had been in the pack for ten minutes she came down on a cake of ice and broke the bobstay.  Then the water-inlet of the motor choked with ice.  The schooner was tossing like a cork in the swell, and I saw after a few bumps that she was actually lighter than the fragments of ice around her.  Progress under such conditions was out of the question.  I worked the schooner out of the pack and stood to the east.  I ran her through a line of pack towards the south that night, but was forced to turn to the north-east, for the ice trended in that direction as far as I could see.  We hove to for the night, which was now sixteen hours long.  The winter was well advanced and the weather conditions were thoroughly bad.  The ice to the southward was moving north rapidly.  The motor-engine had broken down and we were entirely dependent on the sails.  We managed to make a little southing during the next day, but noon found us 108 miles from the island.  That night we lay off the ice in a gale, hove to, and morning found the schooner iced up.  The ropes, cased in frozen spray, were as thick as a man’s arm, and if the wind had increased much we would have had to cut away the sails, since there was no possibility of lowering them.  Some members of the scratch crew were played out by the cold and the violent tossing.  The schooner was about seventy feet long, and she responded to the motions of the storm-racked sea in a manner that might have disconcerted the most seasoned sailors.

I took the schooner south at every chance, but always the line of ice blocked the way.  The engineer, who happened to be an American, did things to the engines occasionally, but he could not keep them running, and, the persistent south winds were dead ahead.  It was hard to turn back a third time, but I realized we could not reach the island under those conditions, and we must turn north in order to clear the ship of heavy masses of ice.  So we set a northerly course, and after a tempestuous passage reached Port Stanley once more.  This was the third reverse, but I did not abandon my belief that the ice would not remain fast around Elephant Island during the winter, whatever the arm-chair experts at home might say.  We reached Port Stanley in the schooner on August 8, and I learned there that the ship Discovery was to leave England at once and would be at the Falkland Islands about the middle of September.  My good friend the Governor said I could settle down at Port Stanley and take things quietly for a few weeks.  The street of that port is about a mile and a half long.  It has the slaughter-house at one end and the graveyard at the other.  The chief distraction is to walk from the slaughter-house to the graveyard.