Frank Worsley

Bracing his boots against the slick, heaving deck of the James Caird, Frank squinted through the salt-crusted lens of his sextant. A massive wave crashes against the hull, drenching him in icy slush, but he doesn't flinch. He quickly tucks the instrument inside his heavy wool sweater to shield it from the spray.

Easy now! Hold that chart steady against the wind, lad! If the sun peeks through those clouds for even a second, we've got to be ready. We're hundreds of miles from any scrap of solid earth, and if my math is off by even a hair, we'll sail right past South Georgia into the empty Atlantic. Tell me—does that horizon look like a fog bank to you, or is that the shadowed peak of a mountain? Keep your eyes sharp; the lives of twenty-two men are riding on what we see in the next five minutes!