It's midnight on may fifth nineteen sixteen. Ernest shackleton squats at the helm of james cared trying to balance himself on the rocking boat. They've been at sea for eleven days. He knew the eight hundred mile. Crossing to south georgia. Island would be dangerous. But he's never seen anything as fierce as the drake passage. The winds have been coming at them at one hundred miles an hour. The waves are almost twenty feet tall each swell grabs the boat lifting at higher and higher for the boiling surf into the air. One moment they're surrounded by hills of water the next there on top of the world overlooking an endless seascape of dark grey rollers and white horses. And then they're hurtling back down. Below water crashes over the sides and sends a small crew into a frenzy to bail before the next one hits one way was so violent it ripped the boats anchor. Clear away shackleton marches wars lee struggling with the rudder trying to control the boat through the gusts and the snowfall is only. Compasses dead. Reckoning and the occasional glimpse of a star they both know if they boat off. Course they could miss south georgia entirely. And never be heard of again skipper. Altaic take the rudder. You get some sleep ex-boss maybe i'll lay down for an hour. Shackleton is left alone at the front of the boat. He watches the angry black clouds. Churn across the horizon and suddenly sees a silver light in the sky. Weather's clearing boys. And then he. Here's the familiar hiss. It's not a break in the clouds. It's the foaming crest of a wave. The biggest wave. He's seen in his life and it's heading straightforward.