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The South Pole, Volume 2

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We went comparatively well through the ice, though at night -- from
eleven to one -- we had to slacken speed, as it was impossible to
steer clear on account of the darkness, and towards morning we had
a heavy fall of snow, so that nothing could be seen, and the engine
had to be stopped. When it cleared, at about 9 a.m., we had come
into a dam, out of which we luckily managed to turn fairly easily,
coming out into a bay. This was formed by over a hundred icebergs,
many of which lay in contact with each other and had packed the ice
close together. On the west was the outlet, which we steered for,
and by 10 p.m. on February 23 we were already out of the ice and in
open water. Our latitude was then 69° S., longitude 175.5° E.

It is very curious to find such calm weather in Ross Sea; in the two
months we have been here we have hardly had a strong breeze. Thus, when
I was relieved at 2 a.m. on the 25th, I wrote in my diary `. . . It
is calm, not a ripple on the water. The three men forming the watch
walk up and down the deck. Now and then one hears the penguins'
cry, kva, kva, but except these there is no other sound than the
tuff, tuff of the motor, 220 times a minute. Ah, that motor! it goes
unweariedly. It has now gone for 1,000 hours without being cleaned,
while on our Atlantic cruise last year it stopped dead after going
for eighty hours. . . . Right over us we have the Southern Cross,
all round glow the splendid southern lights, and in the darkness can
be seen the gleaming outline of an iceberg. . . ."

On the 26th we crossed the Antarctic Circle, and the same day the
temperature both of air and water rose above 32° F.

It was with sorrow in our hearts that we ate our last piece of
"crocodile beef," but I hoped we should get a good many albatrosses,
which we saw as soon as we came out of the ice. They were mostly
the sooty albatross, that tireless bird that generally circles alone
about the ship and is so difficult to catch, as he seldom tries to
bite at the pork that is used as bait. When I saw these birds for
the first time, as a deck boy, I was told they were called parsons,
because they were the souls of ungodly clergymen, who had to wait
down here till doomsday without rest.

More or less in our course to Cape Horn there are supposed to be
two groups of islands, the Nimrod group in about long. 158° W., and
Dougherty Island in about long. 120° W. They are both marked "D"
(Doubtful) on the English charts. Lieutenant Shackleton's vessel,
the Nimrod, Captain Davis, searched for both, but found neither;
Dougherty Island, however, is said to have been twice sighted. The
Fram's course was therefore laid for the Nimrod group. For a time
things went very well, but then we had a week of northerly winds --
that is, head winds -- and when at last we had a fair wind again,
we were so far to the south-east of them that there was no sense
in sailing back to the north-west to look for doubtful islands; it
would certainly have taken us weeks. Consequently, our course was
laid for Dougherty Island. We had westerly winds for about two weeks,
and were only two or three days' sail from the island in question,
when suddenly we had a gale from the north-east, which lasted for
three days, and ended in a hurricane from the same quarter. When
this was over, we had come according to dead reckoning about eighty
nautical miles to the south-east of the island; the heavy swell,
which lasted for days, made it out of the question to attempt to go
against it with the motor. We hardly had a glimpse of sun or stars,
and weeks passed without our being able to get an observation, so
that for that matter we might easily be a degree or two out in our
reckoning. For the present, therefore, we must continue to regard
these islands as doubtful.

Moral: Don't go on voyages of discovery, my friend; you're no good
at it!

As soon as we were out of Ross Sea and had entered the South Pacific
Ocean, the old circus started again -- in other words, the Fram began
her everlasting rolling from one side to the other. When this was at
its worst, and cups and plates were dancing the fandango in the galley,
its occupant's only wish was, "Oh, to be in Buenos Aires!" For that
matter, it is not a very easy job to be cook in such circumstances,
but ours was always in a good humour, singing and whistling all day
long. How well the Fram understands the art of rolling is shown by
the following little episode.

One afternoon a couple of us were sitting drinking coffee on a
tool-box that stood outside the galley. As ill-luck would have it,
during one of the lurches the lashing came loose, and the box shot
along the deck. Suddenly it was checked by an obstacle, and one of
those who were sitting on it flew into the air, through the galley
door, and dashed past the cook with a splendid tiger's leap, until he
landed face downwards at the other end of the galley, still clinging
like grim death to his cup, as though he wanted something to hold on
to. The face he presented after this successful feat of aviation was
extremely comical, and those who saw it had a hearty fit of laughter.

As has already been said, we went very well for a time after reaching
the Pacific, a fair wind for fourteen days together, and I began to
hope that we were once more in what are called the "westerlies."
However, nothing is perfect in this world, and we found that out here,
as we had icebergs every day, and were constantly bothered by
snow-squalls or fog; the former were, of course, to be preferred, as
it was at any rate clear between the squalls; but fog is the worst
thing of all. It sometimes happened that all hands were on deck the
whole night to work the ship at a moment's notice, and there were
never less than two men on the lookout forward. The engine, too, was
always ready to be started instantly. A little example will show how
ready the crew were at any time.

One Sunday afternoon, when Hansen, Kristensen and I were on watch,
the wind began to draw ahead, so that we had to beat. It was blowing
quite freshly, but I did not want to call the watch below, as they
might need all the sleep they could get, and Hansen and I were to put
the ship about. Kristensen was steering, but gave us a hand when he
could leave the wheel. As the ship luffed up into the wind and the
sails began to flap pretty violently, the whole of the watch below
suddenly came rushing on deck in nothing but their unmentionables
and started to haul. Chance willed it that at the same moment an
iceberg came out of the fog, right in front of our bows. It was not
many minutes, either, before we were on the other tack, and the watch
below did not linger long on deck. With so few clothes on it was no
pleasure to be out in that cold, foggy air. They slept so lightly,
then, that it took no more noise than that to wake them. When I
afterwards asked one of them -- I think it was Beck -- what made
them think of coming up, he replied that they thought we were going
to run into an iceberg and were trying to get out of the way.

It has happened at night that I have seen the ice-blink as far off
as eight miles, and then there is nothing to fear; but sometimes in
the middle of the day we have sailed close to icebergs that have only
been seen a few minutes before we were right on them. As the voyage
was long, we sailed as fast as we could, as a rule; but on two or
three nights we had to reduce our way to a minimum, as we could not
see much farther than the end of the bowsprit.

After two or three weeks' sailing the icebergs began gradually to
decrease, and I hoped we should soon come to the end of them; but
on Sunday, March 5, when it was fairly clear, we saw about midday a
whole lot of big bergs ahead. One of the watch below, who had just
come on deck, exclaimed: "What the devil is this beastly mess you
fellows have got into?" He might well ask, for in the course of that
afternoon we passed no less than about a hundred bergs. They were
big tabular bergs, all of the same height, about 100 feet, or about
as high as the crow's-nest of the Fram. The bergs were not the least
worn, but looked as if they had calved quite recently. As I said, it
was clear enough, we even got an observation that day (lat. 61° S.,
long. 150° W.), and as we had a west wind, we twisted quite elegantly
past one iceberg after another. The sea, which during the morning had
been high enough for the spray to dash over the tops of the bergs,
gradually went down, and in the evening, when we were well to leeward
of them all, it was as smooth as if we had been in harbour. In the
course of the night we passed a good many more bergs, and the next
day we only saw about twenty.

In the various descriptions of voyages in these waters, opinions are
divided as to the temperature of the water falling in the neighbourhood
of icebergs. That it falls steadily as one approaches the pack-ice
is certain enough, but whether it falls for one or a few scattered
icebergs, no doubt depends on circumstances.

One night at 12 o'clock we had a temperature in the water of 34.1°
F., at 4 a.m. 33.8° F., and at 8 a.m. 33.6° F.; at 6 a.m. we passed
an iceberg. At 12 noon the temperature had risen to 33.9° F. In this
case one might say that the temperature gave warning, but, as a rule,
in high latitudes it has been constant both before and after passing
an iceberg.

On Christmas Eve, 1911, when on our second trip southward we saw the
first real iceberg, the temperature of the water fell in four hours
from 35.6° F. to 32.7° F., which was the temperature when the bergs
were passed, after which it rose rather rapidly to 35° F.

In the west wind belt I believe one can tell with some degree of
certainty when one is approaching ice. In the middle of November, 1911,
between Prince Edward Island and the Crozet Islands (about lat. 47°
S.) the temperature fell. Towards morning I remarked to someone:
"The temperature of the water is falling as if we were getting near
the ice." On the forenoon of the same day we sailed past a very small
berg; the temperature again rose to the normal, and we met no more
ice until Christmas Eve.

On Saturday, March 4, the day before we met that large collection
of bergs, the temperature fell pretty rapidly from 33.9° F. to 32.5°
F. We had not then seen ice for nearly twenty-four hours. At the same
time the colour of the water became unusually green, and it is possible
that we had come into a cold current. The temperature remained as low
as this till Sunday morning, when at 8 a. m. it rose to 32.7° F.;
at 12 noon, close to a berg, to 32.9° F., and a mile to lee of it,
to 33° F. It continued to rise, and at 4 p.m., when the bergs were
thickest, it was 33.4° F.; at 8 p.m. 33.6° F., and at midnight 33.8°
F. If there had been a fog, we should certainly have thought we were
leaving the ice instead of approaching it; it is very curious, too,
that the temperature of the water should not be more constant in
the presence of such a great quantity of ice; but, as I have said,
it may have been a current.

In the course of the week following March 5 the bergs became rarer,
but the same kind of weather prevailed. Our speed was irreproachable,
and in one day's work (from noon to noon) we covered a distance of
200 nautical miles, or an average of about 82 knots an hour, which
was the best day's work the Fram had done up to that time. The wind;
which had been westerly and north-westerly, went by degrees to the
north, and ended in a hurricane from the north-east on Sunday, March
12. I shall quote here what I wrote about this in my diary on the 13th:

"Well, now we have experienced the first hurricane on the Fram. On
Saturday afternoon, the 11th, the wind went to the north-east, as an
ordinary breeze with rain. The barometer had been steady between 29.29
inches (744 millimetres) and 29.33 inches (745 millimetres). During
the afternoon it began to fall, and at 8 p.m. it was 29.25 inches
(743 millimetres) without the wind having freshened at all. The outer
jib was taken in, however. By midnight the barometer had fallen to
29.0 inches (737 millimetres), while the wind had increased to a stiff
breeze. We took in the foresail, mainsail, and inner jib, and had now
only the topsail and a storm-trysail left. The wind gradually increased
to a gale. At 4 a.m. on Sunday the barometer had fallen again to 28.66
inches (728 millimetres), and at 6 a.m. the topsail was made fast.[3]

The wind increased and the seas ran higher, but we did not ship much
water. At 8 a.m. the barometer was 28.30 inches (719 millimetres),
and at 9 a.m. 28.26 inches (718 millimetres), when at last it
stopped going down and remained steady till about noon, during
which time a furious hurricane was blowing. The clouds were brown,
the colour of chocolate; I cannot remember ever having seen such an
ugly sky. Little by little the wind went to the north, and we sailed
large under two storm-trysails. Finally, we had the seas on our beam,
and now the Fram showed herself in all her glory as the best sea-boat
in the world. It was extraordinary to watch how she behaved. Enormous
seas came surging high to windward, and we, who were standing on the
bridge, turned our backs to receive them, with some such remark as:
'Ugh, that's a nasty one coming.' But the sea never came. A few
yards from the ship it looked over the bulwarks and got ready to
hurl itself upon her. But at the last moment the Fram gave a wriggle
of her body and was instantly at the top of the wave, which slipped
under the vessel. Can anyone be surprised if one gets fond of such a
ship? Then she went down with the speed of lightning from the top of
the wave into the trough, a fall of fourteen or fifteen yards. When
we sank like this, it gave one the same feeling as dropping from
the twelfth to the ground-floor in an American express elevator,
'as if everything inside you was coming up.' It was so quick that we
seemed to be lifted off the deck. We went up and down like this all the
afternoon and evening, till during the night the wind gradually dropped
and it became calm. That the storm would not be of long duration
might almost be assumed from its suddenness, and the English rule --

Long foretold, long last; Short notice, soon past' --
may thus be said to have held good.

"When there is a strong wind on her beam, the Fram does not roll
so much as usual, except for an occasional leeward lurch; nor was
any excessive quantity of water shipped in this boisterous sea. The
watch went below as usual when they were relieved, and, as somebody
very truly remarked, all hands might quite well have turned in, if we
had not had to keep a lookout for ice. And fortune willed it that the
day of the hurricane was the first since we had left the Barrier that
we did not see ice -- whether this was because the spray was so high
that it hid our view, or because there really was none. Be that as it
may, the main thing was that we saw no ice. During the night we had
a glimpse of the full moon, which gave the man at the wheel occasion
to call out 'Hurrah!' -- and with good reason, as we had been waiting
a long time for the moon to help us in looking out for ice.

"In weather like this one notices nothing out of the ordinary
below deck. Here hardly anything is heard of the wind, and in
the after-saloon, which is below the water-line, it is perfectly
comfortable. The cook, who resides below, therefore reckons 'ugly
weather' according to the motion of the vessel, and not according to
storms, fog, or rain. On deck we do not mind much how it blows, so
long as it is only clear, and the wind is not against us. How little
one hears below deck may be understood from the fact that yesterday
morning, while it was blowing a hurricane, the cook went about as
usual, whistling his two verses of 'The Whistling Bowery Boy.' While
he was in the middle of the first, I came by and told him that it
was blowing a hurricane if he cared to see what it looked like. 'Oh,
yes,' he said, 'I could guess it was blowing, for the galley fire
has never drawn so well; the bits of coal are flying up the chimney';
and then he whistled through the second verse. All the same, he could
not resist going up to see. It was not long before he came down again,
with a 'My word, it is blowing, and waves up to the sky!' No; it was
warmer and more cosy below among his pots and pans.

"For dinner, which was eaten as usual amid cheerful conversation,
we had green-pea soup, roast sirloin, with a glass of aquavit, and
caramel pudding; so it may be seen that the cook was not behindhand in
opening tins, even in a hurricane. After dinner we enjoyed our usual
Sunday cigar, while the canary, which has become Kristensen's pet,
and hangs in his cabin, sang at the top of its voice."

On March 14 we saw the last iceberg; during the whole trip we had
seen and passed between 500 and 600 bergs.

The wind held steady from the north-east for a week and a half, and
I was beginning to think we should be stuck down here to play the
Flying Dutchman. There was every possible sign of a west wind, but
it did not come. On the night of the 17th it cleared; light cirrus
clouds covered the sky, and there was a ring about the moon. This,
together with the heavy swell and the pronounced fall of the barometer,
showed that something might be expected. And, sure enough, on Sunday,
March 19, we were in a cyclone. By manoeuvring according to the rules
for avoiding a cyclone in the southern hemisphere, we at any rate
went well clear of one semicircle. About 4 p.m. on Sunday afternoon
the barometer was down to 27.56 inches (700 millimetres), the lowest
barometer reading I have ever heard of. From noon to 4 p.m. there was
a calm, with heavy sea. Immediately after a gale sprang up from the
north-west, and in the course of a couple of days it slowly moderated
to a breeze from the same quarter.

Sunday, March 5, a hundred icebergs; Sunday March 12, a hurricane;
and Sunday, March 19, a cyclone: truly three pleasant "days of rest."

The curves given on the next page, which show the course of barometric
pressure for a week, from Monday to Monday, are interesting.

By way of comparison a third curve is given from the north-east trade,
where there is an almost constant breeze and fine weather.

On this trip the fore-saloon was converted into a sail-loft, where
Rönne and Hansen carried on their work, each in his watch. The
after-saloon was used as a common mess-room, as it is warmer, and
the motion is far less felt than forward.

From the middle of March it looked as if the equinoctial gales were
over, for we had quite fine weather all the way to Buenos Aires. Cape
Horn was passed on March 31 in the most delightful weather -- a light
westerly breeze, not a cloud in the sky, and only a very slight swell
from the west. Who would have guessed that such splendid weather was
to be found in these parts? -- and that in March, the most stormy
month of the year.

Lieutenant Gjertsen and Kutschin collected plankton all the time;
the latter smiled all over his face whenever he chanced to get one
or two "tadpoles" in his tow-net.

From the Falkland Islands onward the Fram was washed and painted,
so that we might not present too "Polar" an appearance on arrival at
Buenos Aires.

It may be mentioned as a curious fact that the snow with which we
filled our water-tanks on the Barrier did not melt till we were in
the River La Plata, which shows what an even temperature is maintained
in the Fram's hold.

About midday on Easter Sunday we were at the mouth of the River La
Plata, without seeing land, however. During the night the weather
became perfect, a breeze from the south, moonlight and starry, and we
went up the river by soundings and observations of the stars until at
1 a.m. on Monday, when we had the Recalada light-ship right ahead. We
had not seen any light since we left Madeira on September 9. At 2.30
the same morning we got a pilot aboard, and at seven in the evening
we anchored in the roads of Buenos Aires.

We had then been nearly once round the world, and for over seven
months the anchor had not been out.

We had reckoned on a two months' voyage from the ice, and it had
taken us sixty-two days.


The Oceanographical Cruise.

According to the programme, the Fram was to go on an oceanographical
cruise in the South Atlantic, and my orders were that this was to
be arranged to suit the existing circumstances. I had reckoned on a
cruise of about three months. We should have to leave Buenos Aires
at the beginning of October to be down in the ice at the right time
(about the New Year).

As we were too short-handed to work the ship, take soundings, etc.,
the following four seamen were engaged: H. Halvorsen, A. Olsen,
F. Steller, and J. Andersen.

At last we were more or less ready, and the Fram sailed from Buenos
Aires on June 8, 1911, the anniversary of our leaving Horten on our
first hydrographic cruise in the North Atlantic. I suppose there was
no one on board on June 8, 1910, who dreamed that a year later we
should go on a similar cruise in the South.

We had a pilot on board as far as Montevideo, where we arrived on the
afternoon of the 9th; but on account of an increasing wind (pampero)
we had to lie at anchor here for a day and a half, as the pilot could
not be taken off. On Saturday afternoon, the 10th, he was fetched
off by a big tug-boat, on board of which was the Secretary of the
Norwegian Consulate. This gentleman asked us if we could not come
into the harbour, as "people would like to see the ship." I promised
to come in on the way back, "if we had time."

On Sunday morning, the 11th, we weighed anchor, and went out in
the most lovely weather that can be imagined. Gradually the land
disappeared, and in the course of the evening we lost the lights;
we were once more out in the Atlantic, and immediately everything
resumed its old course.

In order to save our supply of preserved provisions as much as
possible, we took with us a quantity of live poultry, and no fewer
than twenty live sheep, which were quartered in the "farmyard" on the
port side of the vessel's fore-deck. Sheep and hens were all together,
and there was always a most beautiful scent of hay, so that we had not
only sea air, but "country air." In spite of all this delightful air,
three or four of the crew were down with influenza, and had to keep
their berths for some days.

I reckoned on being back at Buenos Aires by the beginning of September,
and on getting, if possible, one station a day. The distance,
according to a rough calculation, was about 8,000 nautical miles,
and I laid down the following plan: To go about east by north with
the prevailing northerly and north-westerly winds to the coast of
Africa, and there get hold of the south-east trade. If we could not
reach Africa before that date, then to turn on July 22 and lay our
course with the south-east trade for St. Helena, which we could reach
before August 1; from there again with the same wind to South Trinidad
(August 11 or 12); on again with easterly and north-easterly winds on
a south-westerly course until about August 22, when the observations
were to be concluded, and we should try to make Buenos Aires in the
shortest time.

That was the plan that we attempted. On account of the fresh water
from the River La Plata, we did not begin at once to take samples of
water, and with a head-wind, north-east, we lay close-hauled for some
days. We also had a pretty stiff breeze, which was another reason
for delaying the soundings until the 17th.

For taking samples of water a winch is used, with a sounding-line of,
let us say, 5,000 metres (2,734 fathoms), on which are hung one or more
tubes for catching water; we used three at once to save time. Now,
supposing water and temperatures are to be taken at depths of 300,
400, and 500 metres (164, 218, and 273 fathoms), Apparatus III. (see
diagram) is first hung on, about 20 metres (10 fathoms) from the end
of the line, where a small weight (a) hangs; then it is lowered until
the indicator-wheel, over which the line passes, shows 100 metres
(54 fathoms); Apparatus II. is then put on, and it is lowered again
for another 100 metres, when Apparatus I. is put on and the line paid
out for 300 metres (164 fathoms) -- that is, until the indicator-wheel
shows 500 metres (273 fathoms). The upper Apparatus (I.) is then at
300 metres (164 fathoms), No. II. at 400 metres (218 fathoms), and
No. III. at 500 metres (273 fathoms). Under Apparatus I. and II. is
hung a slipping sinker (about 8 centimetres, or 3 1/4 inches, long,
and 3 centimetres, or 1 1/4 inches, in diameter). To the water-samplers
are attached thermometers (b) in tubes arranged for the purpose.

The water-samplers themselves consist of a brass cylinder (c), about
38 centimetres (15 inches) long and 4 centimetres (1 1/2 inches)
in diameter (about half a litre of water), set in a frame (d). At
about the middle of the cylinder are pivots, which rest in bearings
on the frame, so that the cylinder can be swung 180 degrees (straight
up and down).

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