Some years ago, as the millennium was drawing to a close, the American Museum of Natural History, in Manhattan, mounted an exhibition celebrating the polar explorer Sir Ernest Shackleton. The centerpiece of the show was a 23-foot whaler, the James Caird. In 1916, Shackleton and five companions rowed and sailed the small boat across 800 miles of rough and frigid seas to find help for the rest of the expedition’s men, stranded on Elephant Island off the coast of Antarctica after their ship, the Endurance, was crushed by ice.
Shackleton’s voyage was a matchless feat of navigation and seamanship. At the museum, the James Caird was enveloped by an ever changing Sensurround panorama of churning waves and angry clouds, with glimmers of a low, pale sun intermittently visible. Visitors were invited to use a sextant to attempt to take a sun sight under these conditions—nearly impossible. I certainly couldn’t, though I did feel seasick.
