Visions of the ship failing to return to New Zealand and of sixty
people waiting here arose in my mind with sickening pertinacity,
and the only consolation I could draw from such imaginations was the
determination that the southern work should go on as before--meanwhile
the least ill possible seemed to be an extensive lightening of the
ship with boats as the tide was evidently high when she struck--a
terribly depressing prospect.

Some three or four of us watched it gloomily from the shore whilst
all was bustle on board, the men shifting cargo aft. Pennell tells
me they shifted 10 tons in a very short time.

The first ray of hope came when by careful watching one could see
that the ship was turning very slowly, then one saw the men running
from side to side and knew that an attempt was being made to roll her
off. The rolling produced a more rapid turning movement at first and
then she seemed to hang again. But only for a short time; the engines
had been going astern all the time and presently a slight movement
became apparent. But we only knew she was getting clear when we heard
cheers on board and more cheers from the whaler.

Then she gathered stern way and was clear. The relief was enormous.

The wind dropped as she came off, and she is now securely moored off
the northern ice edge, where I hope the greater number of her people
are finding rest. For here and now I must record the splendid manner
in which these men are working. I find it difficult to express my
admiration for the manner in which the ship is handled and worked
under these very trying circumstances.