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It's April 14, 1916.

Ernest Shackleton hangs precariously off the front of a whaling boat. The dark frigid water is just inches from his face.

He needs to get the ice off the boat. It's everywhere. It covers the ores and the sails in a clear hard coating.

It's like the ice is trying to swallow them whole.

Wild, hand me the axe. Men prepare the sails.

After 452 days of trapped in ice, land is finally in sight.

The night before might have been the worst of their lives, but with any luck their feet should be on terra firma by nightfall.

If they can get this ice off.

Shackleton tastes a quick head check of all three boats.

After five days on rough seas and freezing cold wind, most of the men's faces have patches of white.

Frostbite. Their skin is covered in boils from the salt water.

Boats, take your positions.

They're heading for the west edge of elephant island. Shackleton hopes the south wind will get them close, but progress is slow.

In seven hours, they cover only 20 miles. Then for the last half hour, they simply tread in place.

Shackleton calls to the other two boats. Maybe if they lash together, they can make more headway, but the new formation does nothing.

Then the sun dips lower on the horizon and the wind picks up.

It hows across the boats at 50 miles per hour. Shackleton struggles to be heard above the din.

Bro, bro!

Water sprays over the sides as the men pull forward, muscles straining.

But the boats won't budge. It's as if the wind and waves have conspired to hold them in place. Frank Worsley motions to Shackleton from the docker.

Boss, I think we need to separate the boats. It's our only chance. We'll be more nimble in these winds. Shackleton hesitates.

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