Status Updates From What the Ice Gets: Shacklet...

"and there begin to heft time from present
into past. A shivering measure of sleep:
Done. The bitter parcel of rising: Done.
Wind screams oaths and snow and rends the bay.
In this fury they are to do their part
toward their rescue: survive till comes the day."

Worsley's poem in Chapter VI is EVERYTHING

I feel this one in my bones

"I notice I can't distinguish lulls
in the storm from the internal
lull of falling asleep..."

"This is a refuge, but not rescue. No ships come here, no ships will ever
come here."