Frank Worsley was at sea when the Times of London ran the Shackleton ad in the last days of 1913. A New Zealander who had taken to the water at sixteen, twenty-six years had come and gone, and he looked none the worse for it. Deep-chested, he was stout of body, yet wore the face of eternal youth. A fanciful man, easy-going and openly emotional, he had a mischievous side, and was often falling prey to his whims. To him, his dreams were alive.

He was ashore in London when he woke with a start from a sleep filled with visions. Sitting upon his hotel bed, he closed his eyes and dwelt upon the dream until it finally returned. He pictured fashionable Burlington Street awash in blocks of ice. They swayed and rolled as wave after wave sent them tumbling through the West End, while he steered his ship, block to block, section to section. That is first-rate he thought to himself.

After a mornings repast of tea and scones, Frank Worsley hastened his way to Burlington Street. He was passing shops and looking at nameplates when he noticed the one on the door he‚d stopped before. It read: Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition. Entering, he met a stocky man with a strong face and steady eyes that seemed to take in everything.

Frank Worsley was about to tackle the journey of a lifetime. One no dream could prepare him for.