The stern of a ship looms out of the darkness. The outlines of the wooden rails are soft with algae, and one pale, ghostly anemone clings to the planks. As the camera moves closer, the shape of a star rises up from the gloom, and a word on the ship beneath the anemone’s white fronds becomes legible: Endurance.
Ernest Shackleton’s ship was finally found by an expedition team from the Falklands Maritime Heritage Trust on 5 March, having lain on the bed of an Antarctic sea in near-perfect condition for 107 years. I followed it all from my desk, light-headed with delight as I watched a video released by the expedition. And as I sat there I wondered, as I often have during the past year: why do I care so much about this?
