[The actual date: Sunday, March 24, 1929]
Sunday Friday, March 24 22, 1929
Darned if I know where Sunday went. I believe I still possess a few senses, but somehow a day has disappeared.
Monday Saturday March 25 23, 1929
Most of the day was devoted to writing. There are 500 marines and sailors on board bound for Shanghai where they will stationed two years. All day long they came up to our open-air suite and sat looking on with sadness written in every feature. Such itching for the victrola I have never seen. But the needles, which Frank discovered later in the pocket of his coat, to all outward appearances remain lost. Sad expressions will have to continue till we get to Masawa in two or three days, then our excuse will no longer be good. The sun during the daytime is scorching hot. Tonight it is so mild I am sleeping on a crate in our boudoir, rather our desk. An almost full moon lights up the sea so that it is easy to read. In fact, Mort did do some reading by its light. Rippley waters and the path to the moon—molten silver. White billowy snow-clouds were tossed before the prow. It is hard to imagine a more perfect night. Land had faded from sight during the afternoon, leaving only intensely blue water on all sides.