Aboard Ethan Allan

Sunday, November 17, 1929

Read the book given me by the “ungodly three” before my departure, Thoughts Without Words by Clarence Day. A darned good book. Hasn’t so many words, but what there are really say something. True to the title, the sketches accompanying the verses or words convey the thoughts—words are not necessary—merely suggestive. You linger over each sketch, afraid you have missed part of the thought, and having read on several pages, turn back again to the sketch in question with an entirely new interpretation. Now my reading has degenerated to a mystery, The Jade God by Alan Sullivan. It is not a bad story, however, and is good entertainment today—there being no work.
I did the wheel an hour this morning to relieve Scotty, who was working with a couple others painting the mast forward.
The sea is a bit choppy today and the skies dull. Have felt unaccountably sleepy all day. Even ten hours seems hardly enough. No sense sleeping in the daytime and then one must not miss a nice meal flavored with copra bugs and ants. Not everybody is so fortunate. Slim produced another box of marshmallows last night and again we toasted marshmallows over the Second’s toaster. Personally, I’m fed [up?] on food in general—no use eating much when your fo’cas’le casa is traveling up and down like an elevator.

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