20 September, 1910

Hoping to land at an atoll shortly, St Paul Island, to do some scientific work. Bit of a remote spot. It's a tiny place - 1 mile by 2 miles wide, with a circular harbor formed by the extinct volcano's crater in the middle. Perhaps there will be penguins. 

Sometimes it's warm enough to sit on the deck and read. People always go on and on about Shackleton's love of poetry and about how he could recite it for hours on end and about how he wrote his own poetry and blah blah bah. As if that made him a better man. Well, I like poetry too, but no-one says that about me. Made sure to bring plenty of books. The ratings like that potboiler stuff. But I made sure to stock the wardroom shelves with literature for the men. 

So it is with bemusement that when I look around me I see most of them reading well-thumbed copies of smut from below decks. I, myself, shall set an example by cracking the spine of Plutarch's Lives of Illustrious Men when I go out today. See if any of them play follow-my-leader.