30 November, 1910

The seas are a bit rough, as one would expect. My mother would call them "bracing." In truth we are being tossed about quite a bit and because the ship is so heavily laden--it's a miracle she floats at all, really--she's like a stone borne aloft upon these waves. The animals are miserable and the humans charged with their care, Oates and Anton, not much better.

We can only hope for better weather tomorrow.

We are burning through an excess of coal however; 8 tons in the past 24 hours, I'm told.