Colder and colder. A fair heavy sea is now running with a piercing southerly wind and things are pretty bleak and miserable. Most of the men wear overcoats all day. I only put mine on occasionally, but wear more garments under my dungarees. Some of the waves are very high, and it is fine to watch the ship squash them into a peculiar aerated mass of cold, light prussian-green colour – the colour I saw in the ice-caves on the top of Ruapehu – the colour of cold itself. The canteen is rapidly running out of various commodities so I am laying in a reserve stock of tobacco to avoid the catastrophe of finding myself some fine morning without a smoke.
Walk March 