It blows and lightens,
and our good ship rolls, and buoys are hard to find; but we must
soon now finish our work, and then this letter will start for home.
. . . Yesterday we were mournfully groping our way through the wet
grey fog, not at all sure where we were, with one consort lost and
the other faintly answering the roar of our great whistle through
the mist. As to the ship which was to meet us, and pioneer us up
the deep channel, we did not know if we should come within twenty
miles of her; when suddenly up went the fog, out came the sun, and
there, straight ahead, was the WM. CORY, our pioneer, and a little
dancing boat, the GULNARE, sending signals of welcome with many-
coloured flags. Since then we have been steaming in a grand
procession; but now at 2 A.M. the fog has fallen, and the great
roaring whistle calls up the distant answering notes all around us.
Shall we, or shall we not find the buoy?
'JULY 13. - All yesterday we lay in the damp dripping fog, with
whistles all round and guns firing so that we might not bump up
against one another.
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