I have not much to write today, nor do I have much time. A gale has been blowing all day; even now, I have to stay in the hold, for otherwise my pages will become soaked through and rip.
We are but one hundred miles from Shanghai, and the sky is dark with rain and clouds. The salt from the boisterous ocean has permeated the air, since it is in our clothes and soaked into our hair. We all could go below, but the space is so crowded and stifling, and you cannot see when a wave is about to send the boat spinning upon the waves, and I detest being down here and should return immediately if not for the sake of my journal.
Aouda is, I am sure, scared in the storm, but she is brave, and continues to stay on deck. Mr Fogg's mouth is set in a thin, firm line, awaiting the smallest inclination of calm waters. Mr Fix continues to abuse the weather, and the crew are running about in an effort to keep the boat afloat.
I feel guilty for remaining down here when I am sure my help could be used above, but, however, have I any experience on a boat? I am afraid not, and maybe I am better down here, out of the way.
I cannot stay. A sudden wave has sent my ink all over the floor, and a few drops from the ceiling are dampening my pages. I shall write more when I have time.
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