January 15 found us passing through loose pack—­sometimes the ship was in large open leads—­we stopped on one of these and sounded.  To our surprise we found 368 fathoms, volcanic rock—­in 72 degrees 0 minutes S., 168 degrees 17 minutes W. we found the depth 2322 fathoms, so we had struck the continental shelf right enough in Latitude 73 degrees.  By 8 p.m. we were in even shallower water—­in fact we discovered a shoal in only 158 fathoms—­it was a great discovery for us, and Lillie immediately put over the Agassiz trawl.  After dragging it along the bottom for half an hour we hauled in and found the net full of stuff.  Big-mouthed fish, worms, spiders, anemones, sea-cucumbers, polyzoa, prawns, little fish like sardines, one spiky fish like nothing on earth, starfish and octopus, limpets with jointed shells, sponges, ascidians; isopods, and all kinds of sea lice.  Enough to keep Lillie busy for weeks.

The evening before we finally broke through into open water was beautifully still, and a low cloud settled down in the form of a thick fog—­it was a change from the fine, clear weather—­frost rime settled everywhere, and for a time we had to stop.  There was a weird stillness over all, and whenever the ship was moved amongst the ice-floes a curious hiss was heard; this sound is well known to all ice navigators:  it is the sear of the floe against the greenheart sheathing which protects the little ship, and it is to the ice-master what the strange smell of the China Seas is to the far Eastern navigator, what the Mediterranean “cheesy odours” and the Eucalyptus scents of Australia are to the P. and O. officers, and what the pungent peat smoke of Ireland is to the North Atlantic seaman.  I suppose the memory of the pack ice hissing around a wooden ship is one of the little voices that call—­and they sometimes call as the memory of “a tall ship and a star to steer her by” calls John Masefield’s seamen “down to the sea again.”  I sometimes feel a mute fool at race meetings, society dinner parties, and dances, the lure of the little voices I know then at its strongest.  It is felt by the Polar explorer in peace times and in the hey-day of prosperity, and it is surely that which called Scott away, when he had everything that man wants, and made him write as he lay nobly dying out there in the snowy wild: 

“How much better has it been than lounging in too great comfort at home.”

But this is yielding dream to my narrative, and I must apologise and continue with the closing chapter.

After this fog, which held us up awhile, we got into one more lot of pack varying in thickness and containing some fine long water lanes, and then we made for Cape Bird, which we rounded on January 18, to find open water right up to Cape Evans.

A tremendous feast was prepared, the table in the wardroom decked with little flags and silk ribbons.  Letters were done up in neat packets for each member, and even champagne was got up from the store:  chocolates, cigarettes, cigars, and all manner of luxury placed in readiness.