Friday, 30 January 1948. Yesterday afternoon went out to Redwood City to see Bill Spurr at Stanford. Saw Marine Phoenix at pier while passing in bus. One funnel, well aft, and looks [illegible] like Great Lakes grain boat. Bill took me around Stanford, showing me his office and general lay-out of University. Then went up tower of Hoover Library but collection of first war placards is not yet on view. Met his new wife, Hallie, and three month old daughter, Patricia, and got back to hotel at 10.30 PM last night. This morning started packing and Col. Slack called for me at 11.45; took me to lunch at St. Francis Yacht Club, introducing me to another retired Colonel, McCullough, associated with Jim in real estate business. Beautiful club and had excellent lunch, then returned to Shitcomb about 2.30, finished packing and checked out. Boarded Phoenix about 3.45 with no trouble of any sort. Ship was built in August, 1945, evidently on war contract; markings such as "gun room mess" still showing. Alongside us was another Matson ship, Matsonia, bound for Honolulu, much larger than ours and well found from outward appearance. She is in the luxury class whereas we are utilitarian only, if that. Found young man is his berth sick but no doctor called to see him until well after we had sailed; then he was given a sleeping draught and forgotten for the rest of the night. Ate a hearty meal, however. There are six men including Van and myself in our cabin, all apparently bound for Sydney. Our sailing was delayed for about half an hour because the Matsonia had to be taken out first. Van and I were invited to sit at the Captain's table, second sitting, and feel duly pleased. On our going on board were given letters from the Matson Line apologizing for the condition of the ship and stating that they had limited the number of passengers to 552. Obviously- it would be impossible to get any more on anyway. Passengers are about as mixed a group as I have ever met. Some nuns and pastors, many children and young parents and shall learn more about them later. The captain, Johansen, a Boston Swede, according to Len, did not appear for dinner but there are only about a dozen places at his table and no children; the other tables are for about forty persons and are jammed. We are fortunate. Dinner was good, plain food, well cooked but the saloon is much like an army mess, with the kitchens in the centre and the tables all around. Evidently con- structed originally for queueing purposes. Our table steward good and service quick and courteous. By his accent perhaps Dutch or Danish. Reflection of San Francisco lights still to be seen in the sky behind us when we turned in at 10 PM after setting watches back an hour. Saturday, 31 January 1948. The Phoenix is a roller if ever there was one. Our bunks run thwartships and one slid during the night from end to end of the berth. Passengers pretty well decimated this morning and obvious sights of distress on decks and companion ways. Our ailing cabin mate woke from his sleeping draught enough to eat orange juice, parsley omelette, toast and coffee, so I judge it is not Virus X and shall not spend much more time on him. Capt. Johansen still has not appeared but imagine we shall see him for dinner tonight if not at lunch. Twelve men have to share our meagre washing and lavatory facilities so the line started to form about 6.30 AM. There were six persons at our table for breakfast, all on the elderly side and evidently sea- soned travellers, but of our cabin, only Van, myself and the man above Van have stayed up; the others have suddenly died again. It is now 10.15 AM and Van is busy watching some Albatross which are following us. He confided to me that the one thing he would like to do just now would be to fish for one of the albatross and spend the day dissecting it. Odd people, these scientists. Got a letter from Rita on board yesterday enclosing a clipping from the World-Telegram describing me as a snake-and-bug man, so I had better start developing the scientific outlook,