Fifth. As we approach our spot, a shoal water, with grass, preventing us from going straight to the most likely place, and no other way was tried. It is 11 a. m. and already I hear an intimation that we shall not have time for anything except to make a lunch. This is the same officer, a very good man at his post but rigid and without much interest in anything else than his own field, who after 10 miles' trip to Kotzebue gave us 25 minutes there, when it required 15 minutes alone to reach the school from the boat. So we end by landing on the extremity of a spit there to make lunch, and I have only the time it takes to prepare the latter. I find, in hurry, remains of five old semisubterranean dwellings on the northern side of the point, and about as many low mounds with remnants about of rotten driftwood--undoubtedly old burials. Probably the skeletons have been assimilated by the tundra vegetation and blown material. A single native skull, a female, without face, is lying about. Collected. While lunch is being made ready the officer and the boatswain, Mr. Berg, each shoot a duck. Then the lunch, a hurried loading, and departure, after some delay in setting the sail, at 1.30 p. m. I saw nothing that looked like a battle field. Its determination and survey must be left for some future explorer. Sail rapidly. Wind fresh, with us, also waves. Cross Salt Lake, and Tussoc "River." About 4.30 reach Grantly Harbor and wind increases; also waves. We run fast, and well enough, but the umiak (skin boat) we are pulling begins to suffer. It rides crazily and is jerked over the seething waves. The crossbar by which it is partly held breaks, and now the boat goes more sidewise, with water lapping over its border and getting in. Wind now quite a gale, breaking waves everywhere--every now and then a big one--whitecaps all over. A dim view of Teller in distance, when the skin boat begins to fill more rapidly and sag. Must stop engine--waves toss us like mad--one could be thrown bodily out of the boat if not careful in bending or moving and holding. The sail comes down and the mast is laid down, a bad piece of work. Berg and Pete Brant (an elderly trapper with us but formerly of Coast Guard Service at Nome, a good sailor and knowing these waters) work very hard and well. The skin boat has to be pulled alongside and bailed out by young Weenie, a very hard and dangerous task. Mr. Berg's rain hat ("souwester") blows off and is lost in the seething waves. Later Weenie nearly loses his--snatches it out between the boats with a narrow escape for his head. Then Weenie climbs into the skin boat--a brave act--and finishes the bailing, but is much "in" after getting back. Then our big staunch motor launch starts again at reduced speed. But the skin boat does great antics and threatens to fill again or break; so Pete Brant holds the rope and is jerked every now and then, until I fear that he may any moment be jerked out into the waves and watch to catch his legs.