At first streak of dawn in the east we are called. There are whales about. The boilers are fired under; we turn out, and see at a great distance some ‘puffs;’ but the captain remarks that they are only a few making for the fjord. They are soon out of sight; it is no use attempting to follow them. We again lie down to rest, but in vain—sleep has fled. We dress, and breakfast is served. The steward appears with a steaming pot of coffee and fresh bread—a true luxury. On this occasion, there being a guest on board, we are also treated to real cream; but otherwise a substitute of preserved milk and sugar, of home manufacture, is served. The demands of the body being satisfied, the mind also craves sustenance, and a pipe soon makes it contented. The captain offers, indeed, a cigar; but a pipe is far preferable, and looks more ‘ship-shape’ too. Towards noon we are off Rybatschi-Polostrow (the fisherman’s peninsula). The peninsula is very low and sandy; inland, we see a ridge of mountains; around us, thousands of seabirds whirl with plaintive cries; but no whale is seen. They are, however, generally plentiful here; at times, there are even enormous shoals of them, particularly when the fishing draws eastwards, as the bait is then found here, which is what the whale likes. But now, during the summer months, they are more scattered. It is already past the mid-day meal, and still we have seen nothing. We go below a little disappointed, whilst the steamer’s course is shaped for Vardö. Since last night there has been blowing a stiff breeze, and the sea is in foam in some places. The waves increase in size, and the steamer begins to roll. The smoke and the rest below are of short duration, so we go again on deck to look for ‘puffs.’ Now and then, the ship heels over; a hogshead or two of water comes swishing over the port bow, but does no harm, as we are dressed in sailor’s boots, a thick coat, and sou’-wester. I stare till I am tired at the green sea and the foam-crested waves, as they come rolling towards the vessel. My face becomes coated with a layer of salt, which settles there, when the foam of the waves is swept on board, as the ship plunges into the trough of the sea. If not accustomed to the arctic sea-air, one soon gets frightfully tired, and is obliged to rest, so, after being on the watch for a while, I went below and lay down. Soon sleep irresistibly overpowers me, thoughts become dreams, while the rolling of the ship feels like the gentle swing in a hammock; in fact, I am fast asleep, when a voice thunders down the companion: ‘Turn out—whales in sight!’ I jump up with a start, unable at first to remember where I am; but soon the consciousness of being on a whale-hunt becomes clear, and I rush on deck, fearing to lose any part of the grand spectacle.