Another beautiful day; fortune seems to attend us this New Year, but so anxious have I been, when things are going well, I wonder what internal difficulty will be sprung upon me. All day long a light wind and clear sky was our happy portion. I find a difficulty in settling down to write—I am so much on the _qui vive_; I pray that the furnace will hold out. Thankful that I can Be crossed and thwarted as a man. _January 4th, 1922._ At last, after sixteen days of turmoil and anxiety, on a peaceful sunshiny day, we came to anchor in Gritviken. How familiar the coast seemed as we passed down: we saw with full interest the places we struggled over after the boat journey. Now we must speed all we can, but the prospect is not too bright, for labour is scarce. The old familiar smell of dead whale permeates everything. It is a strange and curious place. Douglas and Wilkins are at different ends of the island. A wonderful evening. In the darkening twilight I saw a lone star hover Gem-like above the bay. These were the last words written by Sir Ernest Shackleton. I continue my own narrative. Early in the morning of Wednesday, January 4th, we sighted Wallis Island, and soon after the main island of South Georgia opened into view, with its snow-clad rocky slopes and big glaciers running to the sea. With fair wind and in smooth water we passed along the coast. Sir Ernest at sight of the island had completely thrown off his despondency, became once more his active self, and stood with Worsley and myself on the bridge, picking out through binoculars, with almost boyish excitement, the old familiar features, and recognizing places with such words as, “Look, there’s the glacier we descended!” or, “There, do you see, coming into view, the slope where we lit the Primus and cooked our meal?” He kept his spirits throughout the day, and it was with the greatest pleasure that I recognized once more the old buoyant, optimistic Boss. The day cleared beautifully, and we entered Cumberland Bay in bright sunshine, with not a ripple on the surface of the water. How familiar it all seemed as we rounded the point and entered Gritviken Harbour, with the little station nestling at the foot of the three big peaks, the spars of the _Tijuca_, the small whalers along the pier; all exactly as we had left them seven years before. The Boss, looking across at the slopes above our “dog-lines,” remarked, “The Cross has gone from the hillside!”[5] The poles which had been set up by us to mark the north and south direction were still standing; we were informed that they were used regularly by the whalers in adjusting their compasses. We passed the spit with the little Argentine meteorological station, behind which lay the house of the Government officials, and dropped anchor in the _Endurance’s_ old anchorage.