It is hard not to believe that the “roaring forties” have a personality: a polytheist who goes thither in ships ought to sacrifice to the spirit of that unquiet belt. As soon as we had passed the magic limit of degrees the weather changed and became beautifully balmy, and the rest of our passage was excellent. When we again came in sight of land it was in strong contrast to that which we had left, being brown, dried up, and somewhat low: all visions of snow-clad Andes had disappeared; neither here nor at Talcahuano was anything to be seen that could justify the name of a coast range. Talcahuano, the Chilean naval port, stands on a magnificently sheltered bay and was an ideal spot for our purpose of refitting. It is much to be preferred, from the shipping point of view, to the bay of Valparaiso, some 260 miles further up the coast, which lies exposed to the northerly winds and is crowded with shipping. Through the kindness of Mr. Edwards, the Chilean minister in London, a naval order had been promulgated some time before our arrival giving instructions that the Expedition was to be afforded all facilities. We accordingly met with every courtesy, and the yacht was almost at once placed in the floating dock to allow of the examination of her bottom, an essential proceeding, as it had not been overlooked, except by a diver at Punta Arenas, since we left England, now nearly twelve months ago. A floating dock consists of a huge tray, with an enormous tank on either side; when these tanks are filled with water the dock sinks, and the vessel floats on to the tray, being supported against its sides, the tanks are then emptied, and the tray rises, bearing the vessel clear out of the water; when the work is completed the process is reversed and the ship floats out once more.