Sunday. July 2nd. 700 m. from Boston
A fiendish night, rolling from one side to another in our bunks and listening to the ship’s belongings banging about. I threw out my hot water bottle on to the floor about the middle of the night and there it careened with the tooth brush, mug and my bag. The door could not be kept shut. Miss Smith was dancing [?] [?] is every five minutes. There was a regular hurricane in Mr Wallach’s room and when a big lurch sent everything over I looked out and saw 3 [?] wine glasses hanging by the skin of their teeth to the frame over the dining table, some one picking up the debris from our bunks and state room floors. Grace called through the partition that she had not a wink of sleep. Mr Wallach went on deck at 2 a.m.
This morning very cold & fa[?] wind – a horrid smell.
[No journal entry for July 3rd]