As we venture closer to the southern mouth of the Red Sea, the land from the Gulf of Aden encroaches us from our sides. The wind is still strong enough to blow the sand off the desert floor into the air and the ship is being covered by fine red grit. We should enter the Red Sea sometime in the early afternoon.

I am of course becoming to like clothing, the abundance of, less and less. I cannot keep track of the day of the week even when I know of them, for time does not exist, it is another fabrication of man.