On June 17 we got into wireless touch with Cape Town—by telephone, so please you—and heard all the news that had happened during our prolonged absence from the busy world that makes the news. It was like coming back into life after a Rip van Winkle existence. We heard of the ascent of Mount Everest, the sinking of the _Egypt_—the big ship lost, while our puny cockleshell survived more hazardous days than had ever befallen the liner!—and all the sporting news worth while. At noon we faintly discerned flat-topped Table Mountain ahead. The sea was smooth; we were sailing under ideal conditions; a strong elation was ours. We planned our adventures amongst men of our own kind; wondered whether the Cape Town girls were pretty; hoped they’d secure a good grip on our tow-rope and that they’d pull their hardest; and generally indulged in fantastic daydreams, as is the way of sailormen the world over, though steam has done its best to kill romance. We celebrated this day of days by an uproarious concert in the ward-room, and all of us, I think, went rather mad.
Going on deck at midnight was a sheer delight; a wonderful sight presented itself. The night was perfect—still, serene; and a big silver moon shining gloriously on the vast expanse of Table Bay vied with the glowing lights in the distance. The ship was just creeping along in order to make her anchorage at daylight. Round our quietly moving bows, in the luminous wake as well, hundreds and hundreds of phosphorescent fish were playing recklessly, shooting like shafts of vivid light through the water, and the soft-sounding “wash-wash” of their breaking surface, a sound which blended so perfectly with the low seething rustle of the broken water of our progress as to seem like fairy music.
A great reception awaited us in the morning. Dense crowds packed the quays, and many boatloads of enthusiastic people followed in our wake as we trudged up the harbour. As we steamed to moorings off Robben Island I thought gratefully of the wonderful experience I had had; and although I was very sorry it was almost over, yet within my heart I was glad indeed to be here, for I know of no more splendid emotion than the home-coming after a great adventure. We had tried and we had achieved; but sorrow underlay the joy, too, for this reception was Sir Ernest Shackleton’s triumph, and he was not there to share it.