Dec. 27, 1941 (Saturday)

S.S. President Polk

Nine days out and still headed due south. We are approaching the vicinity of Pitcairn’s Island, of Bounty fame.

In going through my luggage, I reread my last letter from Betty Hines. Wish to hell I could’ve seen her before I left — perhaps, though, it is better that I didn’t.

Often wonder how mom and dad took my precipitous departure – most probably with their usual childish misunderstanding and selfish viewpoint – but then, are they really different from the average parents? Probably not. I wish people could be more reserved in their affections and display better philosophy of life — and death. We all taught that the next life is the better and yet such a gnashing of teeth and moaning at death. I truly believe that when one’s time arrives, he will go, whether in bed, or in a crashing plane – and that some part of us (our memory?) survives. So why the wailing? Perhaps we have even been saved from some great unhappiness.