_December 12th._ Had to turn Henry out at 3 a.m. in drizzling cold

rain for tide was out, we were over on our bilge, and now was chance

to bail out launch if ever. His report was soon made that you could as

easily bail out the ocean for her stern was split wide open, likewise

her bottom and several planks. Now what do you make of that? Just after

fixing her all up tight two days before at Beaufort. Nothing more to

be done about it, however, so turned in again clinging to my transom

like a bat to a rafter. Went to sleep in a minute, but H. was a bit

nervous at the roar of the breakers close aboard and couldn’t do much

in way of sleep. About 5 o’clock the black night ripped wide open in

northwest and down came a sizzling norther. Gee whiz! how it blew for

a few hours. With flooding tide our anchors held all right. Day came,

and in the early light we could see the bow of the launch come out of

water like a white shark, turn and plunge again to the bottom. Kind of

consoling sight with half a gale blowing off shore and no chance to

work further into inlet, for with ballast gone I hardly dared to put

cloth on her. Had good breakfast and Scotty was mighty companionable

and seemed perfectly content with the way everything was going. About

8 o’clock a man turned up in a skiff and came on board. I surely was

glad to see that skiff and that man, too. He remarked that it was some

blustering day and I admitted to a little ozone in the air. He said he

thought our launch was sunk. He was a very truthful man. I gave him

eggs on toast and coffee at once. While he was eating, tide turned ebb

and along came our ground tackle and we for the bar once more. “My

man,” says I, “cut out the egg and coffee habit, jump right into your

skiff, underrun that anchor and carry it up stream.” He was a sailor

all right and with no back talk, he was away on the job. First one

anchor and then the other. I kept him at it and soon had her kedged

all snug and comfy out of harm’s way. Then we hauled the bric-a-brac

of a launch to the beach. “Good,” says I, “now you can walk the beach

home for I need your skiff in my business.” He was all right that man

and he lived in the “piney woods.” We talked politics and he allowed

that rather than be a politician, he would live in the “sticks” with

the coons and wildcats where a man could get “hisself” a little sleep

and quiet. Bye and bye we put him ashore and he started away for his

shanty somewhere, a lonely looking figure trudging through the sand,

head down against the gale. So I read the signs right after all, and

I felt justified in taking the chance I did, for this blowing to sea

in a December norther is no joke. Where all my trouble came was not

understanding the difference between a skiff such as I am used to and a

launch which sinks and holds onto bottom like a rock. You watch me next

time. When tide dropped I sent down my throat halliard tackle and after

rigging up some sand anchors with oars, poles, &c, we greased some

slide boards, and to Henry’s surprise and joy hauled the launch up high

and dry. It was all nuts to me. Everything smashed up, but time, tackle

and tools, to fix it all up again. I turned in early for some good few

hours’ sleep but had to roust out at slack water to place anchors one

up and the other downstream, for tide ran some 3 knots or better and

only a narrow gut to swing in. Guess charts are of little use in these

places, for my piney wood’s man said it had been ten years since there

was any water in this inlet and my chart gave me 4 ft. on the bar at

low tide.

[Illustration: Bilged]

_December 13-20._ During these days we were marooned at New Inlet, as

desolate a spot on our Atlantic coast as a man could pick out for the

purpose. The fear of a northeast gale with heavy sea was constantly

on our minds for that might easily spell imprisonment for days if not

weeks. We lay in a narrow little gutter where the tide ran viciously,

making constant shifting of anchors both night and day a necessity. I

must utterly fail to give any idea of the great loneliness of the beach

stretching 1000 miles on either side and trembling to the constant

crash of roaring surf. When I stood and watched H. walk away, in a few

yards he became but a speck on the face of that limitless sand. When we

walked together it somehow felt better to hold hands and talk little.

It was Swiss Family Robinson with us from daylight until dark, and as

the weather was kind, we jumped right at work to be done and enjoyed

our big workshop and the ever changing color of the scene.

With the dropping of the gale, we sent down throat halliard tackle and

with aid of sand anchors made from oars, poles, &c., &c., we hauled the

launch above high water mark. Boards ripped from a deserted fisherman’s

shanty made material for new bottom, and gratings, seats and driftwood,

we knocked together for a work bench. It took us three days to repair

the launch and when we finished, the whole stern was made up of canvas

patches, putty and copper tacks. The engine was full of salt water and

sand, so we had to take it all to pieces and rebuild it. The spark coil

was soaking and that we took apart, boiled in fresh water and repacked

in a preserve jar with red flannel. What will we do now for flannel

if we get sore gozzles? We worked slowly and carefully for it was no

fool’s business, and when we had all in shipshape order once more, you

should have seen the merry twinkle in the mate’s eye when the little

engine started off at the first turn. We put the Mascot on the beach

and patched the hole two foot long in her side with a bit of canvas

well painted and laid over some sail battens. This patch was my pride

and has never been removed. Scotty was the best company as long as

we left her on the Mascot, but when we took her ashore for a bit of

exercise she promptly had a most spectacular fit and I got her aboard

again by the tail. Wonder if I will have to live forever and ever on

the Mascot with Scotty. Might do worse.

In many ways the beach is strange. The surface only seems to be firm,

and that not very firm either. A few inches underneath is quicksand,

and if you stand still you begin to sink pronto. Anchors hold when

they first get a grip, but later when they sink away, they come home

as if bedded in pudding. The beach is bare of stones and wreckage for

it all drops out of sight. My kedge anchor warp and all my ballast was

gone the next morning after we went on the bar. Believe my brother in

Singapore would have more chance of finding them than we have. H. and I

got up a scheme with compass fixed on a board and started one morning

to find the ballast by aid of compass variation. Theoretically the

device should have produced the ballast, but it didn’t, and we had to

take on some half ton of sand in gunny sacks.

[Illustration]

On the night of December 20th we took launch and sounded nearly four

feet of water on the bar at top of the tide, and as the roll was fairly

easy, we jumped the canvas to her and went to sea nicking our heel

only once as we plunged through the tumbling surf. Looking back on our

little prison we saw an old, black razor-back quietly rooting in the

sand near the remains of our little work bench. He was the first, last

and only visitor to our land of exile. That night I anchored just north

of Cape Fear, a wind-swept barren, forbidding bit of desolate sand

and stunted trees. The night was calm and fair or I should have had

my worries, for in the darkness I didn’t dare to run the slew between

Cape Fear and Frying Pan Shoals and the shoals stretched twelve miles

to sea and we turned in with the roar of the breakers in our ears. The

next morning we worked through the slew which is an easy passage under

favorable conditions, and putting putt-putt astern made quiet anchorage

off the wharves of Southport.

_December 23rd._ Comes with nasty cold rain and blow northeast. Almost

impossible to get H. out of his bunk and fear he has no enthusiasm

for the sport. The morning at darning socks. This little town has

two banks, but no darning needles. The p.m. worse than a.m. and a

government tug made us turn out in rain to shift berth. Tied up along

side of a launch and cow horn on bowsprit ripped a whopping big hole in

launch covering. Put our launch on beach this morning for little more

overhauling and found her sunk by the seas which have been increasing

during the day. O dear! O dear! Wonder if she will break up right

size for our stove during tonight. Good big mail from home forwarded

from Charleston. Everything all right there, and so who cares for the

weather? Folks mighty good about writing and can have no idea how much

it is appreciated.

_December 24th._ Comes with wind shifting by south and west to

northwest where it blew itself clear with a regular squealer. In the

morning we visited the old launch on the beach and as expected found

her full of water, batteries run out and coil once more soaking in

salt water. Hitched on two tackles luff on luff and began laboriously

hauling her up beach. Along came 4 or 5 natives who, imbued with Xmas

spirit, grabbed hold and carried her up for us. Then aboard for a good

day’s rest and loaf. It is sure strenuous work this driving boats, but

to my mind there is no such complete rest as is found in a well warmed,

snug little cabin. Rolled in my bunk, with Scotty asleep in my lap, my

book and my knitting within reach, I eased up to the limit. Discovered

old Mascot complaining a little around rudder port. Nothing serious,

but always a mean place to get at especially if have to unhang rudder.

Evening came, and we went ashore for our usual plate of fried oysters.

The boys are out with tin pans and horns making the noise of a southern

Christmas. H. and I both a bit homesick and lonesey. It is my first

Xmas away from home in twenty-four years. I am sure a devil of a way

off. We have each bought things for the other’s stocking and will live

up to traditions if we sink her. Beautiful night and just our chance to

be away with light northerly. In two days when we are ready wind will

probably haul to southard again. Don’t it beat all?

_December 25th. Christmas._ Turned out to be a bright, frosty morning

with a skim of ice in pans on deck. Great excitement, for there hung

our two stockings filled with presents which we had hung up last

night. Looked kind of Christmasy anyway. Breakfast over, we opened our

bundles, dolled up cabin with two little red paper bells and would have

decked Scotty out with a red ribbon, but just then she heard something

like a train of cars somewhere and flew to snug quarters in lazaret.

Took things easy, but put in an hour or two on launch. At 3 p.m. began

preparations for grand feast. Menu to be, raw oyster cocktail, roast

pork, applesauce, spuds and a mince pie. Everything going like mice

when, just as pie went into oven, round came the wind and away went my

fire draught. After hours of coaxing we finally sat down to some pork

scraps stewed in fry pan and boiled spuds at 8 p.m. Pie did finally dry

up enough to be called cooked and was not so bad. Scotty appeared this

p.m. and with her pretty new ribbon around her neck, enjoyed a little

oyster stew made of three oysters. So ends Christmas 1912 which I had

expected to spend in Jacksonville.

[Illustration]

_December 26th._ Threatened to feed H. on tar and oakum if he wasn’t

smarter about turning out. To the beach where we worked on launch.

It is all very snug and comfy on this little beach. At the base of a

big skeleton wooden tower is the Club-room of the fifteen Southport

pilots who daily do congregate for lengthy gams and pleasant smokes.

Now and then one more energetic than the rest climbs slowly the stairs

of the old tower and sweeps the sea with spy glass in search of ships

that seem to never come. They come and whittle sticks and talk to H.

and me, and we are tied to their private wharf where the sign reads

“Landing forbidden,” and they will know the reason why if we can’t stay

all winter if we want to. The boat-builder is nearby, the storekeeper

across the way and the sun shines warmly on us all and saps the energy

out of H. and me, and we are glad to sit and listen to the yarns spun

in this softly spoken southern tongue.

The signs of Christmas are about gone. The two skiffs dragged up in

front of the little bank building are again on the beach, and the

wheelbarrow and ash barrel, which for past twenty-four hours have

decorated the weather signal pole, have been taken down, and in their

place are again flying the dreaded northeast storm warnings. Down

came the rain just after lunch so it was scuttle on board and spend a

delightfully quiet afternoon with my book. Quahaug pancakes for supper.

Not so much because we wanted them, and indeed it was wet work opening

them in the rain, but Scotty dotes on quahaugs. To-day we once more

repacked and fitted up our much abused electric coil and away went

little motor at first whirl of wheel.

_December 27th._ Comes with banging against wharf and slatting of

rigging. Northeaster down on us again in all its glory. Down, down

slipped the barometer and presto, round flew the wind into southwest

and the fun began. We were pretty well up under the weather shore, but

there was rake enough with the tide to kick up a lively jump which

pounded against our stern and slatted us about promiscuously. The wind

screamed, and we could do nothing but lash our helm amidship and get

out extra dock lines. With spinnaker pole for fender we were taking

no damage. About 2 p.m. the wind hauled a point and rain stopped.

With the clearing, things began moving on the dock. From the pilot’s

tower signals were seen flying from the Cape Fear Lighthouse which

read, “vessel ashore on Frying Pan.” Off went four pilots in their big

motorboat. Scree-eech went the whistle of a tug at end of wharf and

down from the village tumbled the crew, and it was cast off and away

with black smoke rolling from her stack. I could have gone with H. on

the tug but why take a chance when there was nothing we could do, and

as the captain said nothing he could do either in the sea that must

be running. Out from the cove to the south of us shot the big power

lifeboat of the Southport station, and we watched her head towards the

breakers which we could see jumping in air on the harbor bar. By six

o’clock the tug and pilots were back. They reported a big four-master

bound east was almost out of water some six miles from shore but that

the lifesavers were standing by on north side of shoal. Another fierce

gale is springing up from west and northwest as I write, and the sea

outside must be truly awful. I hope with all my heart and soul that

those poor devils are safe ashore. I believe H. begins to realize more

fully what I had on my own mind the night I tried to jump the New Inlet

Bar.

_December 28th._ Ice on deck again this morning, but a day to make a

man’s heart glad. First thing was arrival of big power lifeboat with

the good news that at ten o’clock the night before they had rescued

all the crew of the stranded schooner. The vessel herself was lumber

laden and a gang went off to her to-day in hopes to get cargo out and

to lighten the ship so that she might be pulled off. The day was busy

for us with completing repairs on launch, getting stores on board and

making ready for another bid for warmer climes. Until to-day my spears

and poles have been but a miserable nuisance, but when the bight of a

line caught the handle of my pump rod and twitched it right overboard,

it was the eel spear for mine. Tide was running smartly and I could

just reach bottom. Slowly and with great care I poked about in the mud

and at last was rewarded by pulling up three feet of old rubber hose.

Better luck next time and I just fell upon that mud-covered pump handle

when it crossed the rail. An eel spear would sure be a handy thing in

any household.

_December 29th._ A peach of a morning with light northerly airs, a

good barometer and everybody telling us to be up and off for now was

the chance. We were soon ready to start when I found centre-board

jammed in the box. Hard, too. At low tide, when aground, something had

wedged it hard and fast. Had to pound it out with aid of a big piece of

iron piping. It was noon before we waved good-bye to our friends the

Southport pilots and slipped out of the harbor down the long 80 miles

of beach to Georgetown or 120 miles, nautical, to Charleston. At four

o’clock, wind failing, we put on little helpmeet and jogged along our

four knots right merrily. The sun set red, but with plenty of cloud.

The engine began to skip about 10 o’clock and from then on until two,

gave us a most remarkable exhibition of skips, jumps and shakes. At 2

a.m. it made two or three quiet little chuck-chucks and died. About

this same time the barometer got in some fancy steps and dropped 4

points in two hours. Heavy cloud made the night fearfully dark, and

the sea began to pick up in a long, swinging ground swell. I wished

myself well back in Southport you bet. By dead reckoning Southport was

some 50 miles away and Georgetown jetty about 30 only, so it had to be

Georgetown. The breeze with some rain came at southwest very light and

I jogged slowly along.

_December 30th._ Morning broke dull and sullen. Barometer still

dropping and little whitey gray woolies blowing across the dark clouds.

The ground swell was heaving in from sea and there was no chance

for running inlets. With the light came a waspish puff of air out

of southwest and on top of that one another, with such venom in it,

I wasted no time on speculation, but clapped in two reefs and stood

off shore. In the shake of a lamb’s tail the wickedest kind of a sea

jumped up, but Henry’s stomach beat it at that. The rolling swell

checked up on the shoal ground for we were in less than 3 fathoms and

was met and crossed by the sea leaping with the southwester which was

even then heaving me to my cockpit-rail. In half an hour it was put

on life lines, douse sail and tuck in my storm reef. Canvas thrashing

viciously and had to put watch tackle on leech earing before we could

haul out. Laid ship to off shore, hauled up my board, lashed wheel

and gave launch 10 fathoms of line. Didn’t know whether to run to sea

for deeper water or take chance of ground swell not breaking and hang

onto the beach. Decided to hang on for I am bound to Florida and not

the Riviera. All day long we were knocked and smashed about by an

indescribable jumble of crooked water. H. and I spent our time below

trying to cling onto our transoms for it was not particularly safe on

deck, and we crawled out only every two hours to lower sail, wear ship

and stand on the other tack. There is a good bit of worry to a day like

that, especially when you have a two foot hole covered only with thin

canvas in the side of your boat. There would have been a mighty sight

more worry if old Mascot hadn’t shown us at the very start off that she

was quite able and willing to play the game. With her wheel amidships,

she looked up into it grandly and never had a bucket of green water in

the cockpit.

[Illustration: Riding it out.]

By afternoon we saw the launch was in trouble, and settling pretty

fast. It was soon bail or lose her. H. stripped pretty close to the

buff and I tied the bowline round him myself. Then we worked the launch

up to leeward and managed to unlace a little bit of cover so when a

chance came H. jumped in like a squirrel and away he went with me

tending painter and life line. He had no trouble bailing out the water,

but when it came to balancing himself on the little forward deck while

relacing the cover, he had to face a truly sporting proposition. Kind

of made my heart jump to see him perched on the bows of that little

skiff when a big breaking comber would pick her up and surge her down

to leeward where the next sea would put her out of sight for ages. At

last he did the trick and mighty carefully I worked the launch up under

our lee until with a good jump and yank on the line I landed him in the

cockpit again. Cured his seasickness anyway for after warming up below

he lit up his pipe as perky as you please.

[Illustration: Saving the Launch.]

During all this ringtum Scotty was playing her part well. Not once

did we leave the deck tired, wet and anxious to stretch out in rubber

boots and soaking oilskins on our transoms, but Scotty would curl up on

our shoulder or in our lap all snuggled close with mighty comforting

purr. She was a dear little companion, and in the midst of the circus

we cooked her one of her own little oyster stews as a mark of our

appreciation. Towards night the wind let go and as we drew in toward

the beach, fishermen built big bonfires to warn us away from an inlet

which they thought I might be fool enough to try and run. No more

inlets for me. The sea was too heavy to anchor so we again prepared to

make it watch and watch and let the boat jog off and on under her bit

of canvas for we were too tired to make more sail and the night at best

looked full of trouble.

[Illustration: Down the Beach]

_December 31st._ Found us slatting about in dead calm. Barometer not

rising and heavy cloud. By two o’clock a.m. the sea had quieted to

a long, greasy roll and I plumped over the big hook in 3 fath. and

turned in for three or four hours’ snooze. Turned out at six and cooked

breakfast which tasted good after some forty-eight hours of more or

less cracker and cheese diet. Day broke at seven and a mighty ugly

looking day it was with dark storm clouds all about and again those

waspish little white ones scudding ahead of the black spots. The breeze

struck in light at northeast and with it came the rain. The drops were

good, big, fat ones and barometer was not sliding down so I hoped for

no serious trouble, but down here the easter is only spoken about in

whispers and H. and I didn’t speak about it at all. We jumped all sail

on at once, up yank and fanned along. Got H. to try his launch and was

rewarded by a merry little puff puff, and we were off. Found a lot of

sediment in carbureter and in gasoline, evidently corrosion from tank

after being filled with salt water. We kept her skipping and jumping

along by continually moving throttle and needle valve. Rain and mist

often shut out the shore but the light following breeze didn’t have

the twang of trouble in it and by my dead reckoning I had only some

20 knots to go before reaching Georgetown jetties which stretch two

miles to sea and couldn’t be missed unless it blew on and forced me

off shore. I had run my time out at one o’clock and still through the

haze that old sand beach stretched ever southward without a break.

Worries began again, but in half an hour we sighted the lighthouse and

in another half rounded the end of the north jetty and ran into quiet

water.

“Way up the river Pedee

Way up the river Pedee

Where the moon shines bright

And the stars give light,

Way up the river Pedee.”

How we shook hands and yelled it out. The rain poured, the wind drew

northwest dead ahead, but tide and a strong one was fair and the launch

was hitting it hop, skip and jump, so who cares.

About six miles upstream and six miles below Georgetown we noted on our

chart the entrance to the little creek which is the beginning of the

inside route towards Charleston. With the last of the light of the last

day of the year we found the little opening in the marsh and snuggled

into the quiet water mighty gladly and ran her plump aground on the

mud of the eastern bank. We were too tickled at ending our long razzle

dazzle to hurry about pushing off, especially as tide was flooding in

river outside. There’s where we missed it for tide was dropping in

the creek and soon, work all we could, we never budged her and had to

run out guy lines to keep from bilging. Mighty little difference that

made to us for we were in that kind of shape that lets you go right

on working. Not very hard and with mighty little reasoning in it, but

still working. While we were mussing around we heard the cry of hounds

and soon a big doe took water not twenty yards away, slowly swam the

creek and with much effort managed to crawl up the other bank about

tuckered out. She looked at us a moment, and then disappeared in the

high sedge. The hounds were close up and soon hustling up and down the

bank, but none would take water and H. and I sat down to spend our new

year’s eve mighty well pleased to think of that deer snugly resting up

in some thicket just as we were in our warm little cabin. Honest injun,

I was never better pleased to make snug harbor in my life for I had

been practically sixty hours without sleep except at odd half hours

and had been driving boat under strenuous conditions for over fifty

hours. I should have been all in, but I wasn’t at all and I couldn’t

see or feel that I didn’t stand the racket as well as I used to in

my twenties. Gee, but it’s fine to be in such shape again. H. pulled

along all right, too, but insisted upon going to sleep anywhere and

everywhere. I must break him of this habit if possible, for it leaves

him scarcely any time for eating and none for work.

_January 1st, 1913._ New Year’s Day. Comes pouring rain, and at 2:30

a.m. for mine. Got Mascot afloat but couldn’t handle her alone in

tideway and had to call H. on deck. Hanged if the boy wasn’t asleep

again. Soon snugged up and after a hot mug-up turned in for some good

rest. Turned out about eight and felt fine. Barometer rising. Sky

clearing. Wind a beauty at northwest and just what the doctor ordered

for round Cape Romain to Charleston outside. Nix on the outside said H.

when I finally shook him awake. Afraid I can never beat any ambition

into the lad. Can’t understand what a funny lot of insides I must

have. I am only just over being pretty well scared up and am already

beginning to want to try it again. I’ll get “ketched” good and plenty

some day, but I hope that when I do I may be alone. The day was warm,

bright and full of sunlight. We dolled up the ship. Cleaned up gasoline

tank and in the afternoon walked into the big forest of live oak and

long-leaved pine. A day of perfect content and rest. Boiled and roasted

a ham which turned out deliciously. Only one thing to mar the peace

of our new year’s day and that was a sharp attack of delirium tremens

suffered by Scotty. During the blow a small can of white paint upset in

cockpit and I suspicion that she ate some. Anyway her tail went right

over her back like that animal’s in the pictures of our old geographies

which hangs all its young ones upside down on its tail. Her hind legs

went 200 to the minute and her front ones only 25. This landed her

repeatedly on her head which must have been distressing. In an hour

she seemed all O. K. again and except for being a bit dopey has stayed

so. Mighty anxious we were, for Scotty is full 50% of this trip. Today

an old nigger rowing down stream stopped to gam. He said was all kinds

of varmint hereabout. Coons, possums, rabbits, deer and turkeys. No

lions or tigers except some 30 miles back in the lumber. Said wild cows

wouldn’t hurt us, and that children could walk alone on any of the

roads, which was both interesting and comforting. A tug with big ¼ mile

log boom swung by us at noon. These are mean, unruly visitors and are

mighty apt to do you damage. This one got by without hitting us, but we

had to fend off once or twice. For supper we broached a bottle of White

Rock and with much ceremony toasted family and absent friends. So ended

our New Year’s, 1913.

_January 2nd._ Woke about 2 a.m. to a fearful bump and swash. What

next? says I, and tumbled out. Out of the inky black under my bows I

saw a big dark shape lift out of water some five or six feet and fall

back with a swash. Alligators this time I bet. No such thing, but a

big 30 ft. log 12 to 15 inches in diameter caught in a bight of one of

our lines. Had good luck in getting it clear and stranded it inside of

us where it now lies. “Something doing from one to eleven at the Old

Howard.” On deck in a hurry again at four when a tug steamed by with

what looked like another log boom but proved to be something else. Out

again for breakfast at seven and Henry, well provisioned, started for

Georgetown in the launch to get gasoline, provisions, etc., while I

stayed aboard to keep ship. Engine not going right yet, and I listened

long to its jumps and skips until out of hearing. If he finds a good

engine man he may stay overnight and get it fixed up shipshape for we

must depend upon it entirely from now on. Come back soon “mon petit

Asticot” for I miss you sadly and feel pretty far away among the wild

cows.

[Illustration: Raft Life.]

Scandalously tricky weather do we have. Here H. started at 9 this

morning with as pretty a day as one could ask for and old barom.

showing nothing else. By eleven clouds made up from south, glass began

a slide and by 2 p.m. it was pelting rain with barometer still on the

toboggan. Rain all p.m. and all evening. I couldn’t expect H. to come

back, but how I did listen for the skip-and-go-one sound of that little

motor. I missed him like the devil and no mistake. Hope he isn’t nosing

round out there in rain and dark with engine broken down and no Scotty.

Had a fine black bean soup with croutons all ready for him, too. I am

used to being on a boat alone, but I am mighty lonesey tonight just the

same. This is our first night apart in three months and a black creek

in the marsh is none too cheerful a place at night anyway. By nine

o’clock things were doing. Wind pricking on every minute, rain swishing

across decks with roar and barometer still on the drop. I turned in but

not to sleep. I had my spinnaker pole driven deep in the clay mud at

edge of deep water, but it was a flimsy thing to depend on. There had

been no flood tide all day, an uncanny sort of thing. By eleven o’clock

the gale was on at south and a full-fledged one to boot. I dressed and

crawled into my boots and oilers for the tide had started flooding with

a rush and every half hour I had to raise the guy lines on my pole to

keep it in position. The barometer dropped to 29, nine points in 12

hours. Don’t remember such a drop in many a day. How high the tide

might go was guesswork, but if the westerly shift which I knew would

come caught me on top of a big tide it would be into the bulrushes for

little Harry and make a duck stand out of Mascot.

Now that was quite a longish night, too. Sitting still, listening to

the howl and swish of the gale and speculating on where H. was and

where I was going to, for I was out on the open marsh not snugged away

up among the woods between high banks. When the wind took a whiffle

down the canal the old Mascot would shake all over and lean right to

it. Tide kept a-coming and I kept a-crawling out on hands and knees to

raise my guy lines until the top of the pole was level with my trunk

deck and the stick bending and cracking at every charge of wind until I

felt sure it must go. I knew that tide must be ’way above common, but

it was too dark to see how high it exactly was. Given another foot rise

and I would have been all right for pole was slanting under boat then.

It was four o’clock in the morning and tide had been coming about nine

hours.

_January 3rd._ Bet I was pleased when I crawled out at 4:30 and found

end of pole at same level. Crawled right below again and mugged up

on hot beef tea. Five o’clock came and tide had dropped a foot. Then

the westerly shift came with a whoop and I thought Scotty and I were

surely bound for the meadows, but that old pole buckled, bent and

creaked and held. Great scissors, how it blew. Couldn’t stand on deck

nohow. Just had to crawl and cling on.

[Illustration: Oak + Pine.]

Day broke with clearing skies and found me with bows pretty well up

on bank, but stern still in deep water and I make no doubt I can pull

her off if this northwester will only blow out as I expect it will

before another high water or somebody comes along who will carry me

out an anchor to help hold her off. I have ground tackle enough to

handle her all right, but without tender am entirely helpless. Poor

little Scotty feels these busy nights dreadfully, and is too sleepy

and tired to eat a thing. I feel fine and had a good breakfast off of

the last Pt. Judith mackerel. I can’t believe that since last Saturday

night, and it is Friday now, I have not had four hours of consecutive

sleep. I haven’t ache, pain or nerves. Just as I used to be on the old

_Raven_ thirty odd years ago. I had to acknowledge later that I did not

stand the care, worry and loss of sleep as well as I thought. Between

Beaufort and Charleston I lost seven pounds in weight, and again put my

eyes almost completely out of commission. H. showed a gain of fifteen

pounds in his weight and I begin to wonder for whose health are we

traveling anyway.

The clear, westerly gale has continued all day and barometer has moved

up only 2/10. Not an inch of tide has come in during the whole day and

like a bat I have lived, clinging literally to the rafters, for the

boat is very sharply listed. How such days go it is hard to say. You

write log and a few letters. Cook your meals, read, smoke, snooze a

bit, knit a bit and presto the day is done. Of course H. did not come

down river and I am looking forward to another night alone, but I think

a peaceful one, for the wind can’t hurt me as I am, and I don’t believe

tide can come unless wind drops. I am not going to write to-morrow’s

date heading now, however, for things move quickly round here and we

may have another eight hands around by midnight.

_January 4th._ The night was delightfully peaceful and how I did

sleep it out. The wind went down and morning came clear, bright and

with a flooding tide that soon put me afloat again. While cooking

breakfast I listened to something familiar in the sound of a distant

motor and pretty soon, round the point swung H. with the launch going

perfectly. You bet flag went to masthead as he stepped over side and

we had one big joyful reunion. O, what a good, happy breakfast we did

have. What fun it was to swap lies about our several experiences.

He had twice tried to reach me, but weather had driven him back. He

had spent a night at a southern boarding house where his roommate

was drunk and unbuckled a big Colt’s 44 when he went to bed. He had

found motor trouble rested entirely in electric coil, of which we had

made two soups, so buying another was all O. K. and engine going as

well as ever. As a relic and for what it has done, we still think of

keeping our coil so carefully preserved in red flannel and sealed in

pickle jar, for it helped push us many an anxious, weary mile. The

inside route from here is so crooked and so shallow in many places

that it seems silly to undertake it when it is only 54 miles with two

intervening harbors outside. Even H. with stimulus of warm sun and

bright skies agrees to tackle it again and so I shall run down to jetty

to-night and get away early to-morrow. The wind still hangs southwest

most persistently and I must keep a weather eye open.

_January 5th._ Had at least one good, quiet night but I was kind of

wakeful and didn’t do it justice. Morning came a peach and tucking

little helpmeet behind we were off at eight on the first of the ebb.

Found a jumble of rolypoly seas outside breakwater, but with fair tide

logged our 4 knots without sail as it was flat calm. Queer looking

gulls around here, wings in the middle, bodies with great long pointed

ends. Look just like some Boston people. Scotty began the day with

another of her runabouts and retreated to the lazaret as usual. She

came out in about an hour; saw or heard something and went all to the

bad again. So much so that we had to shut her below fearing she would

jump overboard. Never see no such sight. She has no fit spasm at all,

just goes amuck with some kind of fear. We chugged merrily along and

at 2 p.m. had Cape Romain with its miles of sand shoals abeam. As the

chance looked good with easterly airs, we sent up the rag and let her

run for Bull’s Bay some 12 knots farther along. Barometer climbing up

to 30-1/10 began to make me think a bit for as soon as it passes 30

things begin to happen with us. The afternoon grew more and more to

look like storm. The easter freshened to a smart breeze and we were

mighty glad at 5 o’clock to haul into shallow Bull’s Bay through the

channel near the lighthouse and drop anchor in the little river which

begins the inside route to Charleston. We did 36 knots to-day in 9½

hours and nearly all with little kicker which never went better, and

H. is justly proud. After a good supper of corn beef the mate reported

fire in the oven and sure thing, my kindlings drying were all ablaze

and such a mess and smoke before we got them out. Scotty appeared for

supper and made a good meal but seems not entirely over her fright yet.

Nine o’clock as I write and wind pricking on northeast. You bet it is

good to be in this quiet little hole in the wall and not batting around

outside. I figure that by coming outside to-day we saved several days

of tedious inland work in very shallow water. From here to-morrow I can

go to Charleston outside, weather fitting, or inside if things don’t

look right.

_January 6th._ Bilged during the night and mine the weather bunk as

usual. Had wonderful line of dreams and woke H. to ask him if he had

pulled eel spear out of the mud and tied the crab net solid. You see

we lost our whole bundle of spears, grains and harpoon iron when I

bilged so heavily the night of the gale at Georgetown. My keel caught

on the top of the bank and I went right on my beam ends. The scupper

plugs alone kept me from filling and everything went to leeward. I just

managed to keep stove covers on. Sorry they are gone, but so far they

have been non-essentials and much in the way.

Turned out to find one of those mornings which first you know all about

and then you don’t. Regular gulf weather with warm, damp easterly

breeze. Could see nothing but worry and fret outside so on turn of

tide, we put kicker behind and headed for the woods and hay fields.

Spent a truly delightful morning twisting in and out the narrow

waterway leading through the most gigantic piece of salt marsh I have

ever seen. Some few little hell-divers gave us both a chance to show

the weakness of our sporting eye. I finally nailed one for Scotty who

turned out to-day as chipper as ever. We had alternate bright sunlight

and dark cloud and the colors were wonderful. The brightest of bright

blues and emerald greens, bright yellows and pearl grays. The distance

always framed by the dark line of heavy pine and the foreground by café

au lait oyster bars. At 12:30 just in time for lunch we ran quietly but

decidedly aground and folded tents. As we ate we heard the one o’clock

whistles blowing in Charleston. All about us are yellow legs, curlew,

duck and plover, but at this low tide they are feeding on the flats

and I only see them afar off. Henry hears them calling but being a bit

deaf, I get no sound of it. A little tedious that. We floated and were

away by 3:30 and on and on through the marsh as before. Passed the

mouth of inlets and I tried in vain to get H. to enthuse on running

outside for rest of the way. By 5:30 and as it was growing dark we hit

a middle ground and stopped just in time for supper. Fine oyster stew

we had from the little native oysters; H. picked up a basketful in a

few minutes at noon. They are small, very sweet and delicate, and grow

six or eight together in a cluster with edges as sharp as knives. We

saw the darkies as we came along gathering them in their bare feet. I

mean the darkies, not the oysters, had bare feet.

[Illustration: Through the Marsh.]

Floated again after supper and we dropped one anchor up stream and one

down for the night which came dark and with fog.

_January 7th._ Turned out to find pouring rain and thick, thick fog.

Leisurely good breakfast and with rain letting up after we slipped away

only to run ashore a quarter of a mile. By quick work we dragged her

into deeper water and settled down to a loaf until fog should lift.

Soon after this a motor tug came by with a scow alongside. Wonderful

how these natives can find their way in these crooked slews. Just then

the tug took a jump in the air and the nigger pilot near shot out

the window and there they were for the rest of this day. We had most

delicious fried oysters for luncheon. Must get to a city pretty soon

for yesterday, when lacing on sail cover, I laced my starboard whisker

to the mast. After lunch we started again and went about 200 yds. and

fetched up some more. One thing is very satisfactory round here; to

go aground is neither strange, uncommon nor a subject of ridicule.

“Everybody’s doing it.” This morning we allowed it was Charleston or

bust to-day. I guess the busts win.

Yet one more guess, for tide came and we went another 100 yds. Then

tide came some more and we were off and away. Through a drawbridge and

so out into Charleston Harbor where we passed close to Fort Sumpter

and then over to the City where we anchored in open roadstead with

considerable tide off the fine clubhouse of the Carolina Yacht Club at

5 p.m., just four weeks to the day from Beaufort, and we had allowed

four days at longest. We poseyed right up and went ashore where a

member of the club most courteously gave us a stranger’s card and then

to P. O. for lots of good news from home and so to a little restaurant

for a good bite to eat. Mighty hot and sticky ashore with steam rising

everywhere. Most enervating. Our legs going all wibbly, wobbly so.

Mighty glad to get on board again where it is snug, peaceful and quiet.

Scotty much to the bad again this evening with a real, genuine fit.

Don’t know what to do for her and am very glad she has lately taken a

fancy to sleep with H.

Turned in only to be turned out by Scotty who refused to have her fit

comfortably in the lazaret, and proposed having it and actually did

have it in the cabin. H. hid under his blanket, but I was brave, faced

the danger and got Scotty’s initials scratched all over my bare feet.

Shipwreck is nothing to a wet cockpit, bare feet, dark night and a

fitting cat. Soused her with cold water and bundled her away under

cockpit for the night. At four o’clock in the morning H. woke to find

her cuddled to sleep most contentedly on his blanket, so that danger is

for the moment past.

[Illustration]

_January 8th._ Turned out to a most muggy, foggy enervating day

with thermometer at 75 degrees. Decided we better keep moving her

southward, and if we ever get any time have it at the far end and on

the return trip when the country should be at its best. So it was on

shore with anchor for a new stock and to get a kedge anchor and things

too numerous to mention but which sadly depleted my finances. To cap

the climax, word comes from home that wifey has decided to keep what

money H. had for Christmas and I could advance it to him. Don’t that

beat all? Such a bully dinner of steak and fixings. Such a glorious

hot bath and after that a long session with tonsorial artist. Then

tumbled everything on board and by gum if up didn’t go northwest storm

warnings. No place to take a twister, this Charleston. So up anchor and

into the clubhouse wharf where we tied snugly. On shore for another

good feed. Charleston, nominally prohibition, is really more wide open

than any town I ever saw. The blind tigers are running with wide open

eyes at every corner and the signs of open gambling everywhere. Commend

me always to a good, gambling bar for good cooking and so we hit a

mahogany palace having an electric roulette wheel for a sign. Right we

were and a delicious steak we had.

[Sidenote: Map D.]

_January 9th._ Comes cloudy, mean and with a chilling wind that smacks

of easting. The swash at the open dock had us rolling and gave me good

warning to be up and away. It was early up town to a quick breakfast

and visit to P. O. then on board, clap in two reefs, twist her round

and off up the Ashley River to the tune the old cat died on. We soon

found mouth of Wappoo Creek which was our inland way and up it we

hustled under canvas. All day we kept the sail on her, winding and

twisting through the marsh under a cold, cloudy sky. We finally were

glad to drop over hook in a broad reach just below Martin’s Pt.,

perhaps 30 miles from Charleston. We knicked her once but twisted her

into deep water, and jumped her up all standing on a middle ground just

before anchoring for the night, but were soon off again. The night shut

in dark and cloudy with a cutting wind out of northeast. Glass is again

up to 30-2/10 and I suspicion trouble. Am all snug here and Scotty is

all right again, the fire drawing well, so let her blow.

[Illustration: Old Charlston]

_January 10th to 15th._ Am not going to write daily log of this time

for it would be too tedious reading, but it was by no means tedious

living. We became part and parcel of the swamp and marsh. We were of

it, in it, and passed through it like a muskrat or mink, like a snipe

or plover. The tide; its set, speed and turning. The wind; its strength

and direction. These were what counted and on them we either halted

or went on. The ripple of the tide at every bend, the line of foam

bubbles on every reach was a matter of constant interest and study.

Such days are not for either rich or poor, for those ignorant or wise,

but for those only who can cast themselves bodily into nature and be

absorbed by it. I don’t wonder big launch owners and houseboat owners

always send their boats south under charge of the crew. There could be

nothing more dreary than just a-setting still and being taken through

these twisting rivers that lead for miles and miles through the never

ending rice marshes. We saw some ducks and shore birds, but got shots

at very few and missed those ingloriously. One morning during a thick

fog, H. tried Helen Keller at a cormorant which down here they call a

nigger’s goose. The bird was on the wing, yet once it sounded as if the

bullet had found meat but the bird didn’t drop. Two or three hundred

yards farther on we came across him stone dead with the lead through

his heart. The fog was a nuisance and brought us to anchor at the mouth

of the river leading into St. Helena’s Sound which we wished to cross

on our way to Hunting Is. H. went ashore to try and pick up a mess of

something to eat, but at 5 p.m. yelled out of the fog that his boat was

high and dry and he would like me to send him his supper on a tray.

Foolish little boy. I got him on board again about 7 and mighty glad he

was to crawl into the warm cabin and eat a good hearty supper for he

had been nearly bogged, was wet through and plastered with mud. A bit

scared, too, and I don’t believe will try this country again alone. He

got seven shore birds, but cooked and ate them on shore himself. Greedy

cuss. He brought me a present in a match box and when I opened it, out

hopped a chameleon lizard right into my lap. What with Scotty trying

to catch it and I trying not to, there was a very busy cup of tea. We

caught him next day. Have named him Bill from Alice in Wonderland and

added him to ship’s company.

One morning the fog burned away to as pretty a bit of blue sky and

southerly wind as you ever saw. We were off to cross St. Helena’s Sound

at once. What do you think? In an hour a black, vicious looking squall

made up in the west and struck just as we had tied in two reefs. A

short smother of rain and wind and then cloudy skies and light airs

with strong tide and lumpy seas. That Sound is no Massachusetts Bay.

All about are 1 ft. and 2 ft. spots. I did the best I could, but one

spot that should break didn’t and everything else did and what with the

tide sweeping us about we had a mighty anxious hour or two with the

lead giving us from 9 to 10 feet of water on a falling tide. Finally

got into our creek and of all dreary surroundings these certainly won

out over any we have yet seen. For miles and miles the dark brown

oyster bars stretched endlessly and the creek with many branches wound

about like a maze. It was near night when we took bottom and learnt

from some nigger oyster gatherers that we were way out of the main

creek and bound for the sticks. So it was snug down for the night. At

high tide these oyster bars will be covered and we will be anchored in

a great shallow lake through which it would be most dangerous to try to

navigate for these bars are simply covered with sharp pointed oyster

clusters which differ in my opinion mighty little from rocks. Hundreds

of big plover all over and about this afternoon. Big as pigeons,

tame as pigeons, too. Went in launch to get some for supper. Missed

them sitting, also flying, and came back without one. I am in that

delightful stage when I pull the trigger three or four times before I

shoot. Flinching? Well, I guess so. H. ain’t no better than I am. We

have a standing bet of five glasses of Coca-Cola to one that the other

fellow don’t kill. So far we stand even and nobody has hit a thing.

Dreary, cold, cloudy, northeast weather. Put launch ashore and repacked

stuffing box, but that didn’t stop leak which now threatens to almost

sink her overnight.

The clouds all rolled away and a morning broke as bright as a new

dollar with a waspish northeaster whisking across the marshes. It was

off and away “pronto.” With single reef we cut things wide open. Slack

sheet, down peak and away we rushed the reaches. In sheet, up peak and

we beat her up the bends and then repeat with our wake swashing from

bank to bank. We kept at it all day and it was one of the sporting

sails of my life. Through narrow creeks, down broad rivers, across

big sounds we drove and hustled. Just a little slip-up in jibing or

tacking and we would have been in the meadows, but we made none.

When we shot out of the creek into Port Royal Sound we made just

three jumps and landed with a swash in the river on other shore. Old

Mascot only wet her garboards twice in crossing, and the launch never

touched water at all. So it was all day and we anchored for the night

with Savannah, Ga., but a few miles away. The night came pretty as a

picture, but snappy cold and with the highest glass we have yet seen,

30.2. Think must have change soon. When glass is persistently high

down here I promptly suspicion trouble. By 4 a.m. I felt sure we were

in for another duster for glass began to drop, heavy clouds rolled up

from northeast and wind piped on. I lay awake hoping that I wouldn’t

have to get out anchors until daylight for it was pesky dark and cold.

Suddenly all the breeze let go to a dead calm and then came out of the

northwest smartly but not troublesome and I got in some handsome winks

until seven o’clock when I turned out to an undeniably pretty day and

good breakfast. Then it was away under sail once more, and passing for

a mile or so through a little winding creek, we entered the Savannah

River and by noon were sailing along the water front of one of the

busiest of southern ports.

_January 16th._ Comes deliciously fair, bright and warm. We have

worked mighty hard for some sunlight like this and a little “dolce fa

niente” served with some prawns creamed on toast won’t hurt either of

us. To town where I was quite the centre of effort when they learnt

at the bank that I had brought a 24 ft. catboat down _under sail_ in

midwinter. I felt just like Dr. Cook. Sorry H. wasn’t along. In p.m.

we took up hook, put launch behind and twisted our way for 10 miles

through marsh to Thunderbolt. It looks very attractive here and if we

can find a decent beach to haul out on, we’ll stay a day or two and

complete repairs. We caught many flies for Bill to-day, but Bill is a

dope and won’t eat a thing. You look out, Bill, or you’ll come off the

way you come on.

_January 17th to 21st._ Found a boatbuilder and turned the launch over

to him. Hauled Mascot on beach. Covered patch on her side and found

rudder-hanger iron all torn off. Would have looked pretty bobbing about

the Atlantic without any rudder. Air soft and mild, feels awful good

and we were contented to take things slowly. Found Senator Cameron on

houseboat _Alamida_. He asked us to luncheon and we went you bet. Bully

lunch and decided change from my cooking. He must be a lonely man for

he asked us to come again next day. Accepted, of course. He offered to

tow us way to Jacksonville. I refused as it didn’t seem sporting to

welsh on the last leg. Looked on at public dance at electric road’s

casino. Everything as well ordered and conducted as at a private party.

No rowdies, no splurge, but just a bully good time. There is no foreign

or mill population to contend with, and no cheap sports throwing their

coin. At the little roadhouses and inns on the way to town everything

is well handled and we saw many little parties of two or three ladies

together having supper without escort. Savannah is out and out the most

attractive place we have yet seen.

Turned out one morning at 3 a.m. to twist Mascot around on beach for

rudder repairs. These beaches, so-called, are not real beaches at all

but huge mud banks covered several feet deep with oyster shells through

which the brown clay mud oozes at every step. Into this stuff we had

to shovel a pit deep enough to crawl into and get under rudder. H. did

it you bet and such a mess as he was. In fact by time we got Mascot

into deep water once more everything was plastered with slippery clay.

Found and calked a little leak around rudder port and think I may have

turned a neat trick. Put more canvas and copper tacks on old launch

and finally one afternoon settled ourselves in cabin for a quiet hour

or two with feeling that things were pretty well taken care of. The

weather continued gloriously bright and warm. A beautiful moon made

each night as light almost as day and so feel we have cheated winter

of two victims if nothing more. It would be hard to explain why, since

leaving home we have never used an eel spear, fish grain, net or even

dropped over a line. The daily strife against wind and tide has been

far too engrossing. The constant repairs to sail, rigging gear and

engine have occupied every moment and every bit of our energy so that

with each hour of leisure we have wanted to stretch out and rest. I

still have the remains of two 10 ft. bamboo poles. Every other bit of

fishing gear has been either broken or swept overboard. I am clinging

to these two broken and twisted bits of bamboo with the idea that I

will yet catch a fish on them before throwing them away just as matter

of sentiment. We began breaking them in Hell Gate and foot by foot

they have shortened up ever since. Will make good walking sticks pretty

soon.

[Illustration: H. did it. You bet.]

_January 21st to 22nd._ Turned out to find a thick fog and light

northeaster. Filled water tanks and at 10 o’clock at turn of the tide

we slipped away into the mist with launch a-kicking astern and whole

sail pulling ahead. It is a dreary thing to point your bow into these

desolate wastes of marsh, swamp, and barrens when the sun shines

brightly. Indeed, it’s doubly so when the fog spreads over all and

gives you view only of two mud-bordered, sedge-covered banks on either

side. But tide and wind were fair and we hit it right merrily. Up the

creek, down that reach, across the rivers and open sounds. Sometimes

with a fair tide, often with a strong head one at it we plugged. These

inland streams make up from one big river or sound and after many miles

turn and run out into another arm of the sea. You may start into one

with head tide and no slouch of a tide either, a good two to two and

one-half knot current. You buck it for four or five miles and then

come to the divide where, say 50 yards the tide is slack. After that

away you go a fluke-o down to the next big water. All day we were at

it with freshening breeze and driving fog. At 4:30 p.m. we came to

St. Catherine’s Sound which I wanted to cross before night as we had

fair wind and weather looked so dirty I thought I might not get over

in the morning. Thicker than burgoo by this time, but only a knot and

one-half to go. It was the same old story, tide was swirling up river,

and I thought it was running down. Pretty soon we were driving through

tide rips with 7 and 8 feet of water and then we had 6 feet and then

4 feet and then we were bumping sand good and plenty. By this time I

had guessed my error on tide and a few more lucky guesses and plenty

of wind let me drag her over the middle ground and sight the opposite

shore close aboard. It was getting after 5 o’clock and I had less than

an hour of light to find a creek in a strange shore, and a lee one at

that, without knowing which side of it I was on. Made a good guess and

slipped into it just as night was shutting in. It was a good day’s

sail and Jorrocks would have said, “Cum grano salis with a touch of

cayenne.” Even H. admits that no other sport offers quite the joyful

sensation that follows the slipping into calm and quiet harbor at the

falling of night after a good, smart bit of anxious work in dirty

outside weather.

_January 23rd._ Comes without a ripple and with lifting fog giving a

wide horizon. Close aboard to the east was St. Catherine’s Island with

groves of live oak, and palmetto to the water’s edge. The tide was up

and to the west stretched the marsh unbroken as far as eye could see.

I like to fancy it the desert, but here are no soft footed camels, no

stately dahabiehs with thick-necked Baroudis, and when you shut off the

motor you have no soft song of the pumpers of water. Instead there is a

nigger shooting marsh hens from his dugout and that is all, and he but

adds to the dreary loneliness of the whole. We are off and swallowed up

in the solitude by 8 o’clock. How different from our northern summer

cruising where I have always looked upon the trip from New Bedford to

Newport as quite a bit of sailing with its 33 miles of water. Here we

provision for two and possibly three weeks and head her away for one

hundred and fifty or two hundred miles at a clip. It brings back the

old _Mizpah_ freighting days up the West branch of the Westport River.

Thank goodness the ice and snow of many a _Mizpah_ trip are not with

us. The twists and bends of the bank came slowly out of the fog, and

by 10 o’clock we were at the entrance to Sapelo Sound over which the

fog hung most dismally. No more of this sound navigation in fog, thank

you. Over with the hook and pipe crew to sewing canvas ballast bags. By

noon the fog lifted to an undeniably pretty day, and we were off quick,

quick. To-day we saw pelicans for the first time. Funny looking duffers

like little old men with long beards. Sapelo Sound is no kindergarten

proposition and it was all we wanted with kicker and good breeze to

beat the racing tide. When it came to beating up the narrow channel of

Mud River, I just folded my tent and went into winter quarters to await

the turn. H. on shore for a walk, but I am content to loaf quietly

aboard and hope to pull back one of those wandering pounds of my

precious meat. Under sail we had a pretty bit of going just at sunset

and remarking that we seemed to have passed the region of lumber booms

we dropped anchor in the middle of a creek. A beautiful moonlight night.

_January 24th._ Jumped out of my bunk at 5 a.m. to the shriek of

a tugboat’s whistle. Turned out to find big tugboat alongside and

bearing down stream a great boom of sawed timber. I jumped forward

with hope of getting anchor warp buoyed before slipping, but it was

no use for the huge mass was on top of me in a minute and I only had

time to cast off my turns and take a range from a post on the shore.

We were off with a boom to the accompaniment of some extra choice

tugboat language. H. and I jumped onto the slippery mass and finally

pushed Mascot across the end and clear of it. Then over big yank and

take account of stock. No damage done and so turned in again believing

Scotty had sought seclusion of lazaret during the rumpus. Turned out

for breakfast but no Scotty. After thorough search the awful fact

dawned upon our minds that Scotty, the pride and joy and comfort of

our trip was no longer on board. Vanished without leaving a single

clew. It was a mighty sad breakfast we sat down to with thoughts of

that little kit clinging desperately to that old log raft or washing

about in the tideway of the sound. Just as we were preparing to wash

up, Henry’s quick ear caught a strange sound from the marsh. Then even

my half busted ears heard a faint wail. Gosh all hemlock! it was the

last, despairing cry of our Scotty. No lifesavers ever tumbled into

a boat quicker than we into the launch, and it was give a twirl and

away. We guessed at direction and let her go right into the sedge for

the tide was up and two feet of water flooded the marsh. To our calls

we got one more wail of anguish. H. was overboard and floundering in

the sedge in a jiffy. By the greatest piece of luck he came upon a

little black spot in the water. He almost ran by it. Then he stooped

and picked up Scotty, unconscious. When he handed her to me there was

no sign of life and I could touch her eyeball without her winking.

Wouldn’t have given a peanut shell for half a dozen such cats. Back

to Mascot we rushed. Hot brandy and water for she was still faintly

breathing. As luck would have it she had a convulsion just then and

bit off end of medicine dropper. The hot cloths all over her and then

wait and watch. This all happened just three hours ago and our Scotty

is now happily asleep in the sun apparently none the worse for her four

hours of semi-submarine life. That was about the closest call yet. We

suppose she was on deck and being frightened at the tugboat whistle

jumped overboard and managed to reach the marsh. When tide came she

must have had at least two hours of swimming and clinging to the sedge.

My eye, but we are glad to have her with us again, and only hope that

no serious results will follow the swallowing of the end of the glass

dropper. Luck she brought us quickly, for making a grapnel out of the

bent irons on my davits, helped out with a bit of pipe and stick of

wood, I caught and picked up the slipped anchor warp and anchor from

20 ft. of water on the second try. Then it was up sail and away on the

turn of the tide although the wind, a strong whole sail breeze, was

dead ahead. Hard alee and repeat all morning until crossing a big river

we found a racing tide ahead in the creek on the other side. Down yank

for another wait. Who cares? The breeze is from the south without a

touch of chill and the warm sunlight is luxury. There we were a-setting

all comfy, when along comes tugboat and log boom No. 2. No time for

nothing. This one was built with two big timbers in form of triangle at

the bow and when it hit us I slacked cable and we were pushed bodily

one side and the raft went on without my having to slip my rode. It was

really all my own carelessness, this getting mixed up with these two

booms for I had no business to drop anchor in channel. Mighty lucky

to escape with only a little less paint. Late in the afternoon we

hitched on little kicker and after 4 or 5 miles anchored for the night

at entrance to Altamaha Sound. Taking it all in all, this day was a

pretty busy cup of tea. I expect there is more excitement to a polar

expedition or an African lion hunt, but I guess this will hold me.

[Illustration]

_January 25th._ The night warm and muggy with torrential rain showers.

The morning dull and warm. Were under way by 8 and crossing Altamaha

Sound, entered a creek far more attractive than any we had been in for

some time. At times we ran close to heavy wood where the big live oaks

with long wavy, mossy beards dropped to touch the stream. Here we saw

an army of buzzards feasting on some dead carcass. Rather a horrid

sight, that. Cloud and sunlight with breeze to southard right in our

eye so we let the kicker do the pushing. To-day we first saw orange

trees in fruit and great flocks of white herons. The air soft, and

truly balmy, not like real air at all. It somehow fails to satisfy.

Doesn’t seem to fill the lungs. By noon to St. Simon’s Sound, where

we struck the fiercest of ebb tides. Nobody ever told me about these

tides. There is a rise and fall of 7 feet and with kicker going strong

and braced to a light air, we could not gain and over yank in deep

water where we had to give 15 fath. scope. The tide was running better

than 4 knots and that’s some tide. A beautiful afternoon and I boiled

and roasted half a ham besides a duck which H. got yesterday on the

wing with the rifle. Also made my ninth canvas ballast bag all French

seamed and Bristol Fashion. At 5 p.m. tide slacked, and we made our

next creek and anchored soon after for the night. We can make neither

head nor tail of these creek tides and just have to go when they serve

and drop over hook when they don’t. Sometimes one sound will dominate

the tide in a connecting stream, sometimes the other, and the time of

change cannot be judged by change in either sound, but depends upon

size of water body drained by that special stream. Local knowledge

alone can solve the problem. Under these conditions and with head winds

we make but slow progress and must be satisfied with 10, 15, sometimes

20 miles a day. To-day we passed the plantation of Frederica, where

John Wesley established Methodism in this country. A deserted, tumbled

down outfit to-day, but has the well preserved ruin of a big stone fort

at water’s edge built, I suppose, against Indian attack.

_January 26th._ Turned out early for a good try at Fernandina, but had

to give it up as an impenetrable fog set in at daylight. In a lift

we worked out to the shores of Jekyl Sound, but dared not poke my

nose out into the fog and tide. Passed Edwin Gould’s beautiful place

on Jekyl Island but the whole thing is monotonously flat which must,

after a while, become very tiresome unless your interest all rests in

the shooting and fishing. Nasty little midges like black flies pester

us considerably and we will have to use dope if they continue. This

morning, while the fog kept us at anchor we put a strap around stern of

launch and with main boom as swinging crane hoisted boat far enough out

of water to repack stuffing box. She seems pretty tight now and it is a

great relief for there have been a good many nights when we feared she

might sink before morning. On turn of tide at noon fog lifted and we

were away with the tide racing us seaward. Turned a little past light

and began the long, hard buck against the tide in St. Andrew’s Sound

for these two Sounds, Jekyl’s and St. Andrew’s, meet and flow to sea

as one. We were precious lucky in having a nice little breeze come out

of the southeast and with sheets broad to starboard and kicker kicking

for all it was worth, we made fair headway by nicking into shoal water

under the shores of Little Cumberland Island. This island, like big

Cumberland, is far and away the best looking bit of sand we have seen

in many a day. Good sand dunes and fine woods. Big Cumberland belongs

to Andy Carnegie and I wonder if Oliver Ricketson isn’t within a mile

of me as I write, for, after bucking tide until 5:30 the fog shut in

again with rain, and we over anchor quick, quick, only a little way

from a good looking outfit near shore of the island. Had good supper of

fried oysters with slices of Virginia bacon.

_January 27th._ Comes with heavy southwest blow and rain. Neither of us

quite used to this warm weather yet. Nights not much cooler than days

and we don’t sleep very soundly. Clouds broke about 10 and we put whole

sail to her and dragged it down river until we were fairly overblown

and sought a lee under a marsh island where we lunched. Think will

wait until later before double reefing and putting her across mouth of

St. Mary’s River to Fernandina for tide is running ebb until 5:30 and

it may be as well to get over and take first of flood up the harbor.

Am gaining daily in my respect for these tides in the open stretches.

Might just as well try Quick’s Hole and in a strong breeze the sea over

these shoal grounds is fierce. Were severely cautioned before leaving

not to get slack in manners and behaviour, so have been especially

careful. Today, however, with Florida in sight H. threw slices of bacon

at me and dipped out mustard with his thumb. Guess he’ll eat on back

porch awhile when he gets back.

Breeze freshened steadily all day to a 4 point drop in barometer.

Double reefed her at 4 p.m. and gave her a touch of peak to help her

up tideway for H. to get his anchor. Crash! bang, and away went boom

crutch tearing out both deck plates. Scotty swore she hadn’t cut loose

main sheet and H. had to own up. I got a range on it as it drifted out

of sight and finally when we got ship to going we kept a smart lookout

and not only saw it but picked it up first grab. This soft feeling wind

kind of deceived me or else it did breeze on quickly. At all events

I soon found myself mightily overblown and thrashing it in a fearful

blobble of lumpy water. The launch hung back like a yoke of steers and

Mascot was nearly out of hand. Cockpit rail to the water and the dust

coming kerswish across decks at every jump and she jumping sixty to

the minute. Eased the peak a bit, but this would never do at all. Tide

swashed me out a mile or so and then I got her round and dropped yank

in lee of a bit of marsh. I am kind of young and inexperienced, but I

certainly hardly expected to have to run to cover in a land-locked bay

only two miles wide, but my hands were up and both anchors down and

there we are with the lights of Fernandina twinkling only two miles

away. This morning it was “Florida or bust” and we busted. This blow

which reached proportions of a gale of wind, came out of a clear sky

like our northwest winter gales. Barometer starts up at 8 p.m. but with

heavy clouds to northward and eastward we wonder a little what next?

_January 28th._ The gale sort of naturally blew itself out during the

night, giving us an uncomfortable shaking up for an hour or two on the

full of the tide at midnight. The morning came raw and cold with breeze

piping on again with the dawn from the northwest. We were off under

double reef by 8 and had a sporting sail down wind to Fernandina some

three miles away. Were visited by owner of a nearby launch who inquired

about make of our noiseless engine. He was quite surprised to find

that we had none for they don’t see any good sailing craft about here

and we noticed that we attracted considerable attention as we sailed

by the wharves. Guess I was showing off her paces a little, too, as I

had a piping breeze, two reefs and smooth water. Found on shore that

yesterday’s blow reached over 50 miles an hour and don’t wonder I was

a bit overblown in spots. I went to Jacksonville and back for mail in

afternoon. Have caught a lumbago by this sudden change in weather and

when I first start I walk like a buzzard.

_January 29th._ Fernandina. The day was a peach but I enjoyed it

little, feeling mean, headachy and generally down. Did up letter

writing all morning. Provisioned ship in p.m. and felt fairly perky by

night although a sight of the map of this country would have made me

cry. H. not much better. Our slump undoubtedly due to sudden change

with 3 or 4 strenuous days ending with that sharp blow and cold.

_January 30th._ Turned out to a dandy morning, feeling much better

all round. Good breakfast helped still more and putting kicker astern

we were soon headed southward. Came to drawbridge, but just as it

was opening I took bottom and made an inglorious halt. Off again and

through that draw and then on and on through marsh and creek as so

many days before. Here posts with boards nailed to them are supposed

to guide you on your way, but the boards are ripped off and the posts

all broken down so you have to rely upon guesswork and what knowledge

you have acquired to pick your way. We had luck and only scraped the

keel once to Nassau Sound, where we nicked a strong tide under the

shore and were able to double a point and square away into the marsh

once more. The breeze came fresh easterly and putting the big rag to

her, with fair tide we certainly did eat up the miles. Everything went

finely. H. killed a duck on the wing with Helen Keller and the St.

John’s River was only a mile away when, kerplunk, we took the mud and

it was all off. Set two anchors to keep from bilging and employed crew

in usual ship’s duties. We must have cleaned up better than 30 miles

since morning and it was 4 p.m. and time to stop anyway. I made a

crout-au-pot for supper. Good thing for scurvy. Tried to get H. to rub

some back of his ears, but he wouldn’t. Obstinate boy.

_January 31st._ Came on and off from midnight until 3 a.m. until ship

floated and I hauled out my sleepy crew to pull anchors and work boat

into deep water. This done it was quick to bed for some good snooze.

Up, breakfast, clean up, and away by 8:30 with launch astern. Made our

mark on an oyster bar first thing, but jumped her over. Across St.

John’s River where tide was running fiercely. Promptly went ashore

twice, trying to make creek on opposite shore. Got off each time

with luck and the spinnaker pole. Breeze came dead ahead and tide in

same direction so it was slow pushing all the morning and was almost

glad when I ran aground good and hard and had time for lunch. Floated

and were off again. Today saw old Mississippi-type river steamer with

big stern wheels thrashing white water. Stern-to they looked like

big, cottontail rabbits. The marsh more attractive today. More color,

prettier and longer grasses, and glimpses into the lonely cypress

swamps. Still the whole thing is pretty flat and unprofitable. Should

stop, spend a month to study and explore. H. has a notion he will cut

quite a dash at Ormond Beach, and I have advanced him 25 cents for the

purpose, so it is ever on, on, on. Grounded twice more in afternoon,

but come off as I came on. If you lay flat on your stomach and waited

for a spring tide you might be able to drown about here. Towards night

the clouds banked up ugly in west and a sharp little squall swept the

river as I dropped hook for the night. By 8 o’clock skies had cleared,

but it doesn’t seem as if the wind blew hard enough to sweep the clouds

very far away.

_February 1st._ Comes early, say about 1 a.m. when tide turned and with

smartish northeaster, we ran plunk onto an oyster bar. Might as well

run into the Old Cock of Hen and Chickens. Turned out to find nothing.

Black as indigo. Had to get compass to find out whether it was Florida

or Chelsea. Messed around and hauled into channel. Turned in with

thoughts of steamers, tows, and log booms all on top of me at once. Up

and away under whole sail to freshening northeaster. Took bottom almost

immediately but crowded off and smothered down stream. Breeze pricked

right on and we had our hands full slacking peak, jibing, hoisting

again and trying to keep in enough water to wash dishes. Jumped her

good and plenty once more but we were boring at it so hard that we

just split that mud flat wide open and went on. We boomed into St.

Augustine at 10:30 cutting a few fancy steps along the water front and

making a North River jibe to our anchor. Took things easy and didn’t go

ashore until after lunch. Going ashore at a resort of this kind after

leaving the swamps and marshes seems somehow like going into a 10-cent

store. Everything looked pretty cheap and nasty. We wandered about

for a few hours. Saw old Fort Marion and the Ponce-de-Leon Hotel. The

courtyard of the hotel is truly beautiful. The street crowds look a

good deal like those at Cottage City and we were glad to get on board

and have supper by ourselves. Saw by the paper that another 3 master

was dismasted within 20 miles of us in the blow we took the day before

reaching Fernandina. Too much of the wreck business going on at my

door. At Southport the 4 master went on Frying Pan. Off Georgetown when

we layed to in the southwester, the 3 master McFarland was dismasted

and we saw the hulk at Charleston. This last dismasted derelict we saw

as we crossed St. John’s River, into which a revenue cutter had towed

her. Must mind my P’s and Q’s or will be getting my come-gee-come

myself. Here we are getting cold, raw weather for most part with fierce

gales sweeping the coast every few days and all letters tell me of

mildest weather in the north. Trees budding, flowers blooming. It all

seems kind of topsy-turvy.

_February 2 to 4._ Just fooling around St. Augustine and waiting for

Chinamen to wash up our wash.

We went to the much advertised South Beach where we expected to find

quite a bit of life, but instead found the cheapest sort of outfit

with not a soul in sight. There was an alligator farm with hundreds of

the critters from the biggest and oldest down to teeny, weeny little

fellows. They also had lots of rattlers and moccasin snakes caught

right about here. I guess the Mascot’s cabin is full as good as tent

life in these parts. St. Augustine differs from all the other cities

we have seen because it is the oldest one in the United States and has

a distinct and most attractive individuality handed down from days of

Spanish rule. We should have done a little sightseeing but for us,

sufficient for each day is the hustle thereof. One evening long after

dark as we were leaving the wharf in putt-putt, a man hailed us and

asked us where our lantern was. I replied that it was on board the big

boat and asked if they were fussy around here. The voice from the dark

said, “You are talking with the inspector.” I didn’t just remember the

repartee for the situation, but meekly told H. to row on board. Am

awaiting arrest now, and it ain’t so funny as it sounds. Would rather

be layed to outside than languish in prison. Wish I knew how to spell

“Layed-to.” Never feel sure whether I am a sailor or a hen-yard. Have

our shore grub in a sort of “Club,” all dolled up in imitation Moorish

fashion. Not badly done and good cook. We have never seen more than

three persons besides ourselves eating there. I fancy hotels and all

are sort of subsidized by Henry M. Flagler. One night we heard a bully

crash and down the stairs came a girl imitating Scotty in a fit. H. and

I to the rescue pronto. We picked her up, and undoubtedly saved her

life, but got no prize, and she dined with another fellow. That makes

me think that Scotty being particularly well got some meat the other

day. The fun began in the fore peak, but instantly spread over the

whole ship. A tangled mass of claws, teeth, and fur landed first in my

lap, and then in the cockpit. While H. jumped on deck to see if it had

gone overboard, down through the skylight it came like a rocket stick

scattering pens, ink, paper, etc., etc. all about. When I picked my

head out of my bunk pillows the cyclone had disappeared in the lazaret,

the entrance to which we blocked up promptly. No more meat, Scotty.

[Sidenote: Map E.]

_February 5th._ Were away in an undeniably pretty chance. Single reef

and good breeze northeast with clear skies. Much more attractive going

with shores edged with timber and with water clear and with some color.

Strong head tide, but we bucked it handsomely until 12:30 when we took

bottom good and plenty giving us a chance to lunch quietly and write

log. With coming tide we floated and were stuck again in 100 yards.

Floated and ran ashore some more. Next time we got her going, away we

went like a pigeon without his tail, for an oyster shell had somehow

wedged itself into the bottom rudder pintle hole and so lifted rudder

that wheel wouldn’t go in gear. Merry minutes until we could dig old

tiller out from lazaret and ship it. Night was falling and after

working her around a particularly bad bend we anchored for the night

which was clear and precious near frosty.

_February 6th._ Another peacherino morning with nice working northerly

airs. Never had sailboat a better weather chance to work southward.

Would like to work it hard but am only just mending up after the

previous hard spells and must go easy, so 8:30 before we slipped away.

Down river with fair wind and tide abooming. Passed a fine bit of old

Spanish ruin. By far and away the best thing of its kind I ever saw

over here. It was an old tower built as a southerly defence for St.

Augustine. Then we crossed Matanzas Inlet and entered upon some most

pernickety navigation. With H. on bowsprit and clear water we managed

to get along 4 or 5 miles with repeated draggings, and jumping her

over. At last we made a sad miscue and ran her up on an oyster bar with

everything standing and at about full of the tide. Had to get mighty

busy and mighty quick. Little anchor astern no good. Up hatch and drag

out those big 200 lb. sacks of wet sand and put them on rail. No good.

Out big anchor, and as last resort, before throwing ballast overboard,

I hitched on throat halliards and held her down to her rail. Just as

we came two blocks she moved a hair and by lustily pushing and hauling

we worked her off and piped crew to dinner. Close call for a 12 hour

set and midnight circus. Away after lunch and entered the cuttings of

the Florida East Coast Canal Co. Had a bully afternoon. Bright warm

sun. Woods open to edge of canal and canal itself interesting with

its dredged banks sometimes 20 or more feet high on either hand. Sand

mostly of beautiful coloring, siennas, chromes, deep browns and now

and then great streaks of gamboge. Sometimes the cuttings had gone

for miles through the shell rock called coquina, and here the canal

water had cut hundreds of little miniature caves and grottos. Later we

passed orange plantations with some trees all in yellow fruit close

to the bank. The whole afternoon was fine and the most peaceful and

restful we have had for many a day. We saw pelicans and white herons

and blue herons, hawks, buzzards, swallows, and big, fat mallard

ducks. We skirted close and peered into great, gloomy palmetto forests

which somehow had the look of sheltering alligators, and snakes. At

nightfall we came to a highway bridge and tooted our horn in vain.

Stopped, tied up, and investigated. On a sign we read that if we left

the draw open we would have all manner of things done for us. H. was

soon playing ring-around-rosey with the iron bar and back the draw was

going when down the road from nowhere comes an auto. “Hey, there,” says

the pompous one, “Shut that draw and let us over.” “Not much until I’m

through,” says I, and we didn’t. The chauffeur came to look at Mascot

and said, pointing to her, “Will that go upon the ocean?” “Sure,” says

I. “I thought so,” he replied and went to tell the people in the car

the remarkable fact. As near as we can find out nobody has ever come

down here under sail before. The natives stare with astonishment at the

bit of canvas. It is my impression that nobody else will ever come,

either. We tied up to the bridge abutment for the night.

[Illustration: Spanish Fort Matanzas Inlet.]

_February 7th._ Weather had turned to the bad during the night, and in

the pitch black of 5 a.m. I was waked from a bully sleep by a hurry

call on deck from H. First time this cruise that H. has had to call

_me_. Tumbled out to find a big scow houseboat trying to get through

the draw and being swept back and down atop of us. We pushed and pulled

awhile and finally he worked through and we turned in again. We entered

the broad reaches of the shoal Halifax River where stakes and finger

posts guided us along a channel having about 6 feet of water. Often

for miles there were no posts and we had to go it blindly with help

of lead. It rained bucketsful and I wished I could turn boat bottom

up, for there was plenty of water upstairs. Worked down past Ormond

Beach and passing through the bridges found ourselves off the wharves

of Daytona. In trying to reach the wharves we ran her ashore for keeps

so went to town in launch. Met Henry’s uncle who was much troubled to

think of the Mascot stuck on the mud. Kind friends at the yacht club at

once organized a relief expedition which resulted in the running ashore

of the relief launch and the smashing of her rudder. Much pulling and

hauling followed, but old Mascot never budged which was quite as it

should be for I might have broken my rudder if she had started. Late

that evening when a few inches of tide served, H. and I put out our

big anchor with all our chain to hold it down and after dumping over a

little sand ballast, floated her without trouble and somewhat to the

surprise of the natives were lying quietly at yacht club wharf early

next morning.

_February 8th to 16th._ Put in quietly and pleasantly at Daytona, which

is a mighty attractive place. Mr. Rodman, Henry’s uncle, was most kind

in every way. Hired bicycles and rode to Ormond Daytona Beach, which

is a wonder. Saw flying machines taking up passengers at $25.00 each,

and we envied the rich. H. showed signs of having a brain, for after

discussing the rather tedious proposition of pushing, pulling, and

hauling old Mascot further south through the mud and sand, he suggested

taking the launch and making a dash for the pole. That sounded good to

me, so we built a framework of boards along the rail of the launch to

carry our dunnage and after sawing off the legs of two chairs bolted

them to the thwarts. It made a funny looking ferryboat, but I believe

if we strike good camping weather and sprinkle lots of carpet tacks

about to keep the alligators and Seminoles away o’nights, we may have

a mighty good time with sporting element not lacking, which would

certainly be the case in Mascot. Plan to sew spinnaker into some form

of tent to be set up with oars and boat hook. Letter from John Bullard

says Jack Reynolds is reporting Scotty as dead. What do you make of

that? He must be trying to manipulate the market and selling short.

Spent all one evening trying to define what I mean by the word “sport”

and sifted it down to this: