DUCK

Take the four breast meats of two duck. Smother them 5 to 8 min. in

½″ water skin-side down in covered saucepan. Dip in egg and cracker

crumbs _once_ and fry brown in very hot bacon drippings. Serve on

toast with sauce poured over.

This is an economical dish, too, for you get all the breast meat and

none of the other gets cooked until you put it into pot for a stew or

soup. I think a touch of lemon in place of Worcestershire would help

that sauce, but it’s a mighty good dream as it is.

Weather grew continually more ugly and finally about sundown it began

to blow and rain southeast with good, earnest tropical rain. Well I

guess, and more to come. It swept across decks like a flood and dashed

into cockpit so hard we had to shut cabin doors. We smoked up our pipes

and managed to create quite a cosy atmosphere.

_February 20th._ Turned out before day broke and found things shaping

for a pretty morning. Queer what critters we humans be. Last night in

the blow and rain I felt like home or die, and this morning it was

Miami or bust. Kicked my crew awake and we were soon picking our way

among the shoals and islands of Indian River Narrows. All the marshes

were in young green. Vivid in the early morning light. H. could hear

the birds everywhere and we passed a great flight of swallows winging

north. From these Narrows we entered the long stretch of lower Indian

River and stopped first thing to lend a man a hand who the evening

before had run his little houseboat high and dry and with his wife had

spent a most uncomfortable night. It was no use, we couldn’t budge

him. Before we left he paddled over with his anchor and a warp big

enough for the Fall River boat and asked us to bend it on for him as he

frankly confessed he never could learn to tie those knots. We put sail

to her and with fresh northwester on our counter began to reel off the

miles in great shape. Having only about 500 lbs. of sand aboard the old

boat would plow her nose right into it and try to turn and look us in

the face, but with launch tied astern with quarter lines we kept her

head southerly and let her boil with about 2 ft. of water under her

keel. At Fort Pierce, a distressingly barren looking town, we stopped

for gas and went on with a reef in the mainsail. The afternoon’s sail

was what you read about. Smooth water as blue as blue can be. Green

shores not too far away. A smart breeze with balmy warmth to it. Calm

at sunset with a great full moon rising into a purple-blue tropic sky.

Quietly to anchor under west shore some few miles below Jensen.

_February 21st._ Dawn found me peeking out and boiling coffee, but

heavy land fog kept us at anchor and we didn’t point her nose south

until 7 o’clock. The fog away, there came a bright hot sun which

brought out the awning pretty quick. We crossed St. Lucie Inlet and

there watched an Indian fisherman stand on the bow of his motorboat

and take her over the shoals and through the surf. The bright sky,

blue water breaking over the bar, the boat, the man so unconsciously

graceful made a delightful picture. Then on into narrow crooked going,

deep into the tangled mass of mangrove swamps. Finger posts guided us

for the most part well but sometimes there were none, and we wandered

off into blind leads only to have to push back and try again. About

noon we passed through Hobe Sound where on left-hand shore which we

skirted were lots of ideally beautiful Florida winter homes. The houses

unpretentious, well done, and the gardens a mass of bloom and color.

Again we plunged into swamp but now much more beautiful. Then we

shot out into Jupiter River just above the inlet and making a mighty

sharp bend jumped at once into the swamps again. We are in this swamp

as I write. So narrow the creek that the palm trees cast shadows on

the paper as I write. Color is everywhere now. Green in every shade,

yellows, browns and reds. The mangroves with their thousand roots make

a green wall along our way. The water flows in and under for Lord knows

how far. I want to write to a man who has put up a “For Sale” sign and

ask him whether he sells by the acre or gallon. Flowers, too, lots of

them. Morning-glories and all sorts and kinds and colors that I don’t

know the name of. Passed from the creek out into Lake Worth about 5

p.m. and sailed down towards Palm Beach as the sun was setting and that

wonderful blue was growing in the east. Came to anchor at nightfall off

the docks and gardens of the Royal Poinciana and watched the big moon

rise over the gables of that famed establishment.

For several days now Scotty has given us much anxiety. Even warm malted

milk has what you call distressed her, and she has not been particular

as to where to be distressed. Tonight after supper we finally found her

stiff as a board in bottom of launch. We gathered round to shed a tear

when she lifted her head, cried “skizzgah! skizzgah!” and returned to

life. She is a mighty sick mimi tonight, however. I am afraid that old

broken end of glass medicine dropper is trying to permanently locate in

her interior. She does not seem to suffer pain so will just let things

go. I hate to think of her leaving us. Trains of cars cross the bridge

near by, and the fit may have been caused by fright at their noise.

At 9 p.m. I had a fit of my own and nothing for it but must doll up, go

ashore and see the sights. To the hotel, of course, and there instead

of finding people out enjoying the glory of the beautiful evening we

found them working hard at the dance and at cards. It is all very

interesting and to me novel. I have never seen a crowd of Americans

of this stamp at play. The women looked tired and fagged and the men

not much better. There was no light-heartedness anywhere and the whole

thing done as if on the stage. There were several couples who later in

the grill-room danced the “trot” for the edification of all hands to

the music of a nigger band and singers. I got the impression the girls

were professionals and the men working out board and lodging. I learned

later that their names appeared in the newspapers as “society leaders.”

I saw only one or two aristocratic looking women, the others were not

more than one generation from the immigration office. It will be many a

year yet before our people learn how to enjoy their leisure time. How

easy in this new workshop of ours to make a few dollars, but how hard

it seems for people to get any real pleasure in the spending of them

when made.

[Illustration]

_February 22 to 28th._ Palm Beach. From our anchorage the whole scene

is most attractive. The Royal Poinciana is a huge caravansary and with

its roof topping the green of the palms has a good bit of grandeur. The

color scheme is undeniably good with light yellows of the palm, the

blue-green of the palmetto, pure whites and faintest pinks reflected

from red piazza roofs, themselves hidden by white balustrades. Launches

with merry parties are dashing all about and lend flashes of bright

color. Houseboats with bunting fluttering come, anchor, and go again

while now and then an army hydroaeroplane jumps in air with roar of

motor. On shore the band plays and nice looking people take tea beneath

the palms or are wheeled about in chairs. We go ashore and look and

stare. Watch the bathers and even venture to take a meal or two in the

“winter garden” but take it from me, brown-tail moth is nothing to the

sting of poverty and somehow there seems to be a light-heartedness

lacking to it all and soon my interest flags and I want to be into the

swamp and away. Over it all floods hot sunshine with muggy air which

has no freshness even in the early morning.

_February 28th._ We turned out at daylight and took the ship over to

West Palm Beach where we put in a mighty hot, weary morning getting

provisions, water and ice. The wind was heavy from south, square in our

teeth, and rain squalls added to the general soaking wet conditions.

H. caught himself just as he was going to say something about not

going any farther and smothered it up. We were on fine edge, both of

us. I have heard about these tropic conditions and the way they will

break a man up and am rather glad to give them a try. We were off

at 11 o’clock and made better headway against sea and wind than we

expected. At the foot of Lake Worth we entered a long canal cutting

with banks beautifully overgrown with all manner of trees, bushes,

vines and flowering plants. The breeze came a bit fresher and we

gradually relaxed the nerve tension and by evening were able to speak

quite civilly to each other. At night we tied up to the canal bank with

a great magnolia tree half filling the cockpit. Our first mosquitos

appeared in force, but we rigged nettings and kept the cabin free of

them and also free of any breath of air. It was pretty stifling hot,

and having still a few nerves on hand, my night was not of the best.

_March 1st._ Comes bright, hot, and with the same steady southerly

wind. When we went to cast off our shore lines we found that the one

made fast in the tree was only a foot or two from a wasps’ nest with

critters on it as big as bats. How we escaped an awful stinging up last

evening I don’t know for we were pulling and hauling with our heads and

shoulders among the branches. Rather a problem, the casting off of that

line. We settled it with one barrel from old Bess, a quick jump to the

limb and a noble effort by little putt-putt astern. Then it was away

through the Everglade swamps with now and then a turn which brought

us within sound of the pounding surf just over the narrow sand strip

separating us from old ocean. Passed Hillsboro Inlet, and new Inlet,

taking bottom in good shape at last named. The way was walled with

green and many flowers gave touch of bright color. Soon after starting

we had the luck to see a good-sized alligator floating not more than 10

feet from the boat. He was probably 5 or 6 feet long, an ugly looking

cuss. H. won 10 Coca-Colas for seeing him first. Funny little crabs

with bright red legs and white nippers scurried back and forth under

the long mangrove roots. With exception of pelicans and herons this

was the only sign of life and the absence of it makes much of the

dreariness and it is dreary. About 4 in the afternoon we came to our

last canal, where a heavy chain across effectually stops navigation.

$3.60 bought us our round trip ticket and a ride on the roller coaster

and we were soon far into the sticks again. At night we again tied

to trees and the mosquitos descended in clouds. Scotty insisted on

constantly going in and out and leaving a gap in the netting. The air

was hot and heavy, the cabin suffocatingly warm. Mosquitos as big

as buzzards and with venomous stings. One gave me a fierce touch of

malaria right on the knuckle of my big toe. I was good and tired, but

I had the twitchums all over as soon as I turned in. At midnight we

turned out and battled the brutes with Japsticks and with fair success.

_March 2nd._ Comes with blazing sun heat. We are both in good working

shape again and a broken night’s rest means little discomfort. Had

good breakfast and were away into sun’s glare at 8. My eyes suffer

some even behind blue glasses. Like yesterday, the road is pleasant to

travel, bordered by the deep green of mangroves and giving every now

and then a peep up some little branch into the mysterious silences of

the great swamp. We crossed lagoons and big lakes in which we always

got aground as the finger posts were either broken down or unplaced.

It was particularly attractive just before entering Biscayne Bay for

the trees were higher and overhung the river more completely. We both

compared it with the upper waters of the Charles. Biscayne Bay looked

mighty big as we left the narrow little creek and pushed out against a

strong southwester. It didn’t seem possible not to find our 3½ ft. of

water in such a great sea, but that’s just where we missed it, for we

have found on the whole trip no more puzzling navigation than we had to

tackle this afternoon. The water was a light brunette and the shoals

didn’t show, while the posts were at long intervals and often no way

of telling which side to leave or how close to go. We jumped her along

about 2 miles and then stuck her. Pushed off, ran across narrow channel

and slid her way up on other side. Then heavy squalls swept up the bay

with sheets of rain and we ran below for lunch. Lunch over, along came

a Christian in a launch and offered to give us a pull. He said he knew

just how and made fast to my anchor warp about half out to the anchor

on his bow cleet. Then he called for plenty of slack so as to get a

good start. I accommodated my friend, of course, and away he went 10

knots an hour. Things happened when that line taughtened and I thought

the launch would throw a somersault. It stayed right side up, however,

but he ran out towards my anchor and picked up the bight of the warp in

his propeller and went out of business until, with head under water,

he managed to free the mess. I certainly did pity that man. When all

was fair again he gave me another pull in Bristol fashion and twitched

me off so hard I again shot across the deep water and piled up on the

opposite flat. He went off then and H. and I prepared to labor, but

quicker than scat, all the squall clouds that had come over from the

southwest banked in the northeast and came charging back with such

deluge of rain and spiteful wind that we ran below for shelter. The

rain was soon over and a good cool, squally northeaster took place of

the warm souther. We sprung single reef mainsail on her and finally

landed her afloat, but heading towards home. Carried anchor line to

quarter and tripped the hook when her head was right, and nosed along

with a little peak of sail. In about half a mile we came to the post

with sign meaning “keep away.” We kept away and have kept away ever

since for we landed her harder than ever and made a bad matter worse by

crowding her on still more with sail. The day was about over and we had

had enough, so after finding that the channel ran close to the stake

we called it quits, and went below for supper and the night with the

lights of Miami in view. We are broadside to wind and sea. The former

threatens to blow on a gale but the latter is insignificant on account

of shoal water and a handy weather shore.

_March 3rd._ Passed comfortable night except for an occasional loud

slap as some wave would smack square on her bilge. Turned out to a

downright owly northeast blow and pouring rain. Rather gloomy prospects

for wrecking operations, but soon after breakfast I felt Mascot getting

uneasy and quickly running out big anchor and putting our ballast all

on starboard deck, we hauled into deeper water without any trouble at

all. We certainly had a morning tide 6 inches higher than the previous

evening one. I figure the heavy southwesters of last week blew the bay

waters up into the swamps for hundreds of square miles. The sharp turn

to strong northeast blew the bay water out and to fill up the hole all

the swamp water got on the move. When the incoming tide in the bay met

the outgoing swamp current the two just naturally humped right up. With

Mascot afloat we took launch a mile or so down the bay and sounded out

a little water to travel in. It was a bit lumpy and we were soaked on

our return. Goose winged our sail and we were off for Miami where we

arrived about noon and dropped hook off wharves.

I guess this is the southern end of the cruise. I want to go a-fishing

and I want to go down among the Keys, but the season is getting on and

indeed the road to the northward is long. The south point on my compass

is all rounded off from steady use, and you can hardly read the letter

“S” it is so worn. I must rest satisfied with having brought the boat

down and, I hope, taking her back.

_March 5th to 11th._ We wasted no time, but put the Mascot into

shipyard at once where we overhauled and painted. The yard was some

ways up the Miami River where no breeze reached us and where the hot

sun poured fiercely down and sopped every ounce of ambition from us

both. At night we had to screen the cabin on account of the mosquitos

and we tossed on our transoms until well into each morning. The air

so lifeless and saturated with the pungent smell of copper paint that

I was sick to my stomach in the mornings which was no happy beginning

for a long, hot day. I have been looking the sun straight in the eye

for 5 months with result that my own eyes pain me constantly and I

am always behind blue glasses and canvas patches. It is all a bit

tedious and makes home look a good ways off. Miami, like all the towns

we have visited, seems to be in the midst of a real estate boom. The

sun pours down and is beaten back into your face and eyes from new

cement sidewalks and buildings. A jumble of architecture without any

apparent why. No quiet, no shade, no cool narrow street into which

to turn. No escape from the raw crudity of it all except to the boat

where the paint is blistering on the deck and the motor launches are

shaking the very air with unmuffled exhaust. The Royal Palms offers a

bit of pleasant contrast with a rather small but well done garden not

unlike Monte or Mentone and a good view of a sea gorgeously blue. To go

fishing from here requires a hired launch and men and is too expensive

and the season is so well along I dare not take the time to go down

among the Keys in Mascot.

On returning alone to the boat one night, H. having gone to the movies,

Scotty failed to meet me at the rail. To my call I soon heard her

little feet scrabbling across decks and before I could catch her in my

arms she fell into the cockpit and with a little paw on my foot died.

“Pauvre petit Miami-mi.” The heat, the noise, the smell, too much for

little Scotty. You who love animals will know how we missed that little

bunch of fur, and you who don’t are of little account anyway. We gave

her a sailor’s burial in the Miami River and by mutual understanding

have not mentioned her name since.

[Illustration: Scotty at her Best.]

_March 11th._ Right merrily did we jump to halliards and quick as

scat did we trip our hook and send it swinging to the bowsprit end

for we were homeward bound with kicker astern and a smashing breeze

on our quarter. Hard earned experience stood us in good service and

we successfully negotiated the pernickety waters at the upper end of

Biscayne Bay and plunged into the mangrove bordered swamp channels

beyond. About 5 p.m. we came upon the 90 ft. powerboat _Osprey_ hard

aground and swung across the canal about a mile from the tollhouse and

barrier chain. In trying to squeeze by his bow we also fetched up,

and between us we effectually put that canal out of commission. After

much pushing and hauling we worked by but immediately were swept ashore

again by the tide. This time we had to run a line from masthead to a

tree and heave down a little. Mighty glad to get going, for a night

in that canal with its clouds of “skeeties” is no joke and I sure

pitied those poor _Osprey_ folks who couldn’t float before midnight. We

anchored in the beautiful lagoon near the New River Inlet where we saw

a wonderful sunset and ate a wonderful supper of beefsteak and proper

fixings. The night fell calm and hot and I had to turn out and put on

nettings to keep the beggars out.

[Illustration: A Gator]

_March 12th._ Up with daylight. Think H. has been bitten by a tsetse

fly, for he sure has the sleeping sickness. _Osprey II_ came down

lagoon about seven o’clock and we let him pass us before picking our

hook. _Osprey_ promptly went aground when taking the cutting at foot of

lagoon. She backed off and we went ahead and gave him the good water,

but tide was running sharply and he lost control and piled up again.

We left him frittering away at the mud and sand. We had some trouble

of our own later, but it all goes much easier this way. The sun isn’t

glittering on the water ahead. We know how to avoid many of the worst

places and when we do stick, each one of us knows just what to do and

when to do it. This trip back ought to be a dandy. We have both spoken

today of our feeling of relief from strain. There is no wind today, but

it is fairly cool under the awning. Saw three alligators, one an old

whopper, and one so near the boat we could have struck him with the

boat hook. Later we saw three more “gators” and H. put a bullet slap

into the head of one. We thought he was our meat sure for he was in

only six inches of water. The little 22 cal. pellet failed, however, to

stop him. Towards three o’clock we came into the lower reaches of Lake

Worth and had a beautiful trip down its smooth waters. The motorboats

and speed launches filled with gay parties passed us without a look.

Offsprings of Mammon, the nasty rich. Anchored off Poinciana where

things begin to look draggy. Today was a good run indeed for the little

putt-putt. Over 40 miles in 11 hours.

_March 13th._ Turned out at daylight again. No use for the bunk these

hot, lifeless mornings. Got provisions, ice, etc., and up anchor by

10:30. “She’s the Liverpool packet, My Boys, let her go.” North from

Palm Beach the sail along the shore is most beautiful. More flowers are

in bloom than when we came down and I guess it was a “riot of color”

this morning. I am mighty glad to have seen it, but am not sorry to

be leaving it. When I asked a storekeeper why everybody didn’t leave

it, he answered, “By God they just can’t. In three years they lose all

their money farming and then they ‘gotter’ stay.” Some of these farming

propositions look short of criminal. A sample of Everglades soil sent

to Washington for analysis was returned to Miami with report that there

was no value to it for any crop except slight trace of moisture. The

old trade wind blew heavily from south, but for comfort’s sake we kept

awning up and let her jog along with motor. It is no joke to pile up

under sail in heavy breeze and have to push, pull and kedge in blazing

sun. Down past Jupiter Inlet with rushing fair tide and on into Hobe

Sound which we thought more attractive than Lake Worth. The trout were

jumping beautifully all day. Everybody was fishing, but in all the

while we have been in Florida waters we have not seen a fish caught.

Way up northerly end of Hobe Sound we anchored for the night at 5

o’clock to escape the “skeeties” which would follow a night spent in

the swamps beyond.

_March 14th._ A good night with only one turnout to furl awning on

account of wind. A little more freshness to the air this morning yet we

are still sleeping with only sheet as cover and this morning a letter

from home gives temperature there as near zero. Under way by seven and

promptly hidden away in the swamp. There is nothing new to say of this

sort of thing. I never get tired of watching the color but I have no

words to describe that. Great green-headed tsetse flies with yellow

striped bodies make things occasionally quite merry, but otherwise

there is little doing. We remember most of the bad bends from bitter

experience and so we go chugging along most contentedly comfortable

and I wouldn’t be surprised to pick up a pound or so of that weight I

dropped on way down. Beautiful white herons, cranes and smaller blue

herons with now and then an eagle make something for the eye to follow,

but I sadly miss all signs of other animal life along the way. H. saw

a coon shinny up an old palm tree and disappear down the hollow trunk.

Besides that we have seen no fur. We most successfully negotiated the

narrows under power and double-reefed the mainsail after crossing St.

Lucie Inlet. This Inlet is very attractive looking both in itself and

surroundings. A boiling swirl of tumbling combers break on shoals

through which run the deeper channels of darker blue and emerald

green. To the south are the Jupiter Narrows with hundreds of miles of

interesting mangrove swamps. To the west runs the St. Lucie River along

the banks of which are located the Cow Creek Indians. Stretching to the

north are the broad waters of Indian River. We wanted to stop and look

the country over, but a day or two is nothing for the purpose and the

strong, fair wind too tempting.

We started to hoist sail when slam, bang down on deck came topping

lift block and masthead band. Away went boom and sail into water to

leeward. I don’t see now how that band jumped the masthead, but it did.

Luckily the boom didn’t break and we crutched it again with a strap and

peak halliards. H. don’t fancy masthead business much. Says it looks

high from deck and seems a good deal higher from aloft. Must keep him

up there a day or so for practice. We let her run with kicker to Fort

Pierce where we anchored and H. went aloft to put back the block on a

strap for temporary use. Then we had a fine sail before a stiff breeze

for rest of the day. The sailing was mighty quiet and restful work

after motor-going. No matter how perfectly the little engine is working

you somehow have it constantly in mind and are unconsciously listening

for a skip and speculating on probable cause. To escape mosquitos, we

anchored outside Indian River Narrows and took a heavy rain squall

as we dropped hook. The squall killed most of the wind and the rain

turned the hot, lifeless air into a steam bath. It promised a mighty

uncomfortable night, but the Japsticks drove “skeeties” out of cabin

and double nettings kept them out, so we got in a pretty good line of

sleepings.

_March 15th._ Comes warm, muggy and full of cloud but with promise

of better things and a good stiff breeze. We used power through the

Indian River Narrows and “good bye” to our last cocoanut palm as we ran

out into the upper Indian River and spread our two-reefed sail to the

ever freshening breeze. Everything bully. As I write we are bowling

along five to six knots. The sun is shining, the birds twittering

somewhere and lots of happiness for me. ----! ----! Those lines and

marks represent a fearful crash when we heeled to an extra heavy puff

and a whole fowl merrily boiling in the big pot on the oil stove broke

loose and went bottom up on the floor. Oh, dear! oh, dear! was there

ever such misfortune. All my happiness suddenly turned to sorrow and

greasy soup.

For the rest of the day with wind on port quarter blowing spiteful in

the puffs, we stormed it up river and anchored once more off Cocoa for

the night, having done some 50 miles for the day.

_March 16th._ Up with the day which broke with sharp rain squalls and

freshening breeze hauling to north and northeast. My right eye has

again given me trouble and I am once more harnessed to hot compresses

and stingy drops. I am all covered up with little nubbins where

“skeeties” have lunched and some big nubbins where a spider has taken

a meal. It may be beri-beri, but I favor the spider idea, for H. saw

a big black one this morning like a soup plate. He lives aft under

cockpit seat days, and comes nights and Sundays to bite me.

It breezed on fresh and as boat is all out of trim with almost no

ballast, it seemed foolish to buck to windward all day without

centreboard so tied up to leeward of the dock and went to knitting

and clothes washing. The cool, crisp wind makes everything seem much

better. In afternoon I got in a bully walk along shore to Rockledge.

This Cocoa and its shore are attractive. Beautiful orange groves and

some plantations. The air was full of the scent of orange blossoms

and flowers. Beautiful places line the roadway by the water and nice

boathouses with cement breakwaters shelter all manner of motor craft.

The speedboats are to race in a day or so and the little vermin were

whizzing up and down river in great shape. The night came ugly, with

sharp rising glass a good sign in these parts for northeast troubles.

_March 17-19._ We lay out a heavy Florida norther at Cocoa, for this

branch of Indian River is over 60 miles long and buttered with water

only from 6 inches to 6 feet deep and it is no joke to get piled up out

in the middle in a gale of wind. Morning of 19th the barometer showing

symptoms of dropping I just naturally had to take a chance and was away

with the first streak of light and a deluge of rain. Gee, but it did

rain and it was hard work for little putt-putt to push us against sea

and wind. No use looking at it any longer, however, and every mile puts

us nearer home. Found ourselves short two important articles, kerosene

and knitting cotton. The production of the latter in Florida is almost

nil. It is quite gratifying to find we both eat more and enjoy meals

aboard after five months of my cooking. To continue keeps me on my

mettle and makes three meals a day less a chore. The shore grub, unless

at the swell hotels is abominable, and we begrudge every cent paid

for it. Wish I could get inflammation out of my eye which constantly

troubles me. Rain poured steadily for three or four hours when clouds

broke and we had an undeniably fair afternoon. Shook out our canvas

and all the motorboats came close aboard for the “coosies” to snap

pictures of us as a curiosity. Truly it seems strange to see such a

sail in these diggings. Since leaving Chesapeake Bay, H. and I have not

seen a bit of canvas so big. We left that much overrated Indian River

through the very attractive Haul Over Cut and successfully negotiated

the shallows of Mosquito Lagoon. Night caught us just above Eldora and

in sight of the strange Indian shell mound. Mosquitos caught us, too,

swarms and clouds of them. We drove them from the cabin with Japsticks

and our nettings working finely we had most comfortable night with air

quite fit to breathe.

[Illustration: Slave Cabins]

_March 20th._ A good morning and we were off by seven. I came below

to write this foolish tale and we have been going aground constantly

ever since. Have had to push, poke, pull and shift ballast. Under these

conditions, this being an author is some job. At this moment I am

covered with blue mud and “skeetie” bites. Oh, you dear old Florida,

how we love you. There she goes jumping bottom again. Pulled into

Daytona about 3:30 and anchored off Yacht Club. Air fresher here and my

eye mending up nicely.

_March 21st._ Comes southerly. Beautifully fair. The glass is on

up-jump, however, and great tumbling masses of squall cloud are hanging

near southern horizon. Twice we have seen easterly weather forecasted

by just such conditions and we both remarked the fact. H. to masthead

where he replaced topping-lift block band and riveted it solidly. Then

on bicycles along Daytona’s wonderful beach to Clarendon Hotel, a very

good and new shop but a robber’s roost. Here we disported ourselves

in the ocean nit. We each took a warm tub and soap. Then a nice cold

lunch in a cool, shady little grill-room where the constant slamming

of a screen door disturbed seemingly nobody but me. I must be very

queer. Then home quick, quick, on account of rain squalls all about.

Provisioned up; went to P. O., and as we came on street again we saw

the very meanest of looking clouds banking up at northard and eastward.

It was hurry to wharf, into launch and off on board. The wind broke

before we reached Mascot and we caught her on the fly and hung on.

Threw stuff on board, scrabbled after it and to cover just as the

sheeting rain and wind tore down river. There it was again at east just

what doctor said in the morning. Things cleared away to a lovely, calm

evening and we went on shore to walk by moonlight under the palms. The

people all out on streets after the shower just like toads at home.

_March 22nd._ As fair as can be with light airs at northeast. Could

wish them at southwest. Away with kicker at eight and had truly a

devil’s own time getting up to Ormond. Ran repeatedly hard aground and

had vexatious time shifting ballast, pushing and pulling, but there is

no better training for business troubles than a cruise in these waters,

and H. is getting his. Said good-bye at last to the broad reaches of

Halifax River and entered the narrow and palm bordered upper branches.

Came to and passed the drawbridge which you have to open and close

yourself. Then on and on down seemingly endless stretches of canal.

When we passed over it before we plugged straight into the eye of a

strong southwester and consoled ourselves with the thought of booming

back with sheets broad off, but no such luck for wind held brisk

at northeast and we had the kicker on all day. It was a good day,

however, for the air was fresh and cool from the sea and the sun bright

and warm at our backs. My eye, much mended, gave me little trouble

and everything O.K. At night a few miles south of Matanzas Inlet we

anchored bow and stern for a quiet night and finished up our day with a

supper of strawberry jam pandowdies. Not restaurant ones, but the kind

when you cut them the butter and jam squidge out both ends.

[Sidenote: Map D.]

_March 23rd._ Beautiful morning with air still hanging at northeast.

Away down canal by eight. Crossed Matanzas Inlet and met such a strong

tide we had to clap sail on her to stem it. On through the marshes,

avoiding by luck and chance all of the flatgrounds which hung us up so

long and hard on way down. At one o’clock we sailed through the St.

Augustine drawbridge and came to anchor off the wharves. Last evening

the big black spider paid the cabin another visit but we were up and

ready and H. swatted him deado. To help us on the way down we had the

story of the Inside Route published in the “Rudder.” It is fairly well

done and helped us a lot. The author evidently never thought a man once

down the East Coast would ever try to come back again, so there is no

reverse to the yarn, and complications are fearful. We have tried all

ways including upside down, looking glass, etc., etc., but before H.

can find where we are in the story, it’s all off and we are high and

dry in reality. Things thickened up during afternoon and had I been

bound around the Cape, I sure would have stayed in Vineyard Haven.

Glass way up to 30.2 and the squall hit about eight o’clock just as

I was knitting comfy. Mascot in the sharp running tide began cutting

pigeon wings at once. She is sure a very slippery piece of wood either

under way or at anchor. Bang and more bang. On deck in pouring rain

and smartish breeze to find us most strenuously ramming the stern of

the big houseboat _Swordfish_. Got our anchor and also very wet. Tried

to find a good big space for Mascot to play in but wind and tide were

too much for putt-putt and after ingloriously turning round and round

several times, we dropped hook in time to save running into a wharf.

Squall blew out in little while and we turned in for peaceful night.

_March 24th._ Bright and fair. Ashore early for provisions and away

with sail and kicker to the northward. This is a chance and must drive

her a little. Put canvas to her and with freshening southeast trade

drove her mile after mile at steamboat speed. Ran into canal and here

the wind, whiffling over tree-tops and high banks, produced such

wonderful and unexpected jibes that, to save the spars we had to douse

the canvas. With a fair tide we legged it fast and about 4 p.m. shot

out into St. John’s River and then into Sestor Creek where we soon

passed oyster bar on which we spent a night coming down. Then troubles

began and we ran ashore so many times in the next mile that we plugged

ourselves all out at the push hole and anchored her stem and stern for

the night.

_March 25th._ Off to a good start with breeze hauling to the southwest

and blowing most viciously. Set a goose wing to help her up the bends

of the snake-like little river and stormed on through the marsh which

is as brown as when we came down, although there is much new leaf on

the trees that makes good color. We had to make a board into the wind’s

eye before shooting out into Nassau Sound and when I brought her to it

she just whirled round and ran back up creek. I tried her twice but

like a colt at a steam roller she would have none of it and we had to

jump the two-reefed canvas on her. “Youse all” just ought to have been

on the beach and seen that little shippy work up that narrow reach,

tack for tack like on parade. On her ear with no ballast, and a chicken

stew lashed to the stove pipe she certainly cut out some turkey trots.

Never was such a little vessel. Built on honor out of oak just like old

_Mizpah_. The most wonderful thing that I should have owned and sailed

the four best boats in the world this last thirty-five years.

We bruised that Nassau Sound water scandalously and fairly boiled into

the stream beyond. Kept the two reefs on her only settling peak for

several sporting jibes. Had Fernandina in sight when we nicked a bend

and piled her way up. Tide was falling and it meant quick work. It

seems to me sometimes as if H. stopped to think, and there ain’t no

time for thinking when you’re high and dry with half a gale pushing you

on harder and tide running out from under. I guess I talked some quick

and sharp before I got that sail down, her head pushed round, sail

hoisted on other tack and dragged her into the channel. I apologized

all handsome, however, and we are still on friendly terms. Ran up to

wharf at Fernandina about 2 p.m. and have again doubled on our time

down.

_March 26th._ Undeniably fair morning with freshening breeze at

southard. Away under two reefs. Saw lots of shipping at anchor, loaded

and ready for sea. Couldn’t understand why they didn’t get away but

found out later. Stormed across Cumberland Sound and we must have waked

up the Laird of Skibo in his castle on Cumberland Is., for we roared

by like the bull of Basham. Crossed St. Andrew’s Sound with the water

all a tawny, yellow red, and so thick with mud that the quarter wave

sounded “swush” instead of “swish.” On into Jekyl Creek tearing and

bruising the water dreadfully, twisting, turning, jibing and wearing

her around. Here as we made a jibe our chart blew out of cockpit and

overboard. There was no room to turn so H. jumped into launch and went

back while I scudded on. H. caught the chart but couldn’t catch me

and away we went as tight as we both could lick it until I shot out

of the creek into St. Simon’s Sound, dropped anchor and smothered my

canvas. It was now blowing harder than I ever saw it out of a clear

and cloudless sky; but it was fair and we were homeward bound, so we

tucked in the third reef and let her whittle. Crossed the Sound and

dropped hook for the night well up into the next creek. Barometer

slowly working down and a good fresh gale of wind blowing. Guess those

schooner captains knew a few things.

_March 27th._ Turned out to find things looking mighty different from

day before. Wind a point more to westward and blowing viciously. Heavy

squall clouds all about. Mistrusted trouble but thought might poke

along a little way, so got our two anchors and square away under our

three reefs; caught a regular tartar soon after. Rain in sheets and

blowing so hard I doused sail to save chance of splitting it. An hour

more and the sky lifted in northwest and down she came a screamer. We

were at Altamaha Sound, but it seemed no use to put sail and rigging

to such strain when it would have been impossible to beat her any

distance up the creek beyond the sound if we crossed it, so finding a

good weather shore we dropped hook to await events. Now you fellows

just think a minute. We anchored last night about 400 miles from

Miami which we left just two weeks ago and have had ten sailing days.

That’s driving a little boat through pernickety country some. My, but

this cold norther feels good and the air is fit to breathe. We were

not sorry to bid good-bye to Florida yesterday morning. It is a queer

puzzle of a country and I understand it not at all. A land filled with

hope, enthusiasm and speculative boom on one side; with poverty, want

and failure just around the corner. A land of sweltering, enervating

days and nights. A country full of dark, silent, mysterious places and

fringed with bright, sparkling beaches. A land of creeping, crawling

things and of big birds with broad wings. In two hundred years I will

come again and see how it turns out. In meantime it will do its part

as the winter playground for half a nation. The venom kind of blew out

of the norther, so about four o’clock we gave her the three-reefed

canvas and beat her across Altamaha Sound putting another milestone

behind. Anchored short ways up creek beyond where night came mighty

cold and we slept long and well, snug and warm under two blankets.

[Illustration: The Mangrove Swamp.]

_March 28th._ Comes bright with waspish air at northeast and cold as

blazes. Would have given most anything for a breath of this stuff in

Miami. Tucked on all our winter clothes and sweaters and topped off

with oilers. Feel now as if I had caught up that foolish month of

December wasted along the Carolina shore. Away to the northard under

two reefs and kicker to help us tack for tack. Crossed Doboy Sound a

great stretch of brick-red water. What a country for the impressionist

where nature has spread the color in great sweeps of her widest brush.

Here is your red sea, your long lines of vivid green where red meets

the new springing marsh grass crowned with the dark brown and golden

yellow of the old. Above, a sky as blue as blue flecked with tumbling

clouds as white as snow. Can you beat it? We drove her along all day,

bruising it across the sounds sometimes with head, sometimes with

fair tide. In Sapello Sound we had an especially long, hard thrash to

windward during which the schooner houseboat _Agnes_ slowly beat us

out under her power. When we drew out into the broad reaches, however,

and got the full force of sea and wind, Miss Agnes bounced at it a

little while and then ran away up into a creek for comfort. Old Mascot

faced it like a horse and we soon popped into our river and were away

again. It was all in all a very sporting day and we anchored her for a

quiet night just before going out into St. Catherine’s Sound. The air

fresh and cool and filled now and then with the sweet scent of magnolia

blossom which we can see budding on the big trees ashore.

_March 29th._ Comes fair with wind still hanging doggedly to eastward

and viciously puffy. Away under single reef, for we must drive her a

bit to make Thunderbolt tonight. Across St. Catherine’s Sound where

we kicked up a good bit of dust and then creek and river winding and

twisting through the marsh and giving the quartermaster all he wants

at the wheel. We are bidding good-bye to our old friends the pelicans

which sometimes have made us feel as if we were sailing on a pond

in some big “zoo.” Bully old birds they are. The “dodo” of Alice in

Wonderland. We never failed to laugh at their clumsy effort to get

started, or to admire their glorious sweeping flight when under way. We

carried sail hard and H. about filled the standing room in one wicked

puff. Good fun to see the attention we get from ashore. All hands stop

work to see us go a-roaring by. People in launches waved their hats

and even a sawmill gave us the compliment of three whistles. At four

o’clock we rounded to our anchor in Thunderbolt. Nineteen days out of

Miami; fifteen sailing days, four hundred and fifty miles, and that’s

going some for a twenty-four foot boat. Don’t know where I would have

carried her if I could have seen out of both eyes.

_March 30th._ First thing to do here is to set the clock one hour ahead

for eastern time. Crew occupied all morning in ship’s duties. H. at

launch engine, I cleaning cabin. Swarms of midges, worse than Maine

black flies, drove us below behind nettings and made us grease up with

dope. The day shifting back and forth between northeast and south winds

and hourly downpours. Looking the northeaster three days in the face

put my eyes out of commission once more and they are in bad shape today.

_March 31st._ Will fit out here for northward run, for we are far

enough up for the season and this is a much better place than

Charleston. Am figuring on the April moon for the outside run. Have had

two rainy moons in succession and hope for a good spell on next one.

The weather has broken undeniably fair today and spring is in the air.

Every darky cabin is abloom with roses, and flowers are everywhere in

wood and field. I guess the birds are singing, for I see their bills

and throats wriggle. Wish I could hear them, but I can’t do everything

and I can play “The Devil’s Dream” and “Root Hog or Die” on my fiddle

which is more than any pesky spring bird can do. Sent H. to masthead

to scrape the spar down. He shows no enthusiasm for the job and I will

apprentice him to some tailor with middle class trade in small town.

Told him spars were like us human critters, the best had some weather

cracks and the smooth ones were to be mistrusted. My eyes mending up

nicely now and can see with both of them open at same time.

_April 1st._ For three days we have been very busy at ship’s duties. H.

has spent the time in the boatswain’s chair using scraper and varnish

brush a little and swearing much. He has the mast and hoops scraped,

shellacked and varnished and has a definite idea as to what I have

been doing on my holidays for past ten years. I have made a set of

screen doors and hatch screens all varnished and quite shipshape. It

has all been rather slow work as we have to do three miles to Savannah

for each little thing needed. The sand flies have been fierce. They

are a little bigger than a black fly but have venom in their bite and

literally drive us out of cockpit when it is calm. They are equally

bad on shore where the darkies build little smudges of leaves in the

gutters and huddle for protection in the smoke. We saw people dining at

a shore restaurant where smudges had been built all around the house

and were ourselves driven from a meal at the casino and fled aboard to

protection of our screened cabin and greasy dope. I am in hopes weather

will be ugly in a few days and then when it breaks fair again I want to

be in Charleston and do up the outside business on a good moon.

[Illustration]

_April 8-15._ We left Savannah with some regret for it is a most

attractive city. Our last afternoon ashore we passed in looking over

the ruins of an old rice plantation. Fine old southern mansion,

beautiful avenues of great, wide-spreading live oaks shading rows of

little brick slave cabins. In the long shadows of late afternoon it

was easy to people it in mind as of 70 years ago. A cold northeaster

whistled across the Savannah River as we again poked our bows to the

northard. Suspicioned trouble and lashed oil stove and stew pot with

extra care. We caught it good and plenty in Calibogue Sound with the

dust flying and we smashing into it under double reefs. That afternoon

found us in Port Royal Sound with pretty savage conditions for little

boats. To double the end of a middle ground before the turn of tide

we tucked launch astern in spite of a vicious sea and started at it.

We drove her hard and those nasty, curling red waves came kerswish,

kerswish across decks so fast there was no time to spit between. Launch

filled, went out of business and nearly sank. Had to do the last of

the way under sail alone. We just made our mark at the turn of tide

and easing sheets a hair we boiled up the Beaufort (N.C.) River. The

crew of a Gloucester fishing schooner riding out the blow at anchor had

evidently been watching our little circus, for, as we stormed by they

all jumped on the rail and gave us a swing of their caps. Fishermen

don’t do that often, but I fancy we made quite a little picture with

the yellow light of a low-hung sun flashing on our bit of white canvas,

our wet decks with cockpit rail level to the red suds and we in yellow

oilers, one braced to the wheel, the other perched on weather quarter

holding a turn of the sheet. The next day found us floundering about

in Coosaw River where the breeze put us entirely out of business and

forced me to lay to until, swept along by the tide, I noticed a little

creek making into the land and taking a chance, I popped in to quiet

water like a Jack-in-the-Box.

For the past few days we have seen the swallows in their flight.

Thousands and thousands of them. The air filled with the little

devils. A merry, joyous flight it is. Whirling about, up and down,

hoppity skipping along and hobnobbing with each other as if it was the

greatest fun going. I saw two bound for Potomska and the Pascamanset. I

knew them for the two happiest little cusses of the whole bunch.

Coosaw River took us into St. Helena’s Sound and with strong southerly

breezes we ate up the miles to the northard under double reefs and

all we could stagger to. Passed the point where on way down H. went

on shore and was nearly bogged. He now confessed that it was about

his first experience of real fright. Good thing to get scared up

now and then. Sort of gets you used to the feeling and helps you to

keep yourself in hand. Wouldn’t give much for a man who says he was

never scared as it simply means he is either a fool or has never been

properly tried out. So on and away before the gale. Sometimes beating

up the bends and again stretching down the reaches with that old main

boom jibing across decks as if it would tear the whole stern out of us.

H. wouldn’t let me go ashore and catch the very nicest little razorback

shoat I saw running on the beach with a lot of brothers and sisters.

Could have made ice chest into a nice little pen and put butter and

other stuff in the coal box. Would have made him handy as a lady’s maid

in no time. Funny how little some people care for pets. And so our

twisting winding way to Charleston where we gave our spars and rigging

a good looking over and rove a peak down haul to gaff end as an added

precaution.

[Illustration: Sumter.]

_April 15th._ At 3:30 a.m. the whistle blew and the game was on. The

weather map of yesterday gave me every confidence, but my glass hangs

lower than we have ever seen it in fair weather. Yesterday a schooner

captain said, “Yes, it looks like a chance, but I wouldn’t bet a chew

of terbaccer against a suit of clothes at this season.” We were away a

little after five, for it takes two hours after turning out to cook and

eat a good breakfast, wash up, have a quiet smoke, and tend and fill

lights, hoist sail and away. An ebb tide and a fresh southwest breeze

swung us quickly down the harbor and a big, red sun bursting above the

heavy cloud banks which seem always to hang over the gulf, lighted up

the little fluttering flag that flies so bravely night and day over the

pile of brick and mortar called Sumpter. My hat came off to it this

morning. What other flag have we got flying more worthy of a bow at the

break of day? We turned the jetty and headed northward in the heaving

ocean swell which we have not felt for over three months. Gosh! but

the place seemed to have grown vaster and more endless since we left

it. It was cold and raw. We put on everything we had and topped off

with oilskins and rubber boots. We were still shivering and cold and

finally in a burst of confidence admitted that we were both badly in

need of some of those dress shield things that women folks wear, for

we were gosh dinged nervous and no mistake. What on earth calls me to

tackle this kind of thing I don’t know. We were under single reef and

made noble time straight for Cape Romain and the shoals outside. You

may get some little idea of this country and famous Cape when you read

in government reports that a vessel drawing 22 ft. touched bottom 16

miles at sea. The day quickly clouded over and squalls gathered to the

westward. This seems, at this season with wind at southwest, to be the

regular order of things, but it is not pretty to look at. One-half the

worry and care of this outside work would be avoided by putting on a

yawl rig, standing out 50 or 75 miles and jogging quietly along ready

to ride out in deep water what came your way. This constant fear of

heavy breaking seas on shoal ground is what gets to your nerves and we

have seen and know something about it. We were off the Cape by noon,

nearly out of sight of land. The squalls were making up so heavily to

westward that a shift of wind off shore seemed certain, so I flattened

my sheets and stood in for the beach or rather the breakers, for you

can’t get very near the beach here. I was well up under the land when

we took a sharp puff with rain out of west and was able to ease my

sheets and still keep my course for Georgetown jetties. During the

afternoon we took squall after squall, but none of them hard enough

to pull us down to double reef, but all looking as if they intended

blowing us right out of water. It was a villainous sky to look at when

we rounded the jetty, hauled our sheets and beat up into the bay below

Georgetown and dropped our hook in calm waters. It is no use; I am

getting too old and good looking for night work along shore. I intend

getting in every night on this run if I can. I thought on my way down I

was as good as ever for a knockdown, dragdown proposition, but I found

I couldn’t come back after it. I lay the whole trouble with my eyes to

that month of sleepless nights and anxious days. I have never gotten

back the measly little nine pounds I lost in weight and if I lost

another nine there would be mighty little besides shoes and stockings

left.

[Sidenote: Map C.]

_April 16th._ Through the night the clouds all went off and morning

came as pretty as a picture. It was turn out again at 3:30. H. is alive

to the game and needed no second call. Off and away under single reef

to smart breeze at west-southwest. Not so much worry to it today, for

we could haul the beach close aboard and drive her along handsomely

in smooth water. It was a repetition of yesterday. To the eastward,

the sea; to the west, the low, desolate coast fringed with the white

of the beach and breaking seas. The thickening sky and then the black

squalls which came so heavily we had to tuck in our double reef. At

five o’clock we were off Little River inlet, one of the best on the

coast, with buoys to help the stranger. It didn’t seem possible for

such an ugly-looking sky to clear away, or I should have kept going

for Southport 30 miles away, so I ran into the hole in the wall and

found such smooth water inside that I was mighty glad I came. When this

inlet business works it works finely, but you have it always in mind

that once inside you stay inside for a week or longer if the ground

swell picks up on the bar. This inlet would be a grand one to come to

for a bit of shooting. We saw lots of big sickle-bill curlew and the

marsh was loud with the whistle of birds. I suggested to H. he better

take the gun and get a mess, but sufficient of one of these days is the

worry thereof, and he couldn’t be driven three feet away from his bunk

and blankets. The night came very ugly and I thought we were surely in

for trouble, although glass still remained low and steady.

_April 17th._ Clouds did all clear away, but how they did it is a

mystery to me. The morning came bright, cool and fair with rising glass

and light airs drifting from southeast. We were away at 6:30 and

with Southport only 20 miles ahead were able to drop care and worry

and enjoy as perfect a bit of sailing as we have had for many a day.

Have been figuring on this chance of the April moon for a long time

and drove up the coast to be on hand. This outside run should always

be made by little boats on the full of the moon. Not so much because

of the light as for the high tide in late afternoon which makes inlet

running so much easier. The sea, except for a heaving bit of ground

swell, was smooth and good to look at. The sky without a cloud, the

sun warm. I am already suspecting it for a breeder and making my

guesses as to how long the chance will last. To run an inlet tonight

or push her through with hope of Beaufort at noon tomorrow? At this

writing, 2 p.m., and just after running the Cape Fear slew, I have a

notion that my old fondness for getting little boats along will keep

me pegging at it tonight. I wouldn’t mind seeing a few clouds. Don’t

much like a cloudless sky, scalding sun and rising glass in April.

Still, the land don’t loom and there is a breeze. If it was dead calm

I would run Wrightsville Inlet sure. Who said I was old? Am no older

than you are, and of course when I reached Wrightsville Inlet and saw

the pretty night ahead and thought of the alternatives if I stopped, I

just sort of naturally kept a-going. As pretty a night as ever seen.

We were some bothered on account of launch stuffing box springing a

leak which necessitated bailing every half hour and would have caused

no end of trouble in case of a breeze of wind. Beyond this, there was

little worry except when about midnight wind hauled northeast and it

was for several hours a question whether it would pipe on hard or not.

It remained very light and with the sea smooth, stopped us little. A

big moon in a cloudless sky made things almost as bright as day and we

jogged on without incident until the light broke in the east. On making

the beach, we found our dead reckoning all O.K., and about ten o’clock

pushed our way against a strong ebb tide into Beaufort. In catching and

accepting this chance we completed the run of 250 miles in the running

time of 50 hours and total time of 77 hours. It took us one month to

cover it going down. It is a wonderfully interesting stretch of country

and seacoast. If the right fellow was here right now, in spite of the

fact that I have had but one hour’s sleep in the last 30 hours, I would

gladly go over it again. I feel I am only just beginning to learn how

to do it properly. It is the most tremendously lonesome thing you can

think of. Not a sail or a boat do you see unless it be some motor yacht

streaking it for harbor. We saw just two of them. Now and then little

local trading boats with motors sneak quickly from one inlet to another

like a mouse from hole to hole, and sometimes a fisherman launches his

skiff from the beach, but for the most part you are alone, entirely

alone. To the east, the big Atlantic lies with its constant heaving

swell; to the west the low beach broken only by the inlets marked by

the white breakers on the bar sometimes a mile or more to sea. Turtles,

great, big, seagoing ones, we did see four of, and one so close we

might have noosed it if we had been ready. I wish the right man would

come along and say, “Here, take me with you, build any kind of outfit

you want, all expenses will be paid and it will be worth your while,

too. Just show me how to get pleasure out of this kind of thing.” If he

was game I bet I could give him a run for his dollar.

_April 19th._ Turned out feeling as bright as a button, all sewed on.

Thought a week ago that when I reached Beaufort I would stay, perhaps

a week, for with its big fishing fleet coming and going daily, it is

a lively, busy cup of tea. Now that we are here, however, we both

find the constant noise of motors so damnable that we want to get

straightaway back to the sticks where with the coons and wildcats a man

can get his rest. We may go to Stumpy Point again, but I have a notion

that the people of Stumpy are like some Boston folks who eternally

spend their vacations at the same summer hotel. Very estimable,

industrious and sober. Of great worth to the community, but la, la, la,

Oh! la, la, la.

_April 20th._ Breeze came cold northeast with the sun and we

congratulated ourselves on making good the chance of getting here.

We know at least four boats that must be trying to get up from

Charleston. I have no worry unless broken down. We were away by nine

o’clock but the breeze and tide were so strong dead ahead, that in the

narrow dredged cutting leading across the big shallow bay which forms

Beaufort’s back yard, we were helpless and had to anchor for turn of

tide. We were under way once more about two p.m. and had no difficulty

in picking our way by the different ranges which in the clear air we

easily found. Passed the point where we grounded in the fog on way down

and entered canal leading northward towards Pamlico. Here we saw the

last of our palmetto scrub which last December we hailed with glee as

a sure sign we were getting to the southland. Pesky little did we then

know where we were going. Beyond the canal a pretty river beginning

to take on the appearance of approaching Christianity with its banks

heavily wooded with pine. The strong northeaster grew mighty cold as

the sun dropped low in the sky, the color of the bloom on a Concord

grape, and we were both of a shiver as we dropped hook in a little

branch, down which the big moon flooded its silver light between the

darkly wooded shores.

_April 21st._ Gloriously fine but with singing breeze still at

northeast. No use poking my nose out into Pamlico. Get it blown off

sure. It is great to be able to just loaf and take it easy, for we have

caught up our time and can afford to. The wind softened in afternoon

and taking the launch we wandered far up into the creek and found the

piney woods folks who were raising stock on what they called the “reedy

lands” which offered forage the year round. Here once more was the

peace and content writ upon the faces; plain for those to see who will

but come and look. I wonder if such peace comes to those who live where

the tide ebbs and flows as comes to mountain folk. Where has been the

nursery of our biggest minds?

The night came calm and still, and the big moon rose on the peace of

the world which so very many never see.

_April 22nd._ Colder than blazes all night and woke to a heavy land

fog enshrouding everything. Regular chills and fever stuff and think

better be moseying along to more open waters. Mighty shivery to us who

have but just left summer’s warmth. Yesterday we picked ripe, wild

strawberries, so I have a notion there are warmer times in store. Think

this country hereaway should certainly be looked over for its shooting

and hunting. As at Stumpy Point the “bars ketch up all the hoags” and

there are deer, possum, coon, fox and wildcat. Above all there is vast

country in which to roam. I would bring a double-walled tent, set it up

near some village and keep my own quarters getting some local hunter to

pilot me.

We were soon off and in light airs stretched down to Neuse River and

across to little town of Oriental, where sent a telegram and bought a

fine shad just landed from the traps. Then away in freshening southeast

breeze. Kept launch humming at it until the short, quick seas began

breaking over her stern, for we had pretty long 40 mile road to travel

before reaching Wysocking Bay on west shore. This Pamlico Sound may

be inside waters but mark me it is a pernickety piece of thin-spread

moisture. The shores low, we soon ran out of sight and bowled along

as if in mid-ocean until a cast of the lead gave us but 15 feet of

water. The Mascot is in no ways fitted for the work here and a right

smart breeze would put her at once out of business. The local boats

are, as usual, about the ticket. Rather narrow for length, slack bilge

and easily driven with small sail. The sea picks up and beats at you

as if it were a succession of stony walls and Mascot beamy, short

and heavily sparred simply flounders helplessly about. We had rather

uncomfortable work making Wysocking Bay just at nightfall. We overran

our log and, getting mixed on the bearing of the lighthouse, found

ourselves driving along in six feet of water with combing seas precious

near in cockpit. Finally got straightened out and ran in under the land

to an anchorage, but it was 8:30 before we sat down to fried shad and

potatoes and H. most too tired to pick out the bones. Guess must rest

up my crew a little in Manteo.

[Illustration: Manteo.]

_April 23rd._ Comes fair with wind hauled to southwest a-breezing right

on. Had visit from local old codger who said he did a lot of shooting.

Deer in summer, geese in winter. He allowed he didn’t want nothing to

do with “bar.” Just naturally didn’t fancy ’em. He hunted his deer by

turning on a dog and butchering the critter when it took to the water.

Said he would be glad to put us up for a hunting trip any time. Could

easily accommodate four of us because he had a good house with only

himself, wife and daughter, and had _four_ beds. Me for my own tent

or boat in this country. Like the good people of Stumpy, he had never

seen a woolen muffler or sweater and couldn’t keep his hands off of

them. To his mind they seemed the very essence of comfort and warmth.

Think a little trading voyage along here in fall of the year might pay

expenses. We tucked single reef in and then it was

Up sail, off and away,

Balance partners, all chassé.

We stormed it along all day with short, sharp following sea which made

us give launch a painter long enough to reach into next county. On that

she towed like a bird. We passed Stumpy without going in, for a second

visit would but spoil first impressions. Everywhere were the fish traps

and had to keep constant watch not to get inside the outside trap which

is often three or four miles from shore. These traps add a distinct

danger to navigation in these waters. If overblown you cannot seek

shelter and smooth water under a weather shore, but must stay outside

and bang away at it. To get mixed up in a set of stakes and net is a

very pernickety proposition. We had to guess the laneway between nets

some 3 miles away from the creek which forms the fisherman’s harbor of

Roanoke Marshes. We hit it right and dropped hook to quiet anchorage

in midst of a busy settlement of tiny fish shanties. We were at once

boarded by the population which made itself thoroughly at home and

roosted about watching us cook and eat our supper. We tried to get a

little information as to harbors at Roanoke Is. just across the sound,

and sailing directions for any port are given something like this.

“It’s this a-way. Youse all keep in the middle between the two pints

close to the south pint. When youse all gets up in a little, youse will

see a fish house to the northard and a little island. Go either side

of the island, but there ain’t no water on the south side since a year

gone by last Thanksgiving. No, I reckon it was Christmas when we had

the big tide that wrecked Simmon’s wharf. When by the island just steer

for the big tree and look out for the shoal ground off the fish house.

Say, how much water might youse all be drawing?”

“Three and one-half feet.”

“Well, I swan, you can’t get in thar noways for there ain’t more’n 2

feet water anywhar.”

_April 24th._ We were off and following caution to keep about middle

of creek we soon piled her high and dry in the mud. Had to drop sail,

run out anchor and heave off with aid of launch. Then away for pleasant

little 15 mile sail to Manteo on Roanoke Island. Manteo was good to

look at. A rambling, scattering lot of houses with a nice little creek

making the snuggest of harbors. From here we look across Roanoke

Sound and see the back of Hatteras Beach with rounded sand dunes like

mountains against the blue. Before we left Roanoke Marshes we were

given a fine shad and tonight we had it smothered and then creamed. O,

my. O, my. I wish youse all could have had some. Had lots of trouble

cooking it because H. was catching crabs as big as soup plates and I

had to keep rushing on deck to handle the net. Lots of Canada geese

decoys swimming up and down creek and honking most cheerily. One old

gander stands watch on the beach not 20 yds. away to guard his mate

who has a nest under an old boat near by. Let any of the others come

swimming too close and the old fellow with a sharp hiss is into the

water and at ’em.

_April 25th._ Comes pretty as a picture. A truly wonderful spell of

pleasant weather we are having. Up early. Put up a basket lunch and

went ashore after breakfast to spend the day driving up island to see

the site of Raleigh’s “Lost Colony” and the spot where Virginia Dare

was born. We made a good day of it and enjoyed the shade of the woods

and green of the trees. Except for electrics this was our first shore

ride since leaving home. The country was like Cape Cod, and the roads

deep with sand. Our little beach pony dragged the buggy around at a

walk and we just kind of sot, and sot and then sot. When we got back

to village we were bid to go out sturgeon fishing tomorrow. I guess H.

will go, but the old man feels his age a bit and will let the young fry

pull its heart out from 4 a.m. till noon. I have gained back two pounds

of weight and my eyes are much better, so it’s me for the rural, quiet

life.

_April 26th._ I put in a nice, quiet day shipping rope’s ends and

getting out stock for a wire screen on fore hatch. H. turned up at 3

p.m., disgracefully hungry and tired. His day had been a great success.

Very sporty get-a-way through triple line of breakers on the beach. A

long day three miles at sea pulling heavy nets and catching all manner

of strange fish, but no sturgeon. He wants to go again, and as I like

it here, too, think we may stay. H. reports two litters wild razorbacks

roaming the outside beach. This is interesting news and think must

visit that part of country as reports say some of the shoats are red

ones. In late afternoon we had a little crab picking bee and for supper

crab flakes on toast. Don’t it beat all?

_April 27th._ Sunday and no noise of motorboats for Sunday down here

is Sunday in very truth. The morning came with nice, soft rain from

southwest hauling westerly and with lifting cloud. Gave our special

orders to the grill-room and sat down to breakfast. Coffee, hot

buttered toast, H. fried oysters and crab flakes in cream for me. The

oysters have turned milky and have little taste but make a pretty good

fry still. Visits from fishermen in afternoon and the sun coming out

brightly we joined a motorboat party to Nag’s Head on the Hatteras

Beach. Had a fine chance to see the sand dunes which seem to me much

more beautiful and remarkable than those of Provincetown. Here, like

the cone of Vesuvius, they rise from the very sea level and stand out

alone against the sky. From Manteo at sunset they are like rose-tinted,

snow-covered mountains against the deep blue eastern sky of a southern

twilight. They move up and down the shore with the gales, and under one

big fellow now lies completely hidden a little hotel just back of the

fishing village of Nag’s Head.

_April 28th._ Comes fine in spite of a barometer that tumbled four

points yesterday. H. off early again with the sturgeon fishermen. I at

work on ship’s duties and making fly screens. By noon, squall clouds

made up. Wind hauled northeast and blew freshly. Guess it’s all right,

but wish little Asticot was back. He came back all right, having had

fine time and helping catch a sturgeon which from sporting standpoint

was nix as they just hauled him into the boat half drowned and rolled

up in the gill net. They caught two big man-eaters about 14 ft. long

and a 75 lb. green turtle. H. appeared on board with plenty of sturgeon

steaks and the whole of the green turtle. We had the steaks for supper

and they were fine. Sweet and tender but not a bit of taste like fish.

More like the most tender veal.

_April 29th._ Saw us with kicker astern bucking all day against head

winds and seas until we dropped anchor at Elizabeth City which is at

mouth of the Paskotank River leading towards Dismal Swamp canal. Today

we opened Mr. Turtle and got about 25 lbs. of meat. Am going to make

soup and stews. Have the medicine chest open and within easy reach.

Morphine, I think, will have the call.

_April 30th._ Whoop-ee!! I’m a wild horse. Never felt better in my

life. Have turned H. out at 4:30 every morning for two weeks. Tried to

show him the beauties of the “pride and glory of the day.” Might as

well have talked to John the Orangeman. Bless his memory. Afraid he

has no imagination and will buy him a peanut stand; stick candy and

Coca-Cola on the side. Am rid of the old blue glasses and can see the

world and look the clear, smart, cool northwester in the face. H. is

shivering at the wheel with sweater, muffler and pants on. What is this

new generation coming to, anyway? Green turtle soup is beginning to

smell deliciously. Bet it’s food and drink. Corned sturgeon’s steaks

for breakfast with Lyonnaise potatoes. Just like the Copley Plaza.

All day winding along through the woods and straightway for 22 miles

through the Dismal Swamp canal. Was tempted to stop midway of canal and

in the launch run up and have a look at Lake Drummond, but having heard

there was nothing to see but a big pond surrounded by endless swamp, we

thought it better to take advantage of the beautiful day and jog along.

We crossed the height of land and locked out at 5 p.m. This canal, with

approaches, is more attractive than the Chesapeake and Albemarle route

which we took last winter, but the latter is shorter.

Little engine going finely all day and in the calm of a beautiful

spring evening we pushed down the little creek, entered the river, set

our lights as darkness fell, and hauling along close to navy yard and

the big battleships, we dropped anchor at 7 p.m. off the Norfolk Rowing

Club. We are a total of 50 days from Miami with 31 sailing days for

a distance, as crow flies, of about 1,000 miles. This means over 30

miles a day _average_, and, the size of boat considered, together with

character of water passed through, makes it rather a remarkable record.

Day after day we sailed farther than New Bedford to Boston, and, with

exception of one night run outside, all runs were made by daylight.

[Sidenote: Map B.]

_May 1st._ Tripped anchor after breakfast and ran through the drawer

into a little inner basin like the Charles River one on a smaller

scale. It is called the Mowbray Arch Ghent, though why I have not yet

discovered.

_May 2nd._ Fair and deliciously warm. None of the Cape Cod dampness

on any of this trip. Leather shoes tucked away forward for the whole

cruise turned out today without any mould whatever. Always a little

dust when sweeping the cabin floor.

H. left me this afternoon to visit coal mines in West Virginia. It was

hard to see him go. When his steamer sailed I was out in the launch

to wave him good-bye. I guess it was just as well the steamer’s swash

came along and gave me all I wanted to do to keep putt-putt right side

up. Feelings, like stomach aches, are queer things. Am afraid he won’t

come back quite my boy again. Sort of making a start on life’s cruise

I fancy, and somebody else is going to be captain. He’ll help sail me

home, tie me up to dock and then spread canvas and away. Quite right. I

wouldn’t wish it otherwise and the master that gets him will know he’s

got a man when the time comes. For H., this cruise has not been all a

pleasant summer’s outing. Once or twice he has seen the edge of the big

shadow not so very far away and has neither batted an eye nor quivered

a lip. He’ll do. Bene, it is well.

Back to the boat a little lonesey and found many things to do pronto.

This Mowbray Arch is very lovely just at the close of day. As you look

eastward, on the left is the stone embankment, green grass and trees;

a bridge lit with lights in cluster spans the foreground and beyond in

soft mist the city and little church with square topped belfry. On the

right, the city with its lights and in the dark shadow are wharves with

barges, derricks, lighters and little tugs. Don’t you get it? It is

the Seine, Tuilleries, Pont Neuf, Notre Dame and the Quartier, all in

miniature. It was all very beautiful as I ate my Turtle soup and sipped

my glass of iced, Clysmic water.

_May 3rd._ You hear me howl. Turtle soup, Madeira with iced Clysmic may

be the proper food for a dry cruise, but for nightmares it makes beer

and Swiss cheese look like “also rans.” I saw things last night that

beat any contraptions this cruise has yet furnished. Got a bump like a

pigeon’s egg over my right eye where I tried to break a deck frame and

am expecting complaints from shore as a public nuisance. Bet a noggin

of New England rum would have kept the critter quiet. That soup is

sure awful good and filling and I’ve got some more brewing now. Don’t

know whether I dare tackle it again or not. Wouldn’t like to see those

things again for anything, although I disremember just what they looked

like now.

I have been four days alone on the boat living very quietly and

peacefully in the Arch of Mowbray Ghent. That name is good. I find

myself repeating it often. The place is good and I like it much. First

along I looked at the conglomerated architecture of the houses of “the

best people” and watched the children of Mammon play at the game called

“automobiling.” They seem to get lots of fun out of it, play it all day

and sometimes late into the night. They scream and laugh more when they

play it at night. Sometimes I wonder. I am a little tired of the houses

which make me think of the stern of the launch, mostly paint, putty and

copper tacks. Across the stream it is more interesting. Buckeyes with

long raking masts, coal barges with slow-moving, lazy niggers unloading

cargo, and sometimes letting go a wild bit of wailing song. The draw

opens often to give a glimpse of the outer harbor with its crowd of

shipping half-hidden in the haze of smoke from many stacks. I have

rather dreaded these days with the expected calls from shore people,

and the invitations to breakfasts, lunches and suppers to follow. “Nix

on it Mutt.” I might as well be in Patagonia for all the visitors I

have had. A man who lives fifty yards away stopped one evening to see

if I would pump out his motorboat in case she wanted to make a sink of

it. When I explained it wasn’t my pumping night he went away. I asked

a very blonde young man with red cheeks, paddling a green canoe, “the

color scheme not bad at all”; what was the meaning of the name of the

place? He replied that the promoters named it, and he thought “Ghent”

was English, but had never heard who Mowbray was. I asked him aboard,

and was going to suggest a lighter green for the canoe in the way of

complete harmony with pink cheeks, but he muttered some excuse and

paddled off down stream like the white rabbit in “Alice through the

Looking Glass.” The “Best People” of Boston who don’t live, but dwell

at Beverly and Manchester, would at least have sent word by the head

gardener that they wished I would go away. Yankee inquisitiveness would

prompt investigation; southern courtesy would compel a call--but here

it is neither one thing nor the other. A sort of neutral zone where

nobody seems quite certain of his own individuality.

Today the wind is light, southerly, soft with misty air. I can’t just

tell whether the mist is due to weather or to the sickening sweetish

smell which comes from the rotting refuse of the crab and oyster

houses. What people are these who can daily face a breakfast table with

such a nuisance in their front yard? For last four nights I have dined

superbly on dry toast and turtle soup. I found I was making my brew too

strong and so by diluting with half water I toned things to a point

where I could eat all I wanted and not see great, long things covered

with eelgrass. A truly wonderful soup experience it has been. Were

it not for my 25th anniversary in June, I would be tempted to spread

canvas and “ketch” me another green one off Hatteras. As regards high

cost of living, it interests me some to figure up the expense of all my

food on board for past week, since leaving Manteo, at 10 cents per day.

A fruit peddler gave me a tip on some jet black bananas ripened in

the sun, which, on account of color he was offering for five cents a

dozen. He threw in three more for good measure. They fairly melted in

my mouth, and such a flavor. Last night I sliced some in sugar with a

spoonful of sherry and stood them on deck. This morning I crawled out

just at sunup and ate them cool with the coolness of the night and not

at all the same thing as the cold of an ice-chest. They were so good I

sliced up and ate some more and so spoiled the whole thing. It can’t be

did _quick_ that a-way.

I am now going to write a lot about turtles. I know nothing about

turtles, but want to remember this one and what I have thought about

him, so skip it, skip it. When he came on board fresh from the sea

he was the most delicate shade of milky, bluey green. Not a bit the

green of clear, deep ocean water but more the wide shallows churned

often by big waves. When the young green of silver-leafed poplars

turns downsides upsides on a gray southerly morning you are hitting it

mighty close. The shell, 19 × 18 inches, has now turned to a stunning

mixture of grays, browns and purply reds. It will make a fine memento

of the cruise. The head is the best. Have never had anything get me

quite so strong. Was going to mount it all to the merry with pop eyes

made with marbles, pipe in mouth, etc., etc., etc. For a week it has

stood before me as it stands now on the centreboard box. Have watched

the green go and the color of old ivory come. The solemn majesty of

that face impresses me so that no indignity will come to it from me.

The power and relentless strength of the ages past and yet to come is

in the curve and hook of that half open, bony jaw. I will try to do

some careful work on it, mount it with silver as a paperweight and give

it to Henry as a keepsake. That head might lend courage to a man who

found himself some night with head in arms at a table piled high with

trouble. I like to wonder what yarns it could spin of its deep sea

swimmings and warm floatings between the Tortugas and Cape Cod. That

head has looked on strange sights, and that hook has maybe ripped its

way into some pretty gruesome shadows. Mighty relentless is the face.

If I thought he was on my trail at the dark of the moon I wouldn’t walk

or I wouldn’t run, I’d fly, but he’d sure get me just the same. I’m

mighty glad he didn’t die in vain for he made awful good soup and that

is a pesky sight more than I will do.

[Illustration: The turtle’s head.]

_May 10th._ Norfolk. Henry came back this morning. Just as I thought

and hoped it would be, there is nothing to it now but woods, mountains

and narrow valleys with cutting and slashing in the woods, big black

holes in the mountains and roar of cars and machinery in the valleys.

It is high time my anchor was up, my last jib bent and I homeward

bound. Away to nice northerly breeze right after lunch. Tack for tack

down river with plenty of chance to look over the shipping at anchor.

Four big six-masters in port. Fine, noble looking vessels. Took last

look at Norfolk Harbor and made out into the choppy water of Hampton

Roads. Norfolk Harbor is the best we have seen yet and no sailor need

worry about entering it at night for right at the head of it and high

in the air there is an enormous electric sign blazing like a southern

cross. The sign reads

“Annheuser Busch

Budweiser”

and is a better mariner’s guide than any submarine bell. After nice,

pretty afternoon sail we dropped hook in the bight back of Old Point

Comfort.

_May 12th._ Comes clear and cold with Irishman’s hurricane. Beat the

sun and kicked up my own son. Caught last of ebb out of Roads and was

away up the beach with putt-putt. Fish traps everywhere and running

miles and miles to sea. All rigged to leave a passage at end of each

pound, so it was not hard to pick our way along shore. Broken trap

poles, twenty to thirty feet long, water soaked and only just afloat,

made things a bit interesting, but we got by and taking a fair tide and

nice air at northeast we bowled her along smartly and put her to bed

back of Cherry Pt. near Stingray Light at 5 o’clock, forty-five miles

nearer home.

Everybody catching crabs on long trawls. Millions a day it must be. Had

soft shells on toast for supper. Terribly good eating and never had

anything to crumb itself so handily. Dip ’em in egg and then they do

their own wriggling about in the crumbs. Fresh from the water they are

mighty sweet and so juicy they explode in the pan, which endangers the

life of the cook.

_May 13th._ Comes fair with wind hauled fresh southwest and every

promise of a smashing good run. Up and off early. No strength or

driving power to the wind, which coming off the land was hot and

without zip. It soon petered out and we had to get kicker to work.

This constant motor business gets mighty tiresome but it is mighty

necessary here-a-way. Wind hauled by north and way around into east

where it hung all day so lightly as to just keep sheets broad off

and tripping on water. The sun poured down mighty hot and a swarm of

flies invaded us, which even the screens failed to keep entirely out

of the cabin. We crossed mouth of Potomac River under very different

conditions from those last winter when the launch pulled adrift in the

cold, driving norther. Had a strong head tide all day and couldn’t

reason it out. I despaired after counting nine hours of its running.

Weather didn’t look too good in afternoon and I was glad to slip into

St. Jerome Inlet about four o’clock where we promptly went aground, and

from the fish wharf as promptly came the drawling cry, “Come off as ye

come on,” which we did in workmanlike shape, our Floridian experience

counting for much in this line. Anchor down and we were at once boarded

by visitors. From 5 o’clock until 9:30 there was no time when there

weren’t from two to seven men perched like pelicans on cockpit railing.

H. did good work and kept things going until we had our supper when I

entered the game and lied steadily until they all left. H. complimented

me on several brand new ones, but I feel he may as well pick up a few

points for he may have to sell insurance himself some day.

_May 14th._ The night a bit stuffy with air filled with smoke. My

chin-chin last night sort of started things going a bit and I passed

an old-time restless night and had breakfast cooked and served by five

o’clock this morning while H. was snoozing it out. The little inlet

is most attractive and was at its best this morning with blue smoky

air and fresh spring green. Yesterday we learnt something about the

tides which in spring of the year on account of freshets inland and

strong breezes often turn and run ebb for days at a time. We have

also learnt something about the hardy fisherman of Chesapeake Bay and

his wonderful seaworthy buckeye. Tell your folks “tain’t so.” On any

light, fair day the bay is dotted with sail, but let the breeze prick

on and in no time at all there is not a sail in sight. Every mother’s

son of them scoots into his near-by harbor. Beyond a mile or two each

way they have no knowledge of the shore, and are completely ignorant

of where they are as compared to anywhere else. A sixteen year old boy

on board yesterday asked us if we drew our own charts, and the captain

of a fisherman had never heard of Hatteras and didn’t know how far it

was to Norfolk or to Baltimore, and had never been to either. When duck

shooting in the winter they still use carronades, but have a line and

buoy hitched to them. The game warden always signals when he is coming

and then they throw the carronade overboard so he won’t have to find

it. If the warden failed to signal and did catch anyone, why they would

just naturally have to shoot him up, so wardens become quite careful

in the matter. When it comes to game and their rights to it, the West

Virginian mountaineer and his whisky still has nothing over these

beachcombers.

_May 15th._ Turned out 4:30 and away with kicker at 6. Coldish this

morning, cloudy and light chilly air at north dead ahead. This western

shore of Chesapeake is very beautiful indeed along here. High bluffs of

reddish clay rimmed with a white sand beach and topped by heavy growth

of pine and poplar. Little gullies between sharp hills to the water’s

edge and in them the morning mists lie blue. Ideal camp conditions for

an October cruise in a little sharpie. Would send her to Baltimore

on steamer. Must try that some day when I grow a bit younger. Would

want something light to pull on the beach and use my tent for shelter.

Breeze freshened sharply to a wholesail outfit and sea made up at once.

Nothing doing for Mascot who just jumped up and down. Would have lost

patience with any other boat, but bless your heart, this boat is too

good. An hour and wind was all gone, leaving a miserable hubble-bubble

of a sea into which we plunged to the knightheads. After two hours

things straightened out and we got kicker to work and finally, wind

hauling fresh from south, we ran to good anchorage in Annapolis by 4

p.m.

_May 16th and 17th._ Annapolis in heavy northeast rain and blow.

_May 18th._ Were late turning out. Glass falling, wind dropping, rain

stopping. Blow over, so up yank and off in dead calm about ten o’clock.

Didn’t calculate to more than jog along a few miles, but breeze hauled

out about south, sea smooth and beautifully blue under bright, clearing

sky. Tide turned fair. The Maryland shore all beautifully green after

the needed rain and first thing you know we had a bone in our teeth and

were bruising water in great shape. It was as beautiful an afternoon’s

sail as we have had the whole trip and at evening we anchored her in a

little cove 55 miles from Annapolis and with the old Chesapeake behind

us. No one who has not done it, can possibly appreciate what it means

to follow up the spring along these shores. To leave that dreary,

swamp-ridden land of Florida and slowly watch the spring unfold until

here, with one big burst, it is around you in all its glorious beauty.

_May 19th._ The sweetest, prettiest spring morning that God’s sun ever

shone on. The air so cool and fresh, the sunshine so bright and warm.

The river narrow and bordered either by big overhanging trees or wide,

sweeping meadows freshly green. Mile after mile as through an English

land in June. We entered the Delaware and Chesapeake canal where it

was still more beautiful with the Scotch broom a glorious yellow and

all the other flowers nodding from the banks. The canal itself taking

reflection of the mass of foliage was an indescribable, translucent

green and all the world was wonderful. There is but one midway lock to

this canal, and passing it we were in the basin of Delaware City by

one o’clock. A waspish northerly air was blowing down Delaware River

and tide was rushing ebb before it, so there was nothing to be done

but wait. Wind slacked by night and tide setting fair by six we locked

out and accepted our chance by the light of a full moon in cloudless

sky. To quietly steal up a big, swiftly running river by moonlight is

a grand thing to do, and when the river is full of the busy life of a

great port it is mighty impressive from the cockpit of a little boat.

Always on my tongue’s end was

“If upon your port is seen

A stranger’s starboard light of green,”

but rules of the road don’t apply as between ocean-going tugs with

barges in tow, ocean steamships bound to sea, and 24 foot catboats. Not

much they don’t, and it was me for the shadow of the shore and 15 feet

of water or maybe less. At eleven o’clock we dropped hook among the

yachts off the Corinthian Y. C. of Philadelphia, and after a good welch

rarebit turned in more than satisfied with this two days’ trip from

Annapolis.

_May 20th to 24th._ At Philadelphia off Clubhouse of Corinthian Y.

C. where we received every courtesy and were made to feel quite at

home. The old “square-faced” man at the Club asked me how the launch

got so smashed up and when I told him of our experience in the inlet

he replied “Dat outside run is tamned dangerous for de sailboats. De

motorboats, dey takes one nice, calm days and goes right along, but de

sailboats takes one nice calm days and day stays just there and when

de next day comes dey gets racked. I have done so twict and I goes no

more.” He hits it about right.

_May 24th._ We took the turn of the flood and with cloudy,

squall-breeding skies were off up the Delaware. A good breeze at

northwest helped along and we soon worked up through the crowded, busy

section of the River off the wharves of the city. Then we came to the

big, iron railroad bridge, to go under which at night had scared us so

on the way down. It looked just as bad today and as we went at it I

thought the mast must surely come out. Then on and on with the river

growing more narrow and more beautiful with banks lined with finely

kept lawns shaded by beautiful trees. And so with kicker, sail and tide

we made the entrance to Delaware and Raritan canals at Bordentown where

we locked in and tied up in the basin for the night.

_May 25th._ Sunday and no business done in the canal. Last night the

sky faired clear and bright with a snap to the air almost of frost. I

had an old-fashioned night and was up before the dawn. I moved about

very quietly and only sang “Palm Branches” once, but it was enough, and

H. turned out at five muttering something about wishing he could be in

the sticks with coons and wildcats where he could get his rest. That

boy seems to have no appreciation of music. A nice, quiet, beautiful

day spent alongside the canal slip. Nothing to be mentioned except a

picnic held by the mule drivers under a big tree across the canal.

They foregathered about 9 a.m. and devoted themselves unreservedly to

getting drunk. It was wonderful to see how quickly and how completely

they accomplished their purpose. By noon, none of them could stand but

they crawled about on hands and knees until four when everybody fell

where he was. It began to rain at sundown, but when we turned in at

nine we could still hear guttural attempts at song from the shadow of

the tree.

_May 26th._ Were stirring early, but no earlier than the mule drivers

who had spent a wet night across the stream. They were on hand with a

fresh supply of bottled happiness and when we pulled our freight they

were merrily starting in on another picnic. The day came bright and

fair with everything looking spick and span after the night’s rain.

Have looked forward to a day in this canal in springtime for many a

year and was not disappointed. England, the Thames, and June come

fairly near to what we saw today. In lots of ways this canal trip was

raw and crude in comparison with the Thames, but it had points which

seemed to me more beautiful. Thirteen locks and countless drawbridges

made the day a busy one and we were ready to turn in early after tying

up to a wharf in New Brunswick about seven in the evening. In late

afternoon the wind hauled chill, northeast, and rain fell during the

night.

_May 27th to 28th._ Lay New Brunswick in heavy northeaster.

_May 29th._ Faired away clear and cold northwest during night and this

morning felt as brisk and snappy as it did last November, when we got

our first ice on deck here. Provisioned up and then locked out of our

last canal and started down Raritan River. It was blowing very smartly

northwest, just how smartly I didn’t find out until I put single reef

mainsail to her. A wooly came over the high shore and things began

doing at once. Got the canvas off before we landed in a meadow, but it

was close work. Tore a hole in the sail and turned everything upside

down below. A glass jar full of roses turned a complete somersault and

lit standing on the floor without spilling a drop of water or losing a

rose. We tucked in another reef and then had all the rags we wanted.

It was cut the pigeon’s wing all the way down the river. At the Perth

Amboy drawbridges we had to drop peak for safety sake. When we shot

through the second draw it meant the last one on this cruise.

[Sidenote: Map A.]

_May 30th._ Comes cool and pretty. Crew up and remarkably eager for

business. Was shaking out reefs and hoisting sail before I had cabin

done up. Coney Island is a wonderful attraction for little boys. Away

under single reef with breeze pricking on. Good track, and horses

trotting fast. Went down the Staten Island shore fluke-o. Mighty

different going from what we found on same stretch last November.

Breeze pricked on so determinedly we laid her to and clapped in double

reef which gave us handsome canvas. Away and across the big river

with the ocean liners steaming to sea and the towers of Coney Island

ahead. Dropped hook off Atlantic Yacht Club just in time to see it

go into commission for the season. Pretty sight, with guns banging,

bunting fluttering. Busy mending torn mainsail and in ship duties all

afternoon. Dolled up and to Coney Island for supper for the evening.

Spent it on roller coasters and shoot the chutes. There was a big

crowd, it being Memorial Day, but everybody happy and orderly. Enough

rum to sink a ship, but nobody the worst for wear.

_May 31st._ Got away by noon on turn of the tide and worked up river.

Started into East River with kicker astern and no sail as breeze was

ahead and flukey. Got by Governor’s Island and ran right into a most

pernickety tide rip. Things began doing immediately if not sooner.

Mascot lost steerage way and started turning around and round while

tide swept us down onto a loaded barge at a Brooklyn dock. Got H. into

launch and started it backwards with just power enough to stop her from

crashing bowsprit on barge. Then we drifted helplessly alongside, but

the backwater acted like a cushion and while we surged up to within a

few inches of those iron shod fenders we just didn’t strike and when

tide washed us the whole length of barge, I stepped off and caught a

line to a bit and so we swung her into the slip unhurt. It was just

as near to wreck and sinking as you can come and not do it. To have

hit that barge one clip would have stove us from stern to stem and we

were missing it only by inches at every lunge. For a short ring turn

to, it did beat all. “What next,” says I. H. about this time said just

a little more than necessary about waiting for tide to slack or until

next day when traffic was less. Had he been a hired man, I might have

said something. Wished I could have steadied her with the sail but

to spread it in that rip was simply to tear it out of her, so I got

H. into the launch and with a good long towline made another start

and fetched clear all right although I rolled good, wet water over

both cockpit railings and H. did some most extraordinary high jumping

in putt-putt. From then on down to Hell Gate, it was back and forth

across the river trying to find a way between the rips and avoid being

swept into the docks. Everybody on tugs and steamers had a wave of

the hand for H. who was clinging on for dear life with one hand and

hauling tiller line with the other. With Mascot lunging and rolling

along behind it was a very pretty game to keep enough steerageway on

the launch to be able to meet the combing seas as they came along from

every quarter. The steamers all knew it was a sporting proposition and

gave him a good berth for we were quite powerless to do more than keep

away from the docks. It is no fitting place for small sailboats and

I would never try it again unless towed behind a barge or very early

in morning before traffic gets busy. We swept through Hell Gate all

right and thinking things were quiet enough, put launch astern. In five

minutes we were spinning top in another rip and before we could get

Mascot in hand we ran over a big spar buoy which tore the rudder off

the putt-putt, but fortunately didn’t smash the propeller as H. was on

the job and shut off engine before we struck. Then to a quiet anchorage

off the Knickerbocker Y. C. station at College Point.

Here we found the 60 foot motor houseboat _Buffalo_ which we have seen

very often during the winter. The owner’s wife came over presently

and told us her husband had been down three weeks with pneumonia but

was now sitting up and wanted us to come on board for a gam, which we

did. He and wife have lived on the boat for years, and charter it to

go south in winters and cruise north in the summer time. She does the

cooking for the outfit and he tends engine and runs boat. He was the

first one we have seen to really know the game up and down the coast,

as he had done it for years. He told us we were the only boat he had

ever known to make the trip both ways under sail. He said he made a

very good living but that motorboating was about the same as driving an

electric car and in the end would turn a man to drink. We were to go

over in morning and do a few things about the boat, for the wife has

had busy days playing cook, crew and nurse for three weeks on a big

boat. My hat is off to her.

_June 1st._ Lay at anchor.

_June 2nd._ Waked at 4 a.m. to find pouring rain and brisk breeze. Wind

hauled quickly to northwest and pricked on a regular spring tartar.

Quite a jump of sea and run of tide with everybody doing the ladies’

change. Tide turned and wind easing, we were under way with single

reef and had the prettiest sail ever, eight miles down East River to

Port Washington where anchored with fleet of well-kept yachts and most

attractive houseboats. I have an idea the houseboat game is bound to

grow. There is a lot in it.

_June 3rd._ Comes calm and fair. Looks mighty homelike to be once more

surrounded by a fleet of well-kept yachts. Seemed as if I was in public

garden pond for next to us was a motorboat named Leda and if that isn’t

a swan-boat then mythology ain’t so. Breeze came light and pretty at

southwest so we up sail and after taking a look at pretty Manhasset

Bay, squared away down the shore and by three in afternoon were at snug

anchor in Oyster Bay. We have beaten the spring lately and find here

the scrub-oaks only in their young green. The highlands along here are

just now at their very best and beautiful houses are snugged in among

wonderful trees. The little bays make far into the green-clad hills and

it is all very tempting to stay and loiter.

_June 4th to June 22nd._ We very lazily and with much content, quietly

cruised eastward in Long Island Sound. We had fair skies and pleasant

breeze and stopped on our way at Black Rock, New Haven and the Thimble

Isles amongst the picturesque rocks of which I had not dropped a hook

since I was a boy in my little boat, the _Raven_. Then merrily with

piping northerly airs and dancing seas all sparkling in the sun to New

London where I left H. to keep ship while I went to Cambridge for the

25th reunion of the class of ’88 the finest and most remarkable class

that was ever graduated from Harvard College. On returning to New

London we saw the Harvard crew show four handsome miles of rudder to

“them Elis” and then spreading canvas we jogged along to a quiet night

behind Point Judith breakwater and manned halliards for the last time

next morning and with kicker kicking, pointed her nose for Potomska and

the Pascamanset where we just caught the tide on the bar. The little

chain rattled, the blocks sung their song and with a shake of the hand

the cruise was done.

_8 Months, 8 Days

from

Port to Port_