The boy, me and the cat
Date: 2024-07-11T00:00:00+00:00
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Title: The boy, me and the cat

Cruise of the Mascot, 1912-1913

Author: Henry Merrihew Plummer

Release date: July 11, 2024 [eBook #74010]

Language: English

Original publication: Rye, New Hampshire: The Cyrus Chandler Company, 1961

Credits: Steve Mattern, Hannah Wilson and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOY, ME AND THE CAT ***

The Boy, Me and the Cat

The Boy, Me and the Cat

Cruise of the Mascot, 1912-1913

Henry M. Plummer

The Cyrus Chandler Company
Rye, New Hampshire

Copyright 1961
by
The Cyrus Chandler Company

Fourth Printing, 1986

Printed in the United States of America
by
Commonwealth Press, Worcester, Massachusetts

PUBLISHERS’ PROLOGUE

We first heard about The Boy, Me and the Cat when asked if we had read it. When we said we hadn’t, our interrogator shook his head with pity, and then made the flat statement, “It is the greatest cruising story ever written.” As you can imagine, our curiosity was piqued and even more so as we began to dig into the matter.

We learned that the book was originally published by the author in a paper covered, fish-line bound, mimeographed edition of 700 copies. Where those 700 copies have all gone to no one seems to know. There are a few in the hands of a small group who prize them rather highly. As William Taylor, Managing Editor of Yachting described it, “Borrowing one is about as simple as borrowing a man’s favorite wife.” We don’t know about that, inasmuch as we aren’t married and have yet to borrow a wife, but we do know that we had a terrible time trying to get a copy.

It soon appeared that the easiest way to read the book was to publish it, and so we set out. And that is the why of this second edition. Now that we have read it, we agree, this is the greatest cruising story ever written. We hope that you will think so, too.

In the meanwhile we would be neglecting all courtesy and obligation if we did not tell you that the credit for this second edition really belongs to David C. McIntosh, boat-builder, of Dover Point, New Hampshire, who started us on the trail of the Mascot; William Taylor of Yachting, who encouraged us with his enthusiasm; Oliver Prescott of New Bedford, who generously lent us his prized copy of the original; Waldo Howland of the Concordia Yacht Company, who counselled us; Maggie McIntosh of Smith College, who gave up her vacation to lovingly copy every dot and line of the drawings; Barbara Smith of Worcester, who has read and reread every word; Norman Wood of Commonwealth Press, whose constant advice and suggestions have done so much to design our book; Henry M. Plummer, Jr., who wrote his recollections for us in a hospital bed; and of course, the author, who once did it all by himself.

The Publishers

DEDICATION

To my companion, Henry M. Plummer, Jr., who, with unfailing patience bore with my fretful exactions, and was ever ready to lend a willing hand; who joined me in love for Scotty, and in grief at her death. To this boy who is my joy and my pride, the log is lovingly dedicated by his father.

PREFACE

(to First Edition)

First Subscription Edition—Limited 700 Copies

The stencil sheets from which this edition was printed have been destroyed by the author.

This cruise was undertaken on my part as rest for a set of frazzled nerves and tired eyes and to limber up a back slowly recovering from an oldtime injury. Henry and Scotty went just naturally cause they had to.

With the passing of the sailing ship much of the language of the sea will also pass away and so in writing this log I have used all the nautical terms I could think of and some I couldn’t think of.

I am indebted to Alice H. Plummer for pictorial conception of “Scotty” on the following pages and to A. M. Lofgren for her successful struggle with my language on a typewriter.

The delay in completing this home made, hand turned bit of mission furniture has been due to the constant quarrels between those engaged in its production. The author and editor came to blows over the gender of “mimi,” the illustrator claimed it impossible to give artistic expression to poetic thought by pecking a sheet of waxed paper with a meat skewer and as a climax to this fiasco the captain of the Mascot informed the publisher that he, together with all the subscription moneys, had left for some faraway land with which this country has no extradition treaty.

With many apologies for many faults and with a solemn promise to never do so any more, I sign myself for the last time

The Author
The Illustrator
The Editor
The Publisher
The Printer
The Binder
and
The Captain of the Mascot.

NOTE

The letters beside the page numbers refer to sketch maps at end of the book. Continuous line, southern course; broken line, northern course.

The Boy, Me and the Cat

The Boy, Me and the Cat

The Cruise of the Mascot
October, 1912-June, 1913

All Hands and the Cook

Henry M. Plummer
Henry M. Plummer, Jr.
and
Scotty

Map A.

New Bedford, Massachusetts, September 15, 1912.

The Mascot is an old-fashioned Cape Cod catboat 30 years old. Her dimensions are, length overall 24 ft. 6 in., waterline 23 ft., beam 10 ft., draught 3 ft. 6 in. With self-bailing cockpit she is as safe and able a little ship as a man could want to go to sea in. Cabin accommodations are comfortably ample for two men and include a small shipmate stove near gangway on port side, a well-filled bookcase forward on starboard side, two roomy transoms and plenty of storage room.

Today we hauled out on marine railway to paint and also had a 3-horsepower engine installed in our 15 ft. dory skiff. Mighty busy days settling up business matters and attending personally to every detail of outfitting for Henry is new to the game and can be of very little help at this time.

Was giving a man some help on a capstan when a post pulled out of the ground and a big block and chain snapped in, catching me on the leg and putting me out of commission and into bed for four, pretty uncomfortable days. Visions of weeks on my back with splintered leg bone were finally ended when, with a little sharp click, a misplaced tendon snapped back and I was soon hobbling about. Made a mental note never to try and help anyone again.

October 10th-11th. Made sail in afternoon and worked round to Padanaram where the next day we received visitors, drank luck and happy days to the boat, said good-bye, hoisted pennant of New Bedford Yacht Club, and in late afternoon slipped down river in very light airs.

October 12th. At 3 o’clock this morning with aid of little launch we towed across the bar and dropped anchor off my Potomska farm in the Pascamanset River which flows into Buzzards Bay between Meshaum Pt. and Barneys Joy just northerly from Cuttyhunk, the most westerly of the Elizabeth Islands.

October 14th. Mighty busy cup o’ tea this morning. Tumbled all the “last things” on board. Crawled under the shed, caught the cat, rubbed her full of flea powder, and dropped her into a gunny sack to moult. Will have troubles enough without fleas.

Good-bye to brave mother, and with a white apron waving from the cottage door, we slipped moorings and stood to sea with fair tide and light westerly breezes. Employed crew in ship’s duties and with sheets flattened in we made it a long and short leg passing inside of Hen and Chickens reef and so to quiet anchorage for the night at Sakonet.

October 15th. Turned out 5 o’clock. Sun rose very angry and glass falling. Wind strong at west. Double reefed and under way by 10. Wind slacked and left us rolling without headway. Had to put on whole sail to work off shore. Breeze began to freshen at once from S. W. Lots of coot and I tried my luck with the gun and knocked down one with each barrel for a long chance. We got one and so began living on the country. Breeze pricking on very fresh. Launch unshipped rudder and Henry had to jump on board and save it. This he did well and he shows great aptitude in everything. Breeze increasing and sea very heavy so dropping peak ran back to cove under west shore. Wind suddenly shifted and came out fresh gale N. W. Double reefed again and went out to look things over and test boat and rigging. Found a fearful sea on, into which we plunged at times to the mast. Our davits held all right. Kept jogging along and ran into Newport at 9:30 after a long, hard day. Took a heavy squall off Fort Adams and cut all kinds of pigeon wings with water flying and halliards, too. Thought we would surely sink the launch, but found only a few inches of water in her next morning.

October 16th. Lay at anchor all day. Did shopping, etc., etc. Made a fine corn pudding. Found the cow’s horn on our bowsprit end had been badly twisted in the blow of yesterday and got ready to mend same. Will here explain that I was carrying spinnaker pole, spears, harpoons and spare truck in general lashed, one end on small davits and forward end resting in an iron half hook or horn bolted on end of short plank bowsprit.

October 17th. Fine day with very strong breeze from S. W. Crew engaged in ordinary ship’s duties and mending bowsprit horn. Kitty doing fine. Not sick a bit. Tried to make her sleep in basket last night instead of on my neck and result is she has disappeared under transom and won’t come out at all today in spite of all hands calling Kitty! Kitty! and a nice plate of chowder waiting.

October 18th. Gale blew out in night and morning came bright, fair with nice breeze S. S. W. Up at 5 and under way with single reef by 9. Looked over the German cruiser Victoria Louise and also one of our battleships. Then flattened in sheets for a long beat to Pt. Judith. Beautiful day with easy sea and crew engaged in ship’s duties and sewing launch fender. Some little hubble-bubble outside and coot stew slopped over on Scotty but did not scald her. Later while asleep in her basket the beans came flying to leeward. She heard them on their way and escaped from under by a flying leap to cockpit. Quite a day for Scotty. Henry had his first taste of coot stew while laid to off Narragansett Pier. He tucked away a good bit and held it down. Shook out our reef and ran into Pt. Judith Pond at 4 P. M. after a fine day to windward. Tied right up to the bank of the marsh just like alongside a dock. A fascinating place with great possibilities. Fisherman gave us a fresh mackerel for supper.

October 19th. Comes cloudy with freshening S. W. breeze. Owly looking weather. More mackerel from kind friend. Flock of tired geese came near giving us a shot. Off by 9 under single reef. Very crooked water and heavy ground swell. Drove along easily and made good weather. Crew engaged in cleaning and splitting mackerel on new fish board which works fine. Later salted mackerel down. This looks like living on the country. Slipped in behind inner breakwater at Stonington by 3:45 after a hard thrash against heavy seas and wind with threatening skies. Six days from home and only 60 miles away and every mile fought for.

Good supper of corn soup and hot biscuits. Henry delights me with sounds of contentment wrung from the jew’s-harp. Scotty is picking up heart and investigating the deck.

October 20th. Comes fresh, clear and cold N. W., an ideal day for getting on but as we only have to make New London we stayed quietly at anchor after good breakfast of fried clams and potatoes. Engaged in snugging up and finding things still lost since starting. Scotty beginning to play nicely. Lunched and slipped quietly away about 1 o’clock. Light airs but fair tide and a beautiful bright blue sky and sea, with shore of browns, greens and vivid reds. Four o’clock found us becalmed off mouth of the Thames so Henry started the bug and away we went 35 min. to the old anchorage off the coal pockets. Passed a familiar looking old packet on way up river. She was slowly beating in with only two men on board. She proved to be the schooner yacht Ruth and indeed sadly fallen in estate since I sailed a Goelet race in her so many years ago. I wonder if I, too, look so done up.

October 21st. Comes beautifully bright with fine easterly breeze and we should have been moving. Gave up the day, however, to fitting cover to launch. It was a very busy but satisfactory day and ended with a fine hot bath on shore with beefsteak supper to follow.

October 22nd. Comes again beautiful with again that fresh breeze at E. S. E. We are both feeling effects of our hard preparatory work and strenuous days following, and so it is 10 o’clock before we are half down the river. Once out and away, we begin to bruise water in great shape. Finally hove to and rigged spinnaker in spite of quite a rolling sea. I hoisted it and with a cheer we broke it out to as fair and pretty a breeze as ever christened a new sail. And how we legged it then and when tide turned some more. For seven hours we never started sheets or halliards. Warmed by the kindest of suns, pulled by spinnaker and mainsail, pushed by whitecapped, sparkling waves and hurried by a sweeping tide, we ran by the beautiful Connecticut shores and drove into New Haven 50 miles from our start at 7 p.m. We were well tired, but we had covered as much ground in nine hours as had taken a week till then. We snugged up and sat down to two great bowls of tomato clam bisque which I had been at work on. Oh, it was good and we tucked a lot of it away and then rolled into our bunks for good long sleep, but did we get it? Nit.

October 23rd. Starts at 1 a.m. for mine and about 2 a.m. for Henry. Tomato clam bisques are not good in bulk for tired stomachs. Least said about this day the better. Our spirits went as low as the barometer which dropped 7/10 inch for a nasty S. E. gale which drove in a sea that kept us rolling all day at our anchor. Henry recovered promptly, but yours truly was in his bunk all day. I got lots of sleep, however, which I knew just what to do with. Night came with a storm and rain and roll and pitch, but I was better and slept well. For three miserable days we lay rolling scuppers to while the heavy southeaster drove the rain swishing across decks. My eyes gave out completely, and I spent most of my time clinging to my transom and renewing bandages.

October 26th. Up at 4 a.m. and after a “Jolly boy” which consists of a fried ship’s bread, and a mug of cocoa, we up anchor and started. No wind, but clearing skies. The beautiful hunter’s moon in the west and a glorious red sun popping out of the sea in the east. We took a strong westerly breeze outside breakwater and thought we were in for a good smash to windward. It soon all gave out and for the whole day we just worked flukes along the shore and anchored at 4 p.m. behind the Stratford breakwater with only a dozen little miles to our credit. We saw more ducks than I ever saw before. Literally by the thousand and by the acre. I was too afraid of game wardens to try the shotgun, but Helen Keller, the name we give to the 22 cal. with silencer, whispered close to a number but failed to touch meat. There were coot, white wings, whistlers, shell drake, skunk heads, and thousands of black duck. Night came beautifully. Calm and clear. The eye better and with a patch and blue glasses I was fairly comfortable.

October 27th. Turned out at 4 and under way at 4:30 in cold, snappy morning with fresh northerly breeze and Henry mighty glad to wrap my knit scarf round his neck. Caught the tide just at the turn and away we went with that glorious moon to the west and the old crimson sun popping up behind us. Eye turns out better, and I am less anxious about it. Think too much Pond’s Extract with its alcohol made much of the trouble. Alcohol has but one fit place and that internal. With started sheets we did bruise the water unmercifully hour after hour. The breeze freshened all the time and we were soon carting more canvas than was prudent so ran in under lee of a point and doused sail for a single reef. Here I distinguished myself by tying in two second reef points and tearing two nice holes in my new sail when we hoisted. Age will tell. Away again, and Henry shot a crippled coot which we got. At this time the chief engineer reported fire in the hold. The captain returned answer that he didn’t care a ... how much was in the hold if there was enough in the stove for breakfast so we let her burn. Sheet of asbestos not enough under stove and wood beneath was charring. Officers allayed the fears of the passengers, and crew were employed in ordinary ship’s duties which prevented panic. Off Stamford a Sunday fishing party of five men in a rowboat was sighted being blown out into the Sound. We responded to their frantic waves of distress. Made a sporting pickup and towed them in under the land to calm water. Then off and away again. The Sound narrowing up. Execution Rock in sight. Traffic increasing. Passed Execution Rock at noon, and entered the beginning of East River and caught the Western Hell Gate tide all right. Here the wind left us and we shook out reef and made slow going to the Gate where we boiled through on the rushing tide.

Hardly passed the Gate when all wind failed. We lost steerage way and being caught by a swirling back eddy went head on plump into a barge alongside the dock. Then we waltzed around a few times, took a little puff of wind and plumped bang into the barge again. Broke ends off our fish poles and smashed our fish grain pole, and as we were preparing for another dive at the barge and the boat completely out of control, I ordered Henry into the launch and with mother’s helper away we went fluke-o down the river. Henry touched the high places when the ferry boats kicked up the seas, but he stuck in and the little bug never missed a turn. So to Ellis Is. where Henry came on board, and as night shut down we found our way into the Erie Basin and tied up snug and quiet behind the big steam yacht Aphrodite. It was a long day well put in. I don’t think I ever had twelve hours of fair tide before. We made 60 statute, and about 54 nautical miles and that’s some going for a 24-foot boat. Scotty, who has been pretty peevish during the last few days, began picking up to-day, and shows signs of being a sailor after all. If Henry had any mind, he would make a dandy, for his appetite is good. My eye stood the long day well, and I turned in feeling that it was distinctly on the mend.

October 28th. Found us all snug in Erie Basin with warm sun to cheer the cockles of our hearts. I devoted the whole day to patching my torn sail. I took lots of time and care and hope to look at the two patches with pleasure for months to come. Henry took down the stove and put in more asbestos and made an air space with hope of averting another holocaust. Fred Hussey called at 4 p.m. and took Henry to Orange for the night and Scotty and I were left to keep ship alone. Finally I left Scotty and made my way up town for a good dinner. Back to the boat mighty early, for the surroundings of Erie Basin are not conducive of late saunterings. I bet they gave it the name Erie after nightfall. Great stretches of black water half covering blacker stretches of mud. A lonely, unlighted road leads across made land and marsh. Blast furnaces flare up unexpectedly. Trip-hammers pound on iron. Dogs follow and snarl at your heels. Hound’s Ditch, London, must have been like it. No, I don’t fancy the Erie Basin at night where the electric cars stop en route while driver and conductor get a drink in the neighboring bar and light up their cigarettes. Scotty greeted me on my return and was soon muzzling into some chicken hash which I brought back from my dinner. I have to order my meals according to what I think Scotty wants and not at all as I feel appetite for. When waiter isn’t looking I scoop a lot into a piece of paper and jam it into my pocket.

From October 28th to November 1st we lay in Erie Basin enjoying fine weather, and occupied every minute in fitting ship and making ready for the days and weeks to come. There is a raft of things to be done to insure comfortable living on a small boat, and it is always difficult to stick to completion of essentials first. I want to write a book and call it the “Magnification of the Non-essential.” I wonder if I thought that title up myself or cribbed it somewhere. Henry worked hard and well, is making a good shipmate and seems to have a sailor’s heart in him. When we go to town from here we pass the India Docks where Henry’s grandfather Morgan fitted out his clipper ships for the adventures of the sea.

November 1st. Comes cloudy with light rain. Wind S. E. and sharply falling glass. Weather has been too kind to kick at a little change. Up early and leave the nasty, slimy Erie Basin at 8 o’clock. The launch is a sight. All grease brown. Head tide but strong whole sail breeze and we made good time on port tack, hugging the Brooklyn shore as far as the Narrows. Here the wind hauled due south, and we made a stretch over to Staten Island, where I took a few chances and nicked the tide close to the beach for half a mile. Then the wind failed under the high land, and we stretched over to Long Is. again. Worked that shore hard and wind freshened but hauled S. W. right in our teeth. Wind kept coming. We beat through inside Fort Lafayette and were carrying plenty of canvas in quite a chop. Now what a comfortable boat this is. Here we were with rail all awash and lunging to it, with heavy rain squalls driving over. I lighted my fire all warm and comfy below, and in an hour sat down to a roast of beef and baked potatoes. We crossed the river once more with wind increasing and rain sheeting down and the sea fearfully crooked. We had six miles dead to windward at entrance to Raritan Bay. We lugged the sail to her mighty hard for the sea was nasty enough and we had to crowd her to make any headway. All our poles and gear stayed on the davits, but we lost sight of them a good many times entirely, and wondered if we were to see them again. We finally rounded our buoy only to have the wind haul more by the west and dead ahead some more. We thrashed and pounded at it the whole afternoon with driving rain in our faces. Just before daylight left us there was a quick lull and down from northwest came an ugly looking squall. First driving rain, and then a vicious blast of wind. I was ready for it, and laid her to with dropped peak. It seemed likely to last so lowered sail and made a sporty single reef. Henry is a born sailor and acts like an old hand at the game. Couldn’t ask for better help. No sooner reefed than it fell calm and left us rolling scuppers to, etc. An hour or so of that, and the wind came smartly out of northwest which gave us a long and short leg up to Perth Amboy which we made with help of lead line at 9 o’clock. This was a hard day for we were at it thirteen hours and only covered 33 miles. Strong head tides all day.

Map B.

November 2nd. Comes bright and clear with smart reefing breezes from N. W. and a real touch of winter in the air. A little more and we would need our mitties. Turned out 6:30 and while eating breakfast were hailed by a towboat captain to know where our anchors were. We pointed ahead, of course, and it was some time before we caught onto the fact that we were dragging straight across harbor. Felt pretty cheap and unprofessional. Bowsed our anchor and took off some dozen turns of chain. Under way about 9 under two reefs, one of which we shook out at once. Passed through drawer of R. R. bridge, and then through another and were then fairly on our way up Raritan River. The morning’s sail was beautiful, and made the more so by contrast with yesterday. Marshes browning, with haycocks scattered about and the hills across wide stretches. Clouds, sky and smoke from many chimneys all helped out. By 1 o’clock we dropped anchor off the entrance to Delaware and Raritan canal at New Brunswick. We spent the afternoon wandering round streets of New Brunswick, and buying few provisions and getting canal tickets. Curiously we had to pay more for the launch than for the Mascot. This because we use her as towboat. Night came still, clear and snappy cold. To carry out my plans in regard to showing the cities to Henry, we should have started a month earlier. I can see hurry and rush and cold ahead if we delay.

November 3rd. Comes snappy cold. A strong, raw northwest wind made mufflers comfortable. I finished knitting Henry’s muffler last night with Scotty in my lap playing with needles and yarn. Mighty busy all morning stripping davits and lashing poles to main boom besides filling gunny sacks with dry leaves for fenders in the locks. Curious smell in cabin this morning and H. was for beating the cat at once. I counselled moderation, and discovered that Mr. Coot, shot a week ago, had decided not to be parboiled any more. Don’t think H. was sorry to see his carcass floating downstream. Lucky escape for Scotty. Had chicken stew with steamed dumpling for dinner. Everything all right, but the chicken was an old fowl. I parboiled it two hours and cooked it two more, and it was not even to be cut with a sheath knife. Put it by for future use.

November 4th. Comes beautiful but so cold that there was ice in the pans on deck and frost enough for snowballs over everything. Launch engine froze up, but the mechanician soon had it going. Put it on astern with quarter lines and away we went. Couldn’t tell the beauties and delights of the day. Too many for me. Everything worked perfectly. Little launch pushed us 4 miles an hour at her ¾ speed. We hardly heard her way astern, and we just sort of glided by the banks, through beautiful farming country, past towns and villages. Our fenders were perfect and although the flotilla was the devil to turn corners with, we never had any trouble. When night came we snugged up to the left bank along which ran a railroad track. We were at supper when the first train with deafening roar rushed by. H. was watching it, and when it had passed he noticed a little object running towards us on the track. By gum! if it wasn’t Scotty soaked to the skin. She wouldn’t tell us how it happened, but we think she was playing on deck, got frightened and jumped or fell into canal and swam ashore.

November 5th. Comes not so cold, a perfect, still, misty, fall morning. We were away by 9 o’clock ready to enjoy another glorious day and we had it. Reached Trenton at noon and entered our first descending lock. We were careless here and failed to get out a stern line. When the water began to drop we were caught in the current and swept across the lock. H. was quick as scat and saved serious trouble by getting his line out and holding her. Our bowsprit caught as we dropped and we chipped a piece off the end, but no serious harm. From here on it was a busy afternoon with locks and bridges every quarter mile. Just at sunset we tied up to the wharf above the last lock which to-morrow will let us down to the Delaware River. As the tide will not serve in the river until noon, we are looking forward to a quiet morning at the dock.

November 6th. Comes beautifully fair. As tide did not serve in the Delaware River until 1 o’clock we lay in the lock during morning. When it came to locking out, the beasts tacked on another $4.00 to our charge because we were a pleasure boat or something. $6.50 for the Mascot and same for tender. Never get to Florida at that expense rate. No wind all afternoon so we tucked tender aft and away we went for a beautiful boat ride. Night caught us above a big railroad bridge just above Philadelphia. Sometimes I thought the bridge looked high enough to let me under and sometimes I didn’t. The nearer I got the scairder I was, so turned onto east bank to wait until morning. Between one cast of lead and another I went high and dry as usual. Boat bilged and we had supper at the same old angle. Then tide came and with it my courage and I poked the end of my mast up into the big black shadow of that bridge just as a freight train thundered over. Of course we went under all right and so on down to the city and wharves. Barometer falling sharply and I poked into a black dock on east shore and tied up to a barge. Watchman came and said there would be no water at low tide, but we were too tired to mind that and turned in.

November 7th. Came as expected with downpour of rain and old-fashioned southeaster. I made ready for shore in search of an eye doctor, as my right eye had been out of commission for the past week. Got laundry together in big newspaper bundle and was about to start when along comes wharf man and orders us out of our berth, as tug was coming to move barge. Nasty mess. Sheeting rain and blowing hard. Shifted up river off Camden Motor Boat Club where tide runs fiercely. Then I started ashore and by the time I reached an electric all the newspaper had melted off my laundry bundle and I was gathering up the loose and wet ends of shirts, socks and pajamas. People in the car thought I was a joke.

Got hold of a good eye man and spent the afternoon with him. Seems nothing very serious the matter, and he hopes to soon have me going again. Back to boat for supper.

November 8th. Comes in at 2 a.m. with a vicious young gale out of northwest. Things began doing at once. Motor boats at short mooring lines began darting at each other and the old Mascot at the end of 15 fathoms of chain commenced a series of circles in which she managed to hit them all. H. and I shivering in night clothes and bare feet were powerless to stop the merry-go-round and just when things began to snap and crack too plenty, I slipped my cable and ran up river under bare poles and let the motor boats fight it out. We are pretty well in hand by now and after mugging up with coffee and hardtack, were soon sound asleep again by four o’clock. Turned out to listen to some choice language from tow-boat captains for we had anchored plump in fairway. Had to shift just as we had all dolled up for shore. A mighty interesting visit to the Cramp ship yards in p.m. When I slipped cable we buoyed it with our push pole and got it again all right, but in the mixup we tore out the boom crutch deck fittings and smashed a cleat on boom. All non-essentials.

November 9th. I reported to eye doctor with two pretty good peepers and had some new glasses made and fitted. Henry worked on boat trying to reduce confusion. He came ashore later and we dined together. There is no time for anything when trying to look decent and be ashore each day. We are mighty sick of Philadelphia with its quick running tideway, dirty water and cold, piercing wind.

November 10th. Tide served at 4 o’clock and we were up and ready, but it was so dark we concluded to eat a comfortable breakfast and not take any chances. Yesterday had an unfortunate instance, for during p.m. when we were in town, our boom crutch worked loose and quietly faded away. Darned good maple crutch it was, too. We hove anchor about six and with a glorious day breaking, headed down Delaware with smart westerly breeze. My! but it was cold. Two heavy socks, mufflers and mitties all to the good. Wind hauled ahead and we had it on end until tide turned, when the breeze slacked and we dropped yank near Jersey shore and prepared for the first few hours of real loafing we have had since leaving home and that will be a month tomorrow. Scotty just dotes on sea fowl so I got Helen Keller to whisper once to a hell-diver and he was soon stewing in the pot. We really tried to keep still for a few hours, but there are so many things to do we managed it badly. The tide served about 3 p.m. and we were away with it. Light breeze ahead but such a swirling 4-knot tide that we made good headway and sometime about 8 or 9 o’clock ran into a little hole in the wall behind a breakwater where after some trouble we found water enough to float us. Wilmington, Delaware, was just over in back of a long nearby jetty.

November 11th. Came bright and fair but dead calm. We put the launch on ahead and H. towed me down river to Delaware City which we reached at 9:30 just as tide was setting ahead. The day starting in quite cold, suddenly turned southerly and so warm that thermometer went to 80 degrees in the sun. We filled water tanks at dock and then locked into canal basin where we tied up to the side of the main street of the town. Here we found a man and his wife whom we first met in the Raritan canal. They were bound to Florida in a little 26 foot open launch with canopy top. Heaven I hope will help the outfit or wreck them on some friendly shore, for the man had neither charts nor directions and didn’t even know the meaning or use of buoys. We had told him of the Rudder’s description of route and he was then waiting to receive copies. The little woman was losing courage and well she might, for in the southeaster a few days ago they had been soaked through, bedding and all, and the night of the northwest squall they had spent shivering while tied to a can buoy in Delaware River not knowing where they were or what to do. How comfortable our cosy little cabin did seem in comparison. Seeing them again reminded me of a little experience in the Raritan canal. We tried to pass a big barge going our way and when nearly by we took bottom and ran up good and plenty. The barge-man yelled out to “come off as ye come on” and left us. To budge the good ship I had to run a line ashore and heave her down with throat halliards. You bet it made my sore eye better when on passing the next bend I found the barge stuck hard and fast on a rock with no prospect of getting off this year. “Come off as ye come on” says I, and away we went. To hark back to Delaware City we put in the afternoon measuring off rigging for I don’t trust this and we’ll get new at Baltimore. Then we hauled out head and foot of mainsail and then we were both about all in for we have been working hard for a good many days and the change of weather did us both up brown. I took Scotty for a little walk but when she heard a dinner bell, she thought of the engine in the Raritan canal and bolted. Gee! how she flew. The Mascot not being near enough, she jumped into nearest open boat and crawled away up under forward deck from where I had to pull her by the tail. Night came and villainous urchins pounded with sticks on our smoke pipe.

November 12th. Comes fair and warm. Both feeling fine and my eyes all mended up. Off by nine into the country now beginning to look a little more southern. More leaves on the trees and the trunks festooned with vines. The canal with its little lakes and then again its narrow wooded cuts most beautiful. The warm sunlight flooded all and the distances were hazy blue and brown. It was a day of days. The bluebird perched on my finger and let me stroke its feathers, and Scotty curled up in my lap just the nicest, softest bunch of fur. Broiled steak and creamed potatoes for dinner. If I didn’t continually prove myself a fool I would think myself a philosopher—for I seem to come nearer to complete happiness more often than other folks. I have worked hard for it, too, in a way, and I believe that I have made such friends with bluebird that neither poverty, want or woe can drive him far away for long.

The beautiful delightful fourteen miles was mighty soon over and about 1:30 we locked out into the creek which leads to Elk River and the headwaters of old Chesapeake Bay. We ran aground promptly, but got off with help of launch and sail. Then we towed a bit and then with very light airs but fair tide, we beat down the beautiful reaches and were mighty glad to lose the sound of the launch’s puffing.

Oh! it sure was a dandy sail and when the sun set behind the highlands and the light clouds all turned a gorgeous crimson we slipped quietly into a little branch and anchored in the deep shadow of the shore and watched a flock of geese wing to the southard. This was what we came for and it was way up to expectations.

November 13th. Last night we turned in to the vibrant sound of honking geese in flight and this morning we turned out to the same tune. Not a breath of air and the bay like a mirror with shores veiled in bluish mist. Wonderful beyond anything. Put the launch astern and were soon on our way. So straight does she go when we fix launch just right that we both sat down in cabin to breakfast and let her go it alone. Ducks, ducks by the thousand, geese by the hundreds and hundreds. We chased big, long-necked Canada geese in flocks as if they were puddle ducks. I never expected to see such a sight. They all knew motor boat mightly well, however, and Helen Keller, the 22 rifle with Maxim silencer, whispered in vain, but mighty close by. It is a sporting proposition to get duck or goose meat with a 22 cal. at 150 or 200 yards with your boat going 4 knots and distance guessed at. No wind came until afternoon and we just puffed along while the crew cleaned ship after the dirty canal travel and kept busy in ordinary ship’s duties. Barometer slowly working down, also provisions. Better make Baltimore to-night although it hurts my pride not to hoist sail. Things look mighty different now from what they did with a bandage on one eye and a blue glass over the other. Age, however, must be creeping on for without glasses I can’t make out anything on a chart.

We jogged along until off entrance to Baltimore harbor where a smashing S. W. breeze struck in and we up sail and squared away for anchor. Baltimore being noted for its nasty harbor water, we ran up to South Baltimore in Curtis Bay, and as we were beating in got properly cussed by ferry boat captain for not having our lights lit. Said he would report us and some other things too. Hope he don’t for I was caught pretty lame. Scotty scared of motor today and fled behind stove where she stayed all day. Clouding up from southard and am glad to be in good harbor.

November 14th. This day was a hustle like all the previous ones. I went to town and bought provisions and new rigging, but found there was no way of ever getting them to Curtis Bay which I also found was reputed the most notoriously disreputable suburb of Baltimore. Didn’t get back to boat until 3 p.m. when H. met me all dolled up to go to his Uncle Alfred’s to supper. I started the launch, got gallied with the tiller lines and ran her bang into the wharf. No damage and soon on board where I had supper and wrote letters and then fell sound asleep so that H. returning, had to hire a launch to bring him on board.

November 15th. Comes with drifting cloud and cold, raw wind from the west where snow is reported in the mountains. Got under way at once, and beat up harbor in smashing breeze to anchorage off Maryland Motor Boat Club. A very Christian place. While I was cooking breakfast, H. went ashore for our supplies and without life preservers, fire extinguisher or whistle in launch fell right into hands of revenue officer who said he must report him. What with being caught without side lights the other night, and without launch fixings today, things are beginning to be interesting. We rove, spliced and whipped new gang of rigging this morning and she looks more shipshape. Must now go ashore for last things and there is the revenue cutter waiting at wharf. Had launch full of preservers and bric-a-brac, no trouble. On board for nice quiet evening at knitting.

November 16th. Comes sharply cold with breeze N. W. Off by 7:15 and after breakfast and clearing up put spinnaker to her in freshening breeze and away we went down Chesapeake to the tune of “forward and back with ladies change.” The breeze hauling by west made me try spinnaker as balloon jib but wind was too puffy and nearly lost my boom so had to take it in. Saw a herd of black and white cows ahead. No law on stray cows at sea so I got one with one barrel and H. took another with other barrel and their carcasses soon aboard. On past Annapolis where the Naval School buildings looked grandly beautiful. Can’t stop today but see you on our way back. Busy as bees all morning. Basket of oysters to be cleaned and now and then one opened. So good, so good. Then I opened a dozen or so and H. made a pie which is baking as I write, and the sun is going down gloriously clear, and up under the shore with leg-o-mutton sails and long raking spars the oyster sloops are racing home for the night. How short the day. Half-past four and we are getting lanterns ready. Let the wind only hold at this, and I will take her a long way from here before the sun peeks at me again. I believe it is right to drive south steadily and loaf along on the up route because it is too cold and young ice will be along soon. A year ago Baltimore was buried in snow and had a zero temperature. Not any for mine. The wind dropped with the sun and after hour of loafing along in the light of a good moon, we dropped anchor and turned in at 11 p.m.

November 17th. Comes without a cloud or a breath of wind. Turned over and snoozed it out until 7. Then up and doing. I had remains of oyster pie for my breakfast and H. stuffed griddles. A regular Chesapeake morning. The Bay a mirror and dotted with sail of all kinds. We got away with launch astern but by 10:30 a cold whiffle came down from north and it was soon eight hands around, and away to a smashing breeze with white caps dancing alongside. We are tearing at it as I write and yet it seems impossible down here in the cozy little cabin with good fire going, sunlight pouring through the open hatch and kitty, who has just eaten and then thrown up the leg of a sea fowl, asleep in my lap. All the comforts of home in 24′ 7″. Don’t it beat all? And just as I finished writing the above sizzle it came butt-ends on and then some. We were over-blown in no time so it was bring her to it and reef in a vicious chop of a sea. Put in the best reef yet and in ship-shape style. H. is all right. Papa felt so good he tied down the leach earing himself. Away again in search of palm trees for this norther was cutting cold. It blew on steadily and soon every sail on the bay but ourselves had run to cover in some little hole in the wall. We drew out into the broad mouth of the Potomac and such a hubble-bubble as there was and the breeze pricking on all the time. The launch still without cover began to lap up the water and was soon shooting from side to side. I dropped my peak to ease things but couldn’t do much. Sea tumbling every which way and more to come. In the holes we could see whiff-on-pooffs laughing. I was below eating dinner when H. yelled “she’s gone.” Sure thing. The launch had stripped the big quarter cleat off the deck and was headed to sea far astern. Thank goodness she wasn’t sunk. Then it was down board up peak and haul sheets. Oh! a fine, noble little ship she is. She looked up into that crooked water like a major. Into Henry’s bunk went my bean dinner, coffee, etc., etc. Round she came and everything else went into mine. Just before reaching the launch an old, whopping sea spilled lanterns, cans, pans, coal and me into the scuppers, and before I could get my wheel again, we all but hit the launch beam on. Just got by but couldn’t catch her. Made a sporting pickup on next try, but saw at once that she would soon roll over if not bailed out. Dropped peak, laid to and H. jumped aboard and bailed out like a sailor. Then away again and found that with a very long painter she did pretty well. Was trying to get round next point without tacking, but the sea was almost breaking and my lead giving me only 2½ fath. In a cast or two I got only 1½ fath. and the water straight up and down. The sooner the quicker and we made a fancy North river jibe and hauled off shore. Soon found easier going and tacking her smartly just inside Smith’s Point Light, we squared away for Great Wicomico River which we entered for a delightfully quiet harbor at 6 p.m. after a truly sporting day. In half an hour we sat down to roast chicken, baked potatoes and brown gravy. Henry getting so used to these little merry-go-rounds that he don’t turn a hair now while a few weeks ago they made his teeth chatter. He says he didn’t know yachting was anything like this and I tell him it “ain’t.” This is boating and to get little boats over big distances you must drive them. There was some whipping to canvas with peak dropped today and a nasty batten poked thro’ the sail and before it tore loose and went to leeward it ripped a foot or more of canvas. Also tore out lazy jack boom block, loosened poop deck irons and split one of the boards. H. thinks we better lay up and repair while there is something left to repair, but they are all non-essentials while this norther is very much an essential towards making southing, so on we go with halliards flying and no down haul. Like Jorrocks, I feel like saying “Yachting is the sport of kings, the essence of war with all the glory and only twenty-five per cent of the danger.”

November 18th. Came as bright, crisp and snappy as you please. Under way by 8:45 still clinging to our single reef, although barometer was up after a 2 point drop yesterday for that breeze. With wide sheet we slipped along the shore heading about due south. Again the sails and the fleets of oyster boats. The shore not misty blue but clear cut in the smart northerly air, and the water a deep, wholesome blue. And so on with the breeze always pricking on and driving us faster, but without the concentrated venom of the day before and our single reef just handsome canvas. Past the mouth of the Rappahannock where the seas picked up and with only 2 fath. of water, we were almost out of sight of land. Old squaw stew for dinner, and Henry had to run from the cabin. First touch of mutiny on board. He allowed he would desert at Norfolk or right then and there if I gave him any more sea fowl to eat. Foolish boy, he needs starving. Scotty and I finished the stew. Away past Mobjack Bay; the York River, and as night fell we beat up into the little hole called Back Bay and dropped anchor at 5:45 having done 48 knots in the 9 hours run or 54 land miles. With Norfolk only 18 miles away, I feel as if we had about knocked this stretch to pieces. But what a chance I had at it.

November 19th. Comes calm and as pretty as a picture. Found us anchored in a snug little harbor and surrounded by busy oystermen. Fried oysters for breakfast, and we took our time, so that it was 11 o’clock before we tripped our hook and started for Norfolk only 18 miles away. There’s where we just missed it for the wind hauled E. S. E. and gave it to us right in the eye with a mean, short, little hubble-bubble that old Mascot found it particularly hard to negotiate. A miserable little sloop-rigged dugout manned by three niggers gave me the beating of my life. She was about 30 ft. long and slid through that chop as if greased. I still held to my reef and with launch in tow made slow but mighty comfortable going. Worked the shore down to Old Point Comfort but taking a strong ebb tide there we had to get whole sail on her and seriously work our passage up Hampton Roads where “Lay the Cumberland Sloop of war.” The wind failed as the sun went down and night found us seeking some little quiet corner in the big, busy harbor of Norfolk which was crowded with barges and schooners waiting cargoes. I counted seven five-masters and one six-master. Henry towed awhile, but we got aground and then a little night air springing up we slowly worked her up past the wharves to a quiet little berth among some other small craft. We are 35 days from Potomska and count up just 21 sailing days. We must stop here and fix up for a day or two sure.

November 20th to November 26th. At anchor Norfolk. Most of the time put in while running back and forth to our meals ashore. We did finally complete the cover to the launch and get a new quarter cleat bolted down. We were a trifle fine in spots, and I made H. spend a day by himself which did him good. We passed a day inspecting terminus of Virginia R. R. and one afternoon we actually loafed an hour or two on board. We met two young fellows who were bound to New Orleans in a 26 ft. launch and writing up a story of their trip for publication in the Motor World. Their boat was the most complete mess I ever saw. Their photo outfit took up most all available space, and what was left held a typewriter in a big box. Four gallons of water in two little stone jugs was all the wet goods carried. When they arrived they brought the remains of a canopy top which had blown off one day in the Bay. They seemed happy enough, however, and spent an evening on board and took a picture of “Scotty.” The Mascot with all the room pleased them much.

Map C.

November 26th. I turned out at 5, but that crew of mine has no ambition, and it took half an hour to get him out of his blankets. The morning was bitter cold and it was mufflers and mitties once more. We breakfasted and after filling water tanks at wharf we tucked the launch under stern and were away up the south branch of Elizabeth River. Past the docks, ferry boats, tugs, barges and stuff. Then the big navy yard and through railroad bridges and at last the river and the pines. How good it all looked. We were mighty tired of that old harbor with its shrieking whistles and uneasy waters. The river wound and twisted along until it fetched us up near noon at the entrance and first and only lock of the Chesapeake and Albemarle Canal. Here we were mulct $7.50 for getting dropped about 2 ft., but somehow that little drop seemed to separate us entirely from the north and launch us into Dixie waters. The sun was out bright and warm. The air a misty blue from smoke drifting over from big fires in Dismal Swamp. The canal stretched straight away a bright blue line framed in the greens and browns of the bank. Oh! it was all so beautiful, so calmly peaceful and still. We tied to a grape vine and muzzled all four feet right into a great oyster stew and then away on our long road of color. The swamp lonesome, dreary, fascinating, stretched on either side as far as we could see. Dore might have come here to sketch some of his great, gaunt, tree trunks. What can people be made of to talk of these canals as tiresome bits of the southern journey, to be endured and gotten over as quickly as possible. This half day paid for the effort gone before. And as the day wore on it grew always wilder, more beautiful. The dark green of holly, the blue green of the great, long leaved pine, and the browns and yellows of leaf and grasses growing full to the water’s edge. It was a sacrilege to break such stillness with a motor, but we committed it. Three big, bald headed eagles and a few hawks were the only live things we saw. The afternoon wore on. All the wind died and the shadows crept across the stream, while the sun, a big red fire ball dropped behind the pines and it was night quick, quick. The little chain rattled and we were soon swinging quietly at anchor. I had to give Scotty a talking to. No sooner was anchor down than she wanted to go ashore and see the wild cats, but I took her on my knee and said “Non, mon pauvre petit mimi, tu ne peut pas aller chez les chats sauvages. Sois sage et reste tranquille avec nous.” This calmed her at once. I was a bit scared because she had a fit yesterday and honestly I never saw a little cabin so full of one cat before. If she has another, we leave the ship even here in Dismal Swamp. So with cheese fondue and lots of toast for supper, thus ends a mighty fine day and we turned in to the sound of the hoot of an old owl. We turned out again mighty quick, however, to the hail of “What in hell is that?”, to find a river steamer close aboard. No sooner was he safely past than down stream came a tug and the whoppingest, biggest barge. As they swung round the bend the barge just missed us, and the captain from seemingly the top of a mountain shouted “Youse all better move away or some of us all will be running over youse.” We moved all right and promptly.

November 27th. Warm cabin all night. Snug and comfy. I turned out 5:30 and found everything white with frost. Kicked H. out after much labor. Fear me he will never have any ambition. His circulation is like that of the Boston Common. Heavy mist over all. The sun up a silver ball and everything bright and sparkling like a Christmas Tree. Fine breakfast with a new feature called Bologna a la Mascot. Here it is. Beat eggs and add little English mustard. Dip thin slices of Bologna and roll in cracker crumbs. Fry in drip fat. Serve on toast with sauce made by adding cream to beaten egg. Try it. I invented it when tending fire at 2 a.m. From companionway we can watch a great bald head eagle on top of an old dead tree. He is a buster and his white head glistens in the sun. Off by nine with the night mists rising from the marshes and the dark pine coming into sight. Past Pungo Ferry, a good name for a lonely spot. Then on into North Landing River. The sun soon brightly warm and we were comfortable in shirt-sleeves. A mighty sudden and pleasant change from early morning. The whole scene was so charmingly beautiful that it was hard to leave deck and go to cooking. Creamed oysters on toast paid, however, for the trouble.

While H. was eating lunch, we came out into the upper reaches of Currituck Sound. Through the glasses I made out some queer looking white spots on the perfectly calm water and by gum! they turned out to be a flock of more than one hundred swan. America’s biggest game bird and the first we had ever seen. Sort of made my insides creep just as it does to see a noted snow mountain for the first time. We began to see ducks now, thousands of them, but all pretty shy. Henry bagged a blue-nosed pig at the fourth shot with Helen. No law on pigs. We triced him to the rigging and crew returned to ordinary ship’s duties. Across head of Currituck and into a little canal cut right through the piney woods. Afternoon was getting on. The reflections of the pines reached from either bank and down the middle lay a pathway of silver for our little boat. I hope my two photos may bring the scene back to mind. I could think only of that picture “The Isle of the Blessed” with its cypress trees. So on and on until night threatened and we slowly felt our way into a little creek near mouth of North River, and while H. was busy with the launch, I tackled the dinner of roast pork, baked white and sweet potatoes and applesauce. Thus ends another perfect cruising day. Barometer tended up and we turned in with cloudy sky and variable northerly airs. Didn’t like the looks much and if bound round Cape Cod would have stayed at Vineyard Haven.

November 28th. Thanksgiving. Started prompt on time with smartish breeze true N. E. Turned out at 3:30 and gave her more chain and saw all right. Barometer on the roller coaster. By 5 things were doing and by 6 it was blowing 60 miles and snowing hard. We were perfectly protected up our little creek and luckily swung in enough water to float us although the bank was precious close. H. a bit nervous about drifting ashore at first, but soon got accustomed to the sing of things. He thinks yachting with father is great, but doesn’t care for the snow. Stove drew so hard it nearly took Scotty right through the grate and we had to wrap the Gloucester head with canvas to save the coal. Flapjacks for breakfast and coffee strong enough to carry out the big anchor. Everything covered with snow. The trunks of the pines at edge of forest all snow-white like birches. H. thinks the warm cabin pretty good, but when I suggested it was a fair wind and we might as well tie her down and get along, he said he would take his chance in the launch and go live with the Piney Woods people first. Afraid he has no heart for the game. Got out my fiddle and H. his flute, and we had it back and forth to the tune of “Eight Hands Around and Ladies Change.”

Lunched lightly in preparation of Thanksgiving feast to come. Barometer turned up, thermometer turned down and wind hauled by west with breaking cloud and a fearful scream of wind and flurry of snow. I knew this storm would come, and I have been driving south hard in consequence. Here it matters little for the cold doesn’t last many days in succession and we are all ready for it. I am anxious about our two boy friends in the little launch, for it was a tricky day yesterday and might well have caught any man with a lee shore aboard this morning. It was touch and go whether I crept in here or anchored in the open.

Made a mince pie. It looked all right. Put on macaroni to boil and then muffled all up in oilers and mitties and went up the little creek in the launch for a breath of air and to get a picture of the piney woods with tree trunks white with snow. Found a little gill net across the stream and in it a hell-diver all but strangled. Cut him loose and let him go. When we got back to Mascot we found a nice pickerel in the bottom of the boat. Must have jumped in upstream. Macaroni all but boiled out. Just saved it. Fixed it up with cracker crumbs and cheese. Roasted a fine, big chicken. Baked sweet and white potatoes. Had delicious raw oysters in cocktail sauce and while night shut in still, cold and clear, we muzzled into it all and didn’t forget absent friends, although I did forget a pint of “champagne wasser” which I had meant to get at Norfolk. Everything iced down on deck as we turned in. Wouldn’t be much surprised to find ourselves pinched by the morning. Hopes not.

Friday, November 29th. Comes clear as a bell and mighty cold. Henry showed mighty little enthusiasm about bailing launch. Boat pretty well iced up, and 100 yds. up creek was my good old enemy, new ice. Away by nine with dead calm and launch tucked astern. The sun got up and such a change. Off mitties and mufflers, coats and even jackets. With eyes shut you might picture yourself on a hillside back of Mentone. Out of the North River and out into Albemarle Sound so dazzling bright in that southern sun. Swans, swans, lots of them, and to see them made my stomach crinkly again. Very few ducks, and Helen Keller could add nothing to the larder. Don’t need anything. Never saw so many things to eat on a little boat before. For lunch there was cold roast chicken and pork, oyster cocktails, applesauce flicked up with raisins, mince pie and cranberry sauce. Can you beat it? Something must be done or we won’t have any hardships to boast of. They may come. There’s lots of time. I looked at Henry’s log yesterday and found the following: “Heavy north east gale with driving snow and awful cold. Father crazy and playing the fiddle.” Now what do you make of that after all I’ve done for him? Across Albemarle Sound with power helped out by sail and light westerly airs. Just before reaching the water to westward of Roanoke Is. we spied a familiar-looking little launch astern and it turned out to be our old friends, husband and wife, still pegging away on the hunt to Florida. Then the breeze drew right out south and chopped up water so that we had to put launch in tow. While beating slowly along we sighted another little launch and were soon passed by Querida II and two boy friends from Norfolk. All this meeting and passing of boats bound on same quest adds much to the interest. Not such good fun today to see the little wretches work up to harbor 6 miles away right in the wind’s eye and leave us slip-slopping about. Sun was nearly set when wind and sea dropped and we again started launch and headed for the harbor, too. This harbor, Roanoke Marshes, is a little creek in back of Roanoke Light and the creek makes into the marshes. Night fell quickly and we were soon cruising along a low, black shore line without sign of light to guide us. No more use than nothing, so after running into numerous fish traps we over yank and called it enough. Our gasoline is running mighty low for we have had no wind since leaving Norfolk. More than 100 miles from here to Beaufort and few if any places to get any. Gosh! but it is an awful long ways to anywhere in these parts. The water is as muddy as pea soup, and looks like it. When the lead gives you 12 ft. you know you are in the channel.

November 30th. Last night came cold, and that boy Henry shut the cabin up tight and I woke about midnight gasping. Morning came and found us 200 yds. from mouth of creek, but it was a blind little hole even by daylight. Everywhere around us were fish traps. A forest of poles and nets. Don’t see how we missed getting bungled up. H. ran into the creek in search of gasoline and kerosene, but returned with word that everybody was shorter than we were and envied us our sail power. Old Mascot seems like a great unwieldy ship in these thin waters and light airs. Off by 9 and picked our way among the fish traps to Stumpy Point Bay about 10 miles where it was reported there was gasoline. We are at anchor there now as I write. We touched the high spots all right coming in, but why not with 3 ft. of water. The beautiful warm sun is flooding the cabin and did it not happen each day we couldn’t believe that we would shiver with cold by 6 p.m. Stumpy Point Village looks interesting and consists of a few shanties lining the desolate shore of a little bay about a mile wide. What for the village? I don’t know. We will find out and I think loaf out the day after eating boiled striped bass fresh from a net this morning. Anchor hardly over in 4 ft. of water when we were boarded by W. A. Best, typical southerner of the coast. He wanted magazines and we were sorry to find ourselves without a one. Pitiful, this cry for reading. We are 60 miles from nearest railroad. Hospitable no name for it. Wouldn’t we go ashore and stay at his house? He would see that everything that Stumpy Point had was ours and the more he talked, the greater the attractions seemed. Ducks and geese everywhere. Deer and bear in the woods. We must go after grey squirrels in the afternoon with him. This we did and never saw a squirrel, but we did see virgin forest of cypress, gum and maple, a magnificent sight soon to be seen hereaway no more. Best took us to his house, a little shanty like the rest of those in Stumpy Point. He showed us into the parlor and there on the floor, with an old quilt under her, lay his wife. She never moved as we entered and at first I thought she was a deader. Best explained casually that she had a fever and cold and headache and had been ailing for several days. Three little boys were playing in the room and an air-tight stove was making merry. For true misery you couldn’t beat it much. All Stumpy Point knows we are here and this evening it was hard to get away from the grocery store where the village had collected to see and hear us. We were most cordially invited to attend divine services to-morrow, and I think we will do it. The whole little village depends upon about 3 months’ shad fishing in the spring and for the rest of the year just exists. Mail comes and goes twice a week by steamer when the steamer comes. The water in the sound, for we are now in Pamlico, goes in and out according to the direction of wind and just now it seems to be going out, for to-night we are aground and we may be here several days to come. We like Stumpy Point and are quite happy, but how to refuse the hospitality offered and not offend, that’s the difficulty. The dish of cold, fat pork and potatoes that we had to sit down to at Best’s this afternoon makes me shudder now. Night comes with glass jumping to 30.4 and an ugly looking mist hanging to the southward. Symptoms like those before the gale of a few days since. Hopes not.

December 1st. Comes cloudy light airs N. E. Put in the morning at letter writing and entertaining callers. The good people come on board and just set and set. After lunch we poseyed all up and went on shore to Sunday school. Mrs. Best had a 6 months’ baby last night and was not receiving to-day. I guess the Sunday school was a Baptist affair. It was all right anyway, and the whole village turned out for it. The community is mighty interesting. No niggers allowed, no rum drunk and not a cuss word heard. The men and boys a fine, clean looking set, but the women tired and worn. No sooner back to the boat when more visitors. A man with 200 lb. wife with one eye and two children. Then another man. The 200 lbs. came below and “nussed” the baby while I cooked supper and they all stayed while we ate it, watching our every move. They are bound not to let us go, and I fear will put a seine round us if we don’t get away to-morrow.

Scotty stole carcass of duck right off the table while we were at supper. Would have made a get-a-way had I not caught her by the tail. Never a smile from a single visitor. The strain is too awful. We must flee and hope to do it before we make some dreadful social bull, for pride and sensitiveness are what these people live on besides ducks.

December 2nd. Comes kind of sort of chill southerly, squally looking sky and very thin airs with slowly falling glass. H. went on shore before breakfast and returned with gasoline and two live roosters. What do you think of that? I bought some oysters and last evening H. raked some with crab net from the boat so we feel again provisioned. If we stay another night H. must accept invitation to do society so it is up yank and away by 9.

Launch pulled us a mile or two when light airs S. W. chopped up the sea and we made sail. Wind dead ahead and it was mighty slow footing in the short swash. Awful good to be under sail once more and we had a harbor not far away. Out to Long Shoal Light and then with eased sheets and freshening breeze a good hour’s run to the mouth of Pain’s Bay which we entered and put hook down in 6 ft. water. We sailed about 16 miles but are only 8 miles nearer the palm trees. Chickens looked so miserable tied by the legs that we set them going tied by one leg to each other and as I write they are peacefully going to roost with many a contented cluck. Hope we don’t get fond of them and have to add them to the ship’s company. Half an hour after dropping anchor a heavy fog settled down, night shut in and it was pitch dark. Queer country and where strangers must keep weather eyes open. Gunners returning to Stumpy Point from Hatteras told us that the gale of Thanksgiving day blew all the water out of the sound and left a big 60 ft. motor yacht high and dry off the beach. Then when wind hauled N. W. all the water blew back with such a rush that she was afloat in 40 minutes but lost her nice power launch, anchor and 15 fath. chain, but was able to get shelter under power herself.

December 3rd. Begins about 3 a.m. with the darndest racket. Dead calm, pitch dark and all around us thousands of geese and duck. Might as well try to sleep in a hen coop. Honk, honk, quack, quack, a babel of sound. Along about 5 o’clock and just as we were beginning to hope that a glimmer of light would give us a shot, two men on a cruising launch turned out with a lantern and the roar of wings on water was as loud as a train of cars. Cuss those New York fools anyway. Day came with a shift of wind into N. E. and a wild, windy look to the sky. With a reef tucked in I could cover lots of miles southward, but there is again the question, “What will the water do?” Suppose we turn her loose down wind and it pricks on sharply. Will we find water all run out of the harbors and we left to wallow it out 2 or 3 miles off shore? It is certainly queer guessing. This morning we found there was much about live chickens to make them undesirable sea companions. Don’t think we are in danger of keeping them long. Barometer didn’t act like storm and by 11 o’clock I couldn’t stand it any longer, so put a single reef in and away we scuttled. It was mighty good sailing and I guessed the weather right for by 1 o’clock we were under full sail and a summer’s sun. Could have been a long ways if had got away early, but the chance was then too big. Hauled to westward and over hook to a nice anchorage in Wyesocking Bay at 3:15 p.m. Earlier in the day than we have stopped her since leaving home. Henry into the launch and up creek to see if he can’t nab some stray cattle. Chickens killed and picked and all the pleasures of a farming life are ours. While I write at 4 p.m., the sun is flooding down companionway so warm, so warm. The first fly is buzzing, too. H. returned with nix and reported mosquitos on shore. Things are progressing.

December 4th. Turned out at 5 to find all quiet, still and dark. So quiet that from the quarter I could hear the ticking of our little clock. So calm that each star was mirrored on the water. Away under power by 7. Out into a golden sunrise, the pride and beauty of the day. Here was a morning for sun worshippers to kneel. Sea and sky melted into one great glory in the east and behind us faded into soft pearly mists in which horizons were lost, and we seemed to be floating in air. So flat the bosom of the sea that the meanest stepmother in the land would have been proud to call it hers. The duck feathers floated on the surface as lightly as—well, I can’t think just how lightly now, but gosh-dinged lightly. We turned her on a 20 mile leg S. W. at 8 and sailed all morning on this wonderful sea. Why can’t somebody come here and tell people of the beauties to be found? We chased duck all about but failed to get meat, although we lost lots of time which is precious today.

Scotty was on sick list yesterday and had sort of kind of fits so fast one after the other that she lost count. Pretty near threw her little heart up. Looked kind of meechin this morning so gave her a dose of sweet oil. This afternoon she seems better and has eaten a chicken and held onto it. As I write this we are entering Neuse River at lower end of Pamlico 3:45 p.m. We had gone about 35 knots, all under power, since 7 this morning. Without it we couldn’t have moved a mile. Intend running on some 14 miles farther to mouth of creek which leads to canal cutting through to Beaufort. The motor has just given 3 spasmodic gasps and died. Oh, dear! Found gasoline all gone and now, with new, she is off again merrily. She pushes us in calm water 4½ knots an hour and gives us 6 knots to 1 gal. gas. Pretty good work we think.

Night shut down with easterly air so cold I was all of a shiver, the change is so great from heat of the day. Quickly the wind changed warm to the south and the air was like ours in August. We picked up our lights all right, and poked her quietly into the black woods where should have been a river, and sure enough, there was. The accuracy of these charts is a continual surprise. By 7:30 we were at quiet anchorage stuffing ourselves with fried oysters.

December 5th. Comes cloudy. A sort of dog-day affair. Pleasant to our eyes after the glare, and our little river framed in the green of long-leaf pine looks very attractive. Along we go, getting glimpses of dark swamps, up creeks, in deep, solemn shadow. Then came the cut through the neck of land to a river at headwaters of Beaufort Harbor. Along the banks were palms, real palms. Not great big snoosing busters with cocoanuts, but little wee-wees, but palms all the same. From the boat I shot a plover and we had the deuce of a time landing and getting him. Scotty promptly grabbed him and with head and tail up, marched off below to eat him. Not much, Scotty. Then out of the cut into broad reaches where oyster bars poked up their heads from a few inches of water. A fog shut down hiding all the ranges and we were soon all to the bad. Out of the mist ahead we made out a little launch aground and it turned out to be our friends, husband and wife, still plugging at it. Close to them was a big motor boat from Conn., also high and dry. They had both tried to go wrong side of a red buoy. We waved and motored on, but in less than a quarter mile hit bottom ourselves, and with meek and lowly spirits, took up our burden and went below to dinner. Tide being well out, it was only two hours before we were afloat again. The launch balked a little for almost the first time since leaving home, and while H. was doctoring it along came a fellow to offer a tow down to Beaufort. Told him we could get along alone but gave him a segar and soon had him so chummy that he hitched alongside and pulled us down to a good anchorage off Beaufort wharves for nothing. Nothing like a little practice in insurance business and a cup of coffee and segar at right moment.

Beaufort is great. Like the Old Howard, something doing along its water front from daylight till dark and long after. Lots of fishing vessels all anchored in a line only 50 yds. from the little wharves. Thousands of motor boats and only one muffler. The wharves and fish houses extend a mile and there is lots of color, and across it all blows the damp sea wind with its smell of the old beach. Mighty good to my nose after weeks of inland smells. I keep recollecting little things about Stumpy Point such as they couldn’t keep hogs “Cause the bars ketched em all up” and one man who trapped alive a big bald head eagle complained that he got no returns because “the human sociation done gone ketched him up and let him go.” He was a good eagle and the man couldn’t understand the why of it.

December 6th. Comes with threatening skies and drifting fog, southerly. The fishermen with big crews got away, only to anchor under the hook of the land just outside. As I write, at noon, they are streaming in again and picking up their anchorages like horses running into their stalls. The air is damp, warm and depressing. H. and I could hardly crawl about on shore and were mighty glad to get aboard again.

We visited an oyster-opening plant. Mighty interesting and on the whole, cleanly. Hundreds of men, women and little children at work opening 1500 bu. a day. The little white children looked peaked enough and the dirt, steam and smell of the opening shed were kind of fierce. In the midst of the mess was a baby in its wagon, the mother at work. Too big a problem for my addled brain. Roses in the gardens and everything mighty summerish.

December 8th. Beaufort. Air better and wind more to westward, but think gale northwest needed to blow this fog to sea. Borrowed a box compass and spent the morning turning and twisting Mascot at end of wharf until I noted my compass variations. The result surprised me, for while I knew there was trouble I did not expect to find fault of one whole point. It was there, however, and undoubtedly due to my iron ballast. Think have got it noted all right, but it was a long, vexatious job, and when we went to hotel for dinner we were late and got only cold pickings but at usual price. The afternoon in walking and loafing. Beaufort is very good. Besides the picturesque fishing fleet there is the usual busy main street of a southern town, lined with all kinds of buildings from shanties to modern store affairs. Bales of cotton are standing about. Blacksmith welding a shaft in the street. The high two-wheeled country carts drawn aimlessly along by one ox. Everybody takes his time, and talks about it in slow southern drawl.

There are tonight seven or eight launches and big power boats here besides ourselves. It is great fun to see them come in because the channel brings them within speaking distance. On shore the natives stuff them with fearful tales of the dangers to be faced on the trip outside. This is all with the purpose of getting pilotage fees. I have heard tides reported as running 50 miles an hour and that is some tide. H. and I have made friends with an old darkie who was a slave here in Beaufort. He was in Union army at capture of the Beaufort forts and served with Col. Stone, Capt. Fuller and wanted to serve with Col. William Forbes because he was good to his men and looked so fine in uniform with his head always so high.

December 9th. Turned in last night with sharply falling glass, and turned out this morning at 3:30 to the tune of rattling halliards and creaking dock lines. Wind a waspish breeze northwest with flurries of snow. Got out extra lines and while shivering at the job, out of the black came little Querida II seeking a bit of quiet as she was touching the bottom where she lay at anchor. We helped the boys tie up all snug, and scuttled back to warm blankets for a good snooze. Turned out about 8:30 to find clearing skies, strong breeze and falling temperature. New England can give this coast no points on weather changes. Yesterday about 65 degrees, to-day 30 degrees. The change gave me a little crinkleums in my back. Wish we were off and away. Could bruise an awful lot of water by night. Will be to-morrow I hope. Breakfast on coal fire again. How good and cheery the warmth. Coffee? Well I guess. All we want three times a day.

Seems as if some few things had contributed very largely to success of this cruise besides the general outfitting which proved good. These few suggestions are the coal stove, cotton sheets sewed up into bags, and the fish cleaning board. Put in the day provisioning up and filling tanks. For supper went to little one-horse restaurant and ate our last Beaufort oyster stew. We have had one or two a day since being here and they are delicious. Made without milk in the oyster liquor. These little soft oysters are wonderfully sweet and tasty, but so delicate and small that they wouldn’t bear or pay to ship.

December 10th. Comes clear and pretty cold. Frost on deck. H. reported streets hard and ice in gutters. Little Scotty had a dreadful time of it. She was peacefully sleeping when a gas engine started ashore and school bell began to ring. The cabin was at once full of cat. Simply wild with fright, she darted about and finally sought refuge in her retreat under the cockpit. “Pauvre petit mimi.” It is now noon, but no coaxing can get her out. Hoisted sail to a very thin northerly air and with launch at the stern, waved our good-byes to friends on shore and stood to sea at 9 o’clock. The Beaufort channel is a twisting little gutter running between nasty shoals. The harbor is full of range beacons which don’t help strangers much. There is no need for anybody to run ashore, however, for the water is clear and the sea breaks on most of the shoals. Outside we turned her W ¼ S along shore for Bogue Inlet. The westerly airs soon petered out and left us chugging along on a sea like a mill pond with bright warm sun to cheer us. Set 2 hour watches as I shall keep along, weather remaining fit. There are many inlets to run to in fair weather for a boat of 4 ft. draft, but I fancy it usually happens that a man stays outside until the sea picks up, and makes running inlet bars dangerous. The bars off the mouths of the inlets they tell me, trend to southward and the gutter runs behind them up the beach as it does in our country. The open beach is fairly bold and if I was put to it, I think I would crowd on the rags, tie myself in the cockpit and send her up into the meadow. Make no mistake about that, a good, bold, sandy beach is much better to walk home on than 10 ft. of tide-swept water inside a sunken sand spit.

We made our good four knots an hour until about 3 p.m., when taking a fair westerly breeze we made sail and hugged shore close hauled on starboard tack. Wind all foozled out by night, and then came in fitful dampish puffs out of the south. The glass was steady at 29-9/10 but the sun set in an ugly looking cloud bank, and night came rather drearily as it does with a soaking, southerly air. We had the launch on and then off and then some more. Heavy black clouds swept over and the night was very dark. When the stars broke through they might have been so many peanuts as far as giving light went. To me the night down here is most weird and strange. It falls quickly, and at once the horizon comes seemingly within 25 or 50 yds. of the boat. Beyond is impenetrable, the unknown. In one of my watches the black horizon suddenly lengthened out to starboard in a diagonal line that, cutting across my bows only a few yards ahead, stretched away like a deep black ditch far out over my starboard quarter. I had a breeze, and as I sailed right at this great black hole, I was on the point of calling H. to be ready for trouble. What kind of trouble I didn’t know. In a little while I was again sailing in my little dark circle as if in a collar box. In another watch a shift of wind brought a queer light on the sea, and for half an hour I seemed to be sailing onto a great, snow-covered mountain which I never reached, but my bow was almost touching it. It might have been a white mist or perhaps fish, I couldn’t tell. It was all strange and new even to the porpoises which, leaving a big fiery wake, would dash alongside, turn and dart right under the boat. One went under the launch when H. was in her and scared him all right. I slept little and steered a wide course to keep away from the beach which having no stones to rattle is unusually silent. Day broke at 6 after a longish 12 hours of new experience. It caught me laid to under whole sail with a nasty hubble-bubble on, and no wind to drive. We were 6 miles off the beach and could just sight Cape Fear. I tacked in shore at 9 and with nice little air made the beach at 11.

December 11th. The wind not being friendly, hauled out south, and we took up the job of making it tack for tack along the shore. The afternoon brought thickening clouds and my glass still standing high with the southerly air began to make me mighty uneasy as to what was coming next, for I felt there was a change in store, and soon. The situation was not a good one. Before dark I could not reach the slew inside Frying Pan Shoals off Cape Fear. To run 12 miles to sea and round the shoals meant risking a gale on one of our worst bits of coast and I had decided that we were soon to have a shift either northwest or northeast. The sea was comparatively smooth and I thought that now was the time to take a chance at an inlet. On the chart the New Inlet with 4 ft. at low water looked good. We reached it at 3:30 p.m. at low tide, and sailed back and forth outside the line of breakers to study the water and best place to tackle. There was a middle ground and the seas seemed less spiteful on southerly side so we put storm hatches on cockpit, shut cabin doors, took out scupper plugs and lashed everything down. Gave the launch a 10 fathom tow line and started at it. For genuine excitement give me the next 12 to 18 hours. We took bottom on the first breaker and broached to, bilging to seaward on about the third. The fourth came roaring over cockpit rail, and flooded us knee deep with lanterns, oil cans, etc., etc. swashing about promiscuously. Fortunately the next sea pushed us along and threw us over onto other bilge so that we escaped being flooded again very badly. The launch came whooping along on her own hook. Just missed hitting us. Brought up on bottom and rolled over and over with the next breaker and sank. We got sail off and with the hope of turning her head towards a little deeper water which we saw some 50 yds. to starboard, Henry waded out and placed the kedge anchor. Might as well have put out a sweet potato. We were bound for that middle ground and nothing would stop us. We were pounding mighty hard, but didn’t jump our fire so thought we better mug up while there was a chance. Went below after sounding pump and finding boat tight. Had mess beans and all you had to do was open your mouth and get beans at every crash she made, and she made ’em about once a minute. Centreboard box was weaving all over the cabin and transoms twisting horridly. Just before dark we tried to get launch up under our lee in effort to bail her out, for it ain’t so pleasant to look forward to a long, black 12 hour night, pounding the heart out of your boat and nix to get ashore with in case of breaking up. After hard work we dragged old “helpmeet” close aboard and, then came a big comber to which we rose, and crunch-o, the nose of the launch went through our bilge for a 6 in. hole. Up she went again, and bang-o, there was another hole. My eye! we would soon be a pepperbox at that rate. Before another surge caught us we twisted her bow round with the spinnaker pole and a sea catching her, rolled her over and away. Things were getting interesting. I ran below for hammer, tacks and canvas. Water already over cabin floor. Lanterns all filled with salt water, but with the last of daylight and using his hammer under water, Henry cleverly put on a canvas patch. We sounded pumps and after half an hour they sucked. Some relief to that sound. Believe me. Could do nothing more, so went below, cleaned out a lantern, dried wick and got some light. Waited until 8:30 when I began to fear that full tide would not carry me over that lump of a middle ground. It was busy bees then and half a ton of iron ballast went over pretty quick. With a heavy lurch and crunch she slid into a little deeper water and floated once more. We counted on a strong flood tide to carry us up the inlet, but push with poles all we could we couldn’t get her anywhere, and finally dropped big anchor in only 6 ft. water and just inside of breakers. Not a quiet or particularly safe anchorage, but mighty sight better than pounding in the surf. Sounded pumps and they sucked. What a noble piece of boat building it is. It was 11 o’clock, pitch dark and raining, with wind still soaking drearily from southward. We were soaking, too, but not dreary, you bet. Went to work and made a new anchor stock for little anchor. It broke short off early in the circus. The kedge was still on the bar with a bit of furring on end of warp for a buoy. Am going to take a picture of that anchor stock, for under conditions it was shipshape and Bristol fashion. Then we shipped all weight over to starboard and got holes in bilge out of water, threw over little anchor to keep company with big one, and after a mug up turned in at 1 o’clock. Since leaving Beaufort some 42 hours before I had had only one or two 1 hour naps, but felt all right and ready for what next which I still felt would come soon.

December 12th. Had to turn Henry out at 3 a.m. in drizzling cold rain for tide was out, we were over on our bilge, and now was chance to bail out launch if ever. His report was soon made that you could as easily bail out the ocean for her stern was split wide open, likewise her bottom and several planks. Now what do you make of that? Just after fixing her all up tight two days before at Beaufort. Nothing more to be done about it, however, so turned in again clinging to my transom like a bat to a rafter. Went to sleep in a minute, but H. was a bit nervous at the roar of the breakers close aboard and couldn’t do much in way of sleep. About 5 o’clock the black night ripped wide open in northwest and down came a sizzling norther. Gee whiz! how it blew for a few hours. With flooding tide our anchors held all right. Day came, and in the early light we could see the bow of the launch come out of water like a white shark, turn and plunge again to the bottom. Kind of consoling sight with half a gale blowing off shore and no chance to work further into inlet, for with ballast gone I hardly dared to put cloth on her. Had good breakfast and Scotty was mighty companionable and seemed perfectly content with the way everything was going. About 8 o’clock a man turned up in a skiff and came on board. I surely was glad to see that skiff and that man, too. He remarked that it was some blustering day and I admitted to a little ozone in the air. He said he thought our launch was sunk. He was a very truthful man. I gave him eggs on toast and coffee at once. While he was eating, tide turned ebb and along came our ground tackle and we for the bar once more. “My man,” says I, “cut out the egg and coffee habit, jump right into your skiff, underrun that anchor and carry it up stream.” He was a sailor all right and with no back talk, he was away on the job. First one anchor and then the other. I kept him at it and soon had her kedged all snug and comfy out of harm’s way. Then we hauled the bric-a-brac of a launch to the beach. “Good,” says I, “now you can walk the beach home for I need your skiff in my business.” He was all right that man and he lived in the “piney woods.” We talked politics and he allowed that rather than be a politician, he would live in the “sticks” with the coons and wildcats where a man could get “hisself” a little sleep and quiet. Bye and bye we put him ashore and he started away for his shanty somewhere, a lonely looking figure trudging through the sand, head down against the gale. So I read the signs right after all, and I felt justified in taking the chance I did, for this blowing to sea in a December norther is no joke. Where all my trouble came was not understanding the difference between a skiff such as I am used to and a launch which sinks and holds onto bottom like a rock. You watch me next time. When tide dropped I sent down my throat halliard tackle and after rigging up some sand anchors with oars, poles, &c, we greased some slide boards, and to Henry’s surprise and joy hauled the launch up high and dry. It was all nuts to me. Everything smashed up, but time, tackle and tools, to fix it all up again. I turned in early for some good few hours’ sleep but had to roust out at slack water to place anchors one up and the other downstream, for tide ran some 3 knots or better and only a narrow gut to swing in. Guess charts are of little use in these places, for my piney wood’s man said it had been ten years since there was any water in this inlet and my chart gave me 4 ft. on the bar at low tide.

December 13-20. During these days we were marooned at New Inlet, as desolate a spot on our Atlantic coast as a man could pick out for the purpose. The fear of a northeast gale with heavy sea was constantly on our minds for that might easily spell imprisonment for days if not weeks. We lay in a narrow little gutter where the tide ran viciously, making constant shifting of anchors both night and day a necessity. I must utterly fail to give any idea of the great loneliness of the beach stretching 1000 miles on either side and trembling to the constant crash of roaring surf. When I stood and watched H. walk away, in a few yards he became but a speck on the face of that limitless sand. When we walked together it somehow felt better to hold hands and talk little. It was Swiss Family Robinson with us from daylight until dark, and as the weather was kind, we jumped right at work to be done and enjoyed our big workshop and the ever changing color of the scene.

With the dropping of the gale, we sent down throat halliard tackle and with aid of sand anchors made from oars, poles, &c., &c., we hauled the launch above high water mark. Boards ripped from a deserted fisherman’s shanty made material for new bottom, and gratings, seats and driftwood, we knocked together for a work bench. It took us three days to repair the launch and when we finished, the whole stern was made up of canvas patches, putty and copper tacks. The engine was full of salt water and sand, so we had to take it all to pieces and rebuild it. The spark coil was soaking and that we took apart, boiled in fresh water and repacked in a preserve jar with red flannel. What will we do now for flannel if we get sore gozzles? We worked slowly and carefully for it was no fool’s business, and when we had all in shipshape order once more, you should have seen the merry twinkle in the mate’s eye when the little engine started off at the first turn. We put the Mascot on the beach and patched the hole two foot long in her side with a bit of canvas well painted and laid over some sail battens. This patch was my pride and has never been removed. Scotty was the best company as long as we left her on the Mascot, but when we took her ashore for a bit of exercise she promptly had a most spectacular fit and I got her aboard again by the tail. Wonder if I will have to live forever and ever on the Mascot with Scotty. Might do worse.

In many ways the beach is strange. The surface only seems to be firm, and that not very firm either. A few inches underneath is quicksand, and if you stand still you begin to sink pronto. Anchors hold when they first get a grip, but later when they sink away, they come home as if bedded in pudding. The beach is bare of stones and wreckage for it all drops out of sight. My kedge anchor warp and all my ballast was gone the next morning after we went on the bar. Believe my brother in Singapore would have more chance of finding them than we have. H. and I got up a scheme with compass fixed on a board and started one morning to find the ballast by aid of compass variation. Theoretically the device should have produced the ballast, but it didn’t, and we had to take on some half ton of sand in gunny sacks.

On the night of December 20th we took launch and sounded nearly four feet of water on the bar at top of the tide, and as the roll was fairly easy, we jumped the canvas to her and went to sea nicking our heel only once as we plunged through the tumbling surf. Looking back on our little prison we saw an old, black razor-back quietly rooting in the sand near the remains of our little work bench. He was the first, last and only visitor to our land of exile. That night I anchored just north of Cape Fear, a wind-swept barren, forbidding bit of desolate sand and stunted trees. The night was calm and fair or I should have had my worries, for in the darkness I didn’t dare to run the slew between Cape Fear and Frying Pan Shoals and the shoals stretched twelve miles to sea and we turned in with the roar of the breakers in our ears. The next morning we worked through the slew which is an easy passage under favorable conditions, and putting putt-putt astern made quiet anchorage off the wharves of Southport.

December 23rd. Comes with nasty cold rain and blow northeast. Almost impossible to get H. out of his bunk and fear he has no enthusiasm for the sport. The morning at darning socks. This little town has two banks, but no darning needles. The p.m. worse than a.m. and a government tug made us turn out in rain to shift berth. Tied up along side of a launch and cow horn on bowsprit ripped a whopping big hole in launch covering. Put our launch on beach this morning for little more overhauling and found her sunk by the seas which have been increasing during the day. O dear! O dear! Wonder if she will break up right size for our stove during tonight. Good big mail from home forwarded from Charleston. Everything all right there, and so who cares for the weather? Folks mighty good about writing and can have no idea how much it is appreciated.

December 24th. Comes with wind shifting by south and west to northwest where it blew itself clear with a regular squealer. In the morning we visited the old launch on the beach and as expected found her full of water, batteries run out and coil once more soaking in salt water. Hitched on two tackles luff on luff and began laboriously hauling her up beach. Along came 4 or 5 natives who, imbued with Xmas spirit, grabbed hold and carried her up for us. Then aboard for a good day’s rest and loaf. It is sure strenuous work this driving boats, but to my mind there is no such complete rest as is found in a well warmed, snug little cabin. Rolled in my bunk, with Scotty asleep in my lap, my book and my knitting within reach, I eased up to the limit. Discovered old Mascot complaining a little around rudder port. Nothing serious, but always a mean place to get at especially if have to unhang rudder. Evening came, and we went ashore for our usual plate of fried oysters. The boys are out with tin pans and horns making the noise of a southern Christmas. H. and I both a bit homesick and lonesey. It is my first Xmas away from home in twenty-four years. I am sure a devil of a way off. We have each bought things for the other’s stocking and will live up to traditions if we sink her. Beautiful night and just our chance to be away with light northerly. In two days when we are ready wind will probably haul to southard again. Don’t it beat all?

December 25th. Christmas. Turned out to be a bright, frosty morning with a skim of ice in pans on deck. Great excitement, for there hung our two stockings filled with presents which we had hung up last night. Looked kind of Christmasy anyway. Breakfast over, we opened our bundles, dolled up cabin with two little red paper bells and would have decked Scotty out with a red ribbon, but just then she heard something like a train of cars somewhere and flew to snug quarters in lazaret. Took things easy, but put in an hour or two on launch. At 3 p.m. began preparations for grand feast. Menu to be, raw oyster cocktail, roast pork, applesauce, spuds and a mince pie. Everything going like mice when, just as pie went into oven, round came the wind and away went my fire draught. After hours of coaxing we finally sat down to some pork scraps stewed in fry pan and boiled spuds at 8 p.m. Pie did finally dry up enough to be called cooked and was not so bad. Scotty appeared this p.m. and with her pretty new ribbon around her neck, enjoyed a little oyster stew made of three oysters. So ends Christmas 1912 which I had expected to spend in Jacksonville.

December 26th. Threatened to feed H. on tar and oakum if he wasn’t smarter about turning out. To the beach where we worked on launch. It is all very snug and comfy on this little beach. At the base of a big skeleton wooden tower is the Club-room of the fifteen Southport pilots who daily do congregate for lengthy gams and pleasant smokes. Now and then one more energetic than the rest climbs slowly the stairs of the old tower and sweeps the sea with spy glass in search of ships that seem to never come. They come and whittle sticks and talk to H. and me, and we are tied to their private wharf where the sign reads “Landing forbidden,” and they will know the reason why if we can’t stay all winter if we want to. The boat-builder is nearby, the storekeeper across the way and the sun shines warmly on us all and saps the energy out of H. and me, and we are glad to sit and listen to the yarns spun in this softly spoken southern tongue.

The signs of Christmas are about gone. The two skiffs dragged up in front of the little bank building are again on the beach, and the wheelbarrow and ash barrel, which for past twenty-four hours have decorated the weather signal pole, have been taken down, and in their place are again flying the dreaded northeast storm warnings. Down came the rain just after lunch so it was scuttle on board and spend a delightfully quiet afternoon with my book. Quahaug pancakes for supper. Not so much because we wanted them, and indeed it was wet work opening them in the rain, but Scotty dotes on quahaugs. To-day we once more repacked and fitted up our much abused electric coil and away went little motor at first whirl of wheel.

December 27th. Comes with banging against wharf and slatting of rigging. Northeaster down on us again in all its glory. Down, down slipped the barometer and presto, round flew the wind into southwest and the fun began. We were pretty well up under the weather shore, but there was rake enough with the tide to kick up a lively jump which pounded against our stern and slatted us about promiscuously. The wind screamed, and we could do nothing but lash our helm amidship and get out extra dock lines. With spinnaker pole for fender we were taking no damage. About 2 p.m. the wind hauled a point and rain stopped. With the clearing, things began moving on the dock. From the pilot’s tower signals were seen flying from the Cape Fear Lighthouse which read, “vessel ashore on Frying Pan.” Off went four pilots in their big motorboat. Scree-eech went the whistle of a tug at end of wharf and down from the village tumbled the crew, and it was cast off and away with black smoke rolling from her stack. I could have gone with H. on the tug but why take a chance when there was nothing we could do, and as the captain said nothing he could do either in the sea that must be running. Out from the cove to the south of us shot the big power lifeboat of the Southport station, and we watched her head towards the breakers which we could see jumping in air on the harbor bar. By six o’clock the tug and pilots were back. They reported a big four-master bound east was almost out of water some six miles from shore but that the lifesavers were standing by on north side of shoal. Another fierce gale is springing up from west and northwest as I write, and the sea outside must be truly awful. I hope with all my heart and soul that those poor devils are safe ashore. I believe H. begins to realize more fully what I had on my own mind the night I tried to jump the New Inlet Bar.

December 28th. Ice on deck again this morning, but a day to make a man’s heart glad. First thing was arrival of big power lifeboat with the good news that at ten o’clock the night before they had rescued all the crew of the stranded schooner. The vessel herself was lumber laden and a gang went off to her to-day in hopes to get cargo out and to lighten the ship so that she might be pulled off. The day was busy for us with completing repairs on launch, getting stores on board and making ready for another bid for warmer climes. Until to-day my spears and poles have been but a miserable nuisance, but when the bight of a line caught the handle of my pump rod and twitched it right overboard, it was the eel spear for mine. Tide was running smartly and I could just reach bottom. Slowly and with great care I poked about in the mud and at last was rewarded by pulling up three feet of old rubber hose. Better luck next time and I just fell upon that mud-covered pump handle when it crossed the rail. An eel spear would sure be a handy thing in any household.

December 29th. A peach of a morning with light northerly airs, a good barometer and everybody telling us to be up and off for now was the chance. We were soon ready to start when I found centre-board jammed in the box. Hard, too. At low tide, when aground, something had wedged it hard and fast. Had to pound it out with aid of a big piece of iron piping. It was noon before we waved good-bye to our friends the Southport pilots and slipped out of the harbor down the long 80 miles of beach to Georgetown or 120 miles, nautical, to Charleston. At four o’clock, wind failing, we put on little helpmeet and jogged along our four knots right merrily. The sun set red, but with plenty of cloud. The engine began to skip about 10 o’clock and from then on until two, gave us a most remarkable exhibition of skips, jumps and shakes. At 2 a.m. it made two or three quiet little chuck-chucks and died. About this same time the barometer got in some fancy steps and dropped 4 points in two hours. Heavy cloud made the night fearfully dark, and the sea began to pick up in a long, swinging ground swell. I wished myself well back in Southport you bet. By dead reckoning Southport was some 50 miles away and Georgetown jetty about 30 only, so it had to be Georgetown. The breeze with some rain came at southwest very light and I jogged slowly along.

December 30th. Morning broke dull and sullen. Barometer still dropping and little whitey gray woolies blowing across the dark clouds. The ground swell was heaving in from sea and there was no chance for running inlets. With the light came a waspish puff of air out of southwest and on top of that one another, with such venom in it, I wasted no time on speculation, but clapped in two reefs and stood off shore. In the shake of a lamb’s tail the wickedest kind of a sea jumped up, but Henry’s stomach beat it at that. The rolling swell checked up on the shoal ground for we were in less than 3 fathoms and was met and crossed by the sea leaping with the southwester which was even then heaving me to my cockpit-rail. In half an hour it was put on life lines, douse sail and tuck in my storm reef. Canvas thrashing viciously and had to put watch tackle on leech earing before we could haul out. Laid ship to off shore, hauled up my board, lashed wheel and gave launch 10 fathoms of line. Didn’t know whether to run to sea for deeper water or take chance of ground swell not breaking and hang onto the beach. Decided to hang on for I am bound to Florida and not the Riviera. All day long we were knocked and smashed about by an indescribable jumble of crooked water. H. and I spent our time below trying to cling onto our transoms for it was not particularly safe on deck, and we crawled out only every two hours to lower sail, wear ship and stand on the other tack. There is a good bit of worry to a day like that, especially when you have a two foot hole covered only with thin canvas in the side of your boat. There would have been a mighty sight more worry if old Mascot hadn’t shown us at the very start off that she was quite able and willing to play the game. With her wheel amidships, she looked up into it grandly and never had a bucket of green water in the cockpit.

By afternoon we saw the launch was in trouble, and settling pretty fast. It was soon bail or lose her. H. stripped pretty close to the buff and I tied the bowline round him myself. Then we worked the launch up to leeward and managed to unlace a little bit of cover so when a chance came H. jumped in like a squirrel and away he went with me tending painter and life line. He had no trouble bailing out the water, but when it came to balancing himself on the little forward deck while relacing the cover, he had to face a truly sporting proposition. Kind of made my heart jump to see him perched on the bows of that little skiff when a big breaking comber would pick her up and surge her down to leeward where the next sea would put her out of sight for ages. At last he did the trick and mighty carefully I worked the launch up under our lee until with a good jump and yank on the line I landed him in the cockpit again. Cured his seasickness anyway for after warming up below he lit up his pipe as perky as you please.

During all this ringtum Scotty was playing her part well. Not once did we leave the deck tired, wet and anxious to stretch out in rubber boots and soaking oilskins on our transoms, but Scotty would curl up on our shoulder or in our lap all snuggled close with mighty comforting purr. She was a dear little companion, and in the midst of the circus we cooked her one of her own little oyster stews as a mark of our appreciation. Towards night the wind let go and as we drew in toward the beach, fishermen built big bonfires to warn us away from an inlet which they thought I might be fool enough to try and run. No more inlets for me. The sea was too heavy to anchor so we again prepared to make it watch and watch and let the boat jog off and on under her bit of canvas for we were too tired to make more sail and the night at best looked full of trouble.

December 31st. Found us slatting about in dead calm. Barometer not rising and heavy cloud. By two o’clock a.m. the sea had quieted to a long, greasy roll and I plumped over the big hook in 3 fath. and turned in for three or four hours’ snooze. Turned out at six and cooked breakfast which tasted good after some forty-eight hours of more or less cracker and cheese diet. Day broke at seven and a mighty ugly looking day it was with dark storm clouds all about and again those waspish little white ones scudding ahead of the black spots. The breeze struck in light at northeast and with it came the rain. The drops were good, big, fat ones and barometer was not sliding down so I hoped for no serious trouble, but down here the easter is only spoken about in whispers and H. and I didn’t speak about it at all. We jumped all sail on at once, up yank and fanned along. Got H. to try his launch and was rewarded by a merry little puff puff, and we were off. Found a lot of sediment in carbureter and in gasoline, evidently corrosion from tank after being filled with salt water. We kept her skipping and jumping along by continually moving throttle and needle valve. Rain and mist often shut out the shore but the light following breeze didn’t have the twang of trouble in it and by my dead reckoning I had only some 20 knots to go before reaching Georgetown jetties which stretch two miles to sea and couldn’t be missed unless it blew on and forced me off shore. I had run my time out at one o’clock and still through the haze that old sand beach stretched ever southward without a break. Worries began again, but in half an hour we sighted the lighthouse and in another half rounded the end of the north jetty and ran into quiet water.

“Way up the river Pedee
Way up the river Pedee
Where the moon shines bright
And the stars give light,
Way up the river Pedee.”

How we shook hands and yelled it out. The rain poured, the wind drew northwest dead ahead, but tide and a strong one was fair and the launch was hitting it hop, skip and jump, so who cares.

About six miles upstream and six miles below Georgetown we noted on our chart the entrance to the little creek which is the beginning of the inside route towards Charleston. With the last of the light of the last day of the year we found the little opening in the marsh and snuggled into the quiet water mighty gladly and ran her plump aground on the mud of the eastern bank. We were too tickled at ending our long razzle dazzle to hurry about pushing off, especially as tide was flooding in river outside. There’s where we missed it for tide was dropping in the creek and soon, work all we could, we never budged her and had to run out guy lines to keep from bilging. Mighty little difference that made to us for we were in that kind of shape that lets you go right on working. Not very hard and with mighty little reasoning in it, but still working. While we were mussing around we heard the cry of hounds and soon a big doe took water not twenty yards away, slowly swam the creek and with much effort managed to crawl up the other bank about tuckered out. She looked at us a moment, and then disappeared in the high sedge. The hounds were close up and soon hustling up and down the bank, but none would take water and H. and I sat down to spend our new year’s eve mighty well pleased to think of that deer snugly resting up in some thicket just as we were in our warm little cabin. Honest injun, I was never better pleased to make snug harbor in my life for I had been practically sixty hours without sleep except at odd half hours and had been driving boat under strenuous conditions for over fifty hours. I should have been all in, but I wasn’t at all and I couldn’t see or feel that I didn’t stand the racket as well as I used to in my twenties. Gee, but it’s fine to be in such shape again. H. pulled along all right, too, but insisted upon going to sleep anywhere and everywhere. I must break him of this habit if possible, for it leaves him scarcely any time for eating and none for work.

January 1st, 1913. New Year’s Day. Comes pouring rain, and at 2:30 a.m. for mine. Got Mascot afloat but couldn’t handle her alone in tideway and had to call H. on deck. Hanged if the boy wasn’t asleep again. Soon snugged up and after a hot mug-up turned in for some good rest. Turned out about eight and felt fine. Barometer rising. Sky clearing. Wind a beauty at northwest and just what the doctor ordered for round Cape Romain to Charleston outside. Nix on the outside said H. when I finally shook him awake. Afraid I can never beat any ambition into the lad. Can’t understand what a funny lot of insides I must have. I am only just over being pretty well scared up and am already beginning to want to try it again. I’ll get “ketched” good and plenty some day, but I hope that when I do I may be alone. The day was warm, bright and full of sunlight. We dolled up the ship. Cleaned up gasoline tank and in the afternoon walked into the big forest of live oak and long-leaved pine. A day of perfect content and rest. Boiled and roasted a ham which turned out deliciously. Only one thing to mar the peace of our new year’s day and that was a sharp attack of delirium tremens suffered by Scotty. During the blow a small can of white paint upset in cockpit and I suspicion that she ate some. Anyway her tail went right over her back like that animal’s in the pictures of our old geographies which hangs all its young ones upside down on its tail. Her hind legs went 200 to the minute and her front ones only 25. This landed her repeatedly on her head which must have been distressing. In an hour she seemed all O. K. again and except for being a bit dopey has stayed so. Mighty anxious we were, for Scotty is full 50% of this trip. Today an old nigger rowing down stream stopped to gam. He said was all kinds of varmint hereabout. Coons, possums, rabbits, deer and turkeys. No lions or tigers except some 30 miles back in the lumber. Said wild cows wouldn’t hurt us, and that children could walk alone on any of the roads, which was both interesting and comforting. A tug with big ¼ mile log boom swung by us at noon. These are mean, unruly visitors and are mighty apt to do you damage. This one got by without hitting us, but we had to fend off once or twice. For supper we broached a bottle of White Rock and with much ceremony toasted family and absent friends. So ended our New Year’s, 1913.

January 2nd. Woke about 2 a.m. to a fearful bump and swash. What next? says I, and tumbled out. Out of the inky black under my bows I saw a big dark shape lift out of water some five or six feet and fall back with a swash. Alligators this time I bet. No such thing, but a big 30 ft. log 12 to 15 inches in diameter caught in a bight of one of our lines. Had good luck in getting it clear and stranded it inside of us where it now lies. “Something doing from one to eleven at the Old Howard.” On deck in a hurry again at four when a tug steamed by with what looked like another log boom but proved to be something else. Out again for breakfast at seven and Henry, well provisioned, started for Georgetown in the launch to get gasoline, provisions, etc., while I stayed aboard to keep ship. Engine not going right yet, and I listened long to its jumps and skips until out of hearing. If he finds a good engine man he may stay overnight and get it fixed up shipshape for we must depend upon it entirely from now on. Come back soon “mon petit Asticot” for I miss you sadly and feel pretty far away among the wild cows.

Scandalously tricky weather do we have. Here H. started at 9 this morning with as pretty a day as one could ask for and old barom. showing nothing else. By eleven clouds made up from south, glass began a slide and by 2 p.m. it was pelting rain with barometer still on the toboggan. Rain all p.m. and all evening. I couldn’t expect H. to come back, but how I did listen for the skip-and-go-one sound of that little motor. I missed him like the devil and no mistake. Hope he isn’t nosing round out there in rain and dark with engine broken down and no Scotty. Had a fine black bean soup with croutons all ready for him, too. I am used to being on a boat alone, but I am mighty lonesey tonight just the same. This is our first night apart in three months and a black creek in the marsh is none too cheerful a place at night anyway. By nine o’clock things were doing. Wind pricking on every minute, rain swishing across decks with roar and barometer still on the drop. I turned in but not to sleep. I had my spinnaker pole driven deep in the clay mud at edge of deep water, but it was a flimsy thing to depend on. There had been no flood tide all day, an uncanny sort of thing. By eleven o’clock the gale was on at south and a full-fledged one to boot. I dressed and crawled into my boots and oilers for the tide had started flooding with a rush and every half hour I had to raise the guy lines on my pole to keep it in position. The barometer dropped to 29, nine points in 12 hours. Don’t remember such a drop in many a day. How high the tide might go was guesswork, but if the westerly shift which I knew would come caught me on top of a big tide it would be into the bulrushes for little Harry and make a duck stand out of Mascot.

Now that was quite a longish night, too. Sitting still, listening to the howl and swish of the gale and speculating on where H. was and where I was going to, for I was out on the open marsh not snugged away up among the woods between high banks. When the wind took a whiffle down the canal the old Mascot would shake all over and lean right to it. Tide kept a-coming and I kept a-crawling out on hands and knees to raise my guy lines until the top of the pole was level with my trunk deck and the stick bending and cracking at every charge of wind until I felt sure it must go. I knew that tide must be ’way above common, but it was too dark to see how high it exactly was. Given another foot rise and I would have been all right for pole was slanting under boat then. It was four o’clock in the morning and tide had been coming about nine hours.

January 3rd. Bet I was pleased when I crawled out at 4:30 and found end of pole at same level. Crawled right below again and mugged up on hot beef tea. Five o’clock came and tide had dropped a foot. Then the westerly shift came with a whoop and I thought Scotty and I were surely bound for the meadows, but that old pole buckled, bent and creaked and held. Great scissors, how it blew. Couldn’t stand on deck nohow. Just had to crawl and cling on.

Day broke with clearing skies and found me with bows pretty well up on bank, but stern still in deep water and I make no doubt I can pull her off if this northwester will only blow out as I expect it will before another high water or somebody comes along who will carry me out an anchor to help hold her off. I have ground tackle enough to handle her all right, but without tender am entirely helpless. Poor little Scotty feels these busy nights dreadfully, and is too sleepy and tired to eat a thing. I feel fine and had a good breakfast off of the last Pt. Judith mackerel. I can’t believe that since last Saturday night, and it is Friday now, I have not had four hours of consecutive sleep. I haven’t ache, pain or nerves. Just as I used to be on the old Raven thirty odd years ago. I had to acknowledge later that I did not stand the care, worry and loss of sleep as well as I thought. Between Beaufort and Charleston I lost seven pounds in weight, and again put my eyes almost completely out of commission. H. showed a gain of fifteen pounds in his weight and I begin to wonder for whose health are we traveling anyway.

The clear, westerly gale has continued all day and barometer has moved up only 2/10. Not an inch of tide has come in during the whole day and like a bat I have lived, clinging literally to the rafters, for the boat is very sharply listed. How such days go it is hard to say. You write log and a few letters. Cook your meals, read, smoke, snooze a bit, knit a bit and presto the day is done. Of course H. did not come down river and I am looking forward to another night alone, but I think a peaceful one, for the wind can’t hurt me as I am, and I don’t believe tide can come unless wind drops. I am not going to write to-morrow’s date heading now, however, for things move quickly round here and we may have another eight hands around by midnight.

January 4th. The night was delightfully peaceful and how I did sleep it out. The wind went down and morning came clear, bright and with a flooding tide that soon put me afloat again. While cooking breakfast I listened to something familiar in the sound of a distant motor and pretty soon, round the point swung H. with the launch going perfectly. You bet flag went to masthead as he stepped over side and we had one big joyful reunion. O, what a good, happy breakfast we did have. What fun it was to swap lies about our several experiences. He had twice tried to reach me, but weather had driven him back. He had spent a night at a southern boarding house where his roommate was drunk and unbuckled a big Colt’s 44 when he went to bed. He had found motor trouble rested entirely in electric coil, of which we had made two soups, so buying another was all O. K. and engine going as well as ever. As a relic and for what it has done, we still think of keeping our coil so carefully preserved in red flannel and sealed in pickle jar, for it helped push us many an anxious, weary mile. The inside route from here is so crooked and so shallow in many places that it seems silly to undertake it when it is only 54 miles with two intervening harbors outside. Even H. with stimulus of warm sun and bright skies agrees to tackle it again and so I shall run down to jetty to-night and get away early to-morrow. The wind still hangs southwest most persistently and I must keep a weather eye open.

January 5th. Had at least one good, quiet night but I was kind of wakeful and didn’t do it justice. Morning came a peach and tucking little helpmeet behind we were off at eight on the first of the ebb. Found a jumble of rolypoly seas outside breakwater, but with fair tide logged our 4 knots without sail as it was flat calm. Queer looking gulls around here, wings in the middle, bodies with great long pointed ends. Look just like some Boston people. Scotty began the day with another of her runabouts and retreated to the lazaret as usual. She came out in about an hour; saw or heard something and went all to the bad again. So much so that we had to shut her below fearing she would jump overboard. Never see no such sight. She has no fit spasm at all, just goes amuck with some kind of fear. We chugged merrily along and at 2 p.m. had Cape Romain with its miles of sand shoals abeam. As the chance looked good with easterly airs, we sent up the rag and let her run for Bull’s Bay some 12 knots farther along. Barometer climbing up to 30-1/10 began to make me think a bit for as soon as it passes 30 things begin to happen with us. The afternoon grew more and more to look like storm. The easter freshened to a smart breeze and we were mighty glad at 5 o’clock to haul into shallow Bull’s Bay through the channel near the lighthouse and drop anchor in the little river which begins the inside route to Charleston. We did 36 knots to-day in 9½ hours and nearly all with little kicker which never went better, and H. is justly proud. After a good supper of corn beef the mate reported fire in the oven and sure thing, my kindlings drying were all ablaze and such a mess and smoke before we got them out. Scotty appeared for supper and made a good meal but seems not entirely over her fright yet. Nine o’clock as I write and wind pricking on northeast. You bet it is good to be in this quiet little hole in the wall and not batting around outside. I figure that by coming outside to-day we saved several days of tedious inland work in very shallow water. From here to-morrow I can go to Charleston outside, weather fitting, or inside if things don’t look right.

January 6th. Bilged during the night and mine the weather bunk as usual. Had wonderful line of dreams and woke H. to ask him if he had pulled eel spear out of the mud and tied the crab net solid. You see we lost our whole bundle of spears, grains and harpoon iron when I bilged so heavily the night of the gale at Georgetown. My keel caught on the top of the bank and I went right on my beam ends. The scupper plugs alone kept me from filling and everything went to leeward. I just managed to keep stove covers on. Sorry they are gone, but so far they have been non-essentials and much in the way.

Turned out to find one of those mornings which first you know all about and then you don’t. Regular gulf weather with warm, damp easterly breeze. Could see nothing but worry and fret outside so on turn of tide, we put kicker behind and headed for the woods and hay fields. Spent a truly delightful morning twisting in and out the narrow waterway leading through the most gigantic piece of salt marsh I have ever seen. Some few little hell-divers gave us both a chance to show the weakness of our sporting eye. I finally nailed one for Scotty who turned out to-day as chipper as ever. We had alternate bright sunlight and dark cloud and the colors were wonderful. The brightest of bright blues and emerald greens, bright yellows and pearl grays. The distance always framed by the dark line of heavy pine and the foreground by café au lait oyster bars. At 12:30 just in time for lunch we ran quietly but decidedly aground and folded tents. As we ate we heard the one o’clock whistles blowing in Charleston. All about us are yellow legs, curlew, duck and plover, but at this low tide they are feeding on the flats and I only see them afar off. Henry hears them calling but being a bit deaf, I get no sound of it. A little tedious that. We floated and were away by 3:30 and on and on through the marsh as before. Passed the mouth of inlets and I tried in vain to get H. to enthuse on running outside for rest of the way. By 5:30 and as it was growing dark we hit a middle ground and stopped just in time for supper. Fine oyster stew we had from the little native oysters; H. picked up a basketful in a few minutes at noon. They are small, very sweet and delicate, and grow six or eight together in a cluster with edges as sharp as knives. We saw the darkies as we came along gathering them in their bare feet. I mean the darkies, not the oysters, had bare feet.

Floated again after supper and we dropped one anchor up stream and one down for the night which came dark and with fog.

January 7th. Turned out to find pouring rain and thick, thick fog. Leisurely good breakfast and with rain letting up after we slipped away only to run ashore a quarter of a mile. By quick work we dragged her into deeper water and settled down to a loaf until fog should lift. Soon after this a motor tug came by with a scow alongside. Wonderful how these natives can find their way in these crooked slews. Just then the tug took a jump in the air and the nigger pilot near shot out the window and there they were for the rest of this day. We had most delicious fried oysters for luncheon. Must get to a city pretty soon for yesterday, when lacing on sail cover, I laced my starboard whisker to the mast. After lunch we started again and went about 200 yds. and fetched up some more. One thing is very satisfactory round here; to go aground is neither strange, uncommon nor a subject of ridicule. “Everybody’s doing it.” This morning we allowed it was Charleston or bust to-day. I guess the busts win.

Yet one more guess, for tide came and we went another 100 yds. Then tide came some more and we were off and away. Through a drawbridge and so out into Charleston Harbor where we passed close to Fort Sumpter and then over to the City where we anchored in open roadstead with considerable tide off the fine clubhouse of the Carolina Yacht Club at 5 p.m., just four weeks to the day from Beaufort, and we had allowed four days at longest. We poseyed right up and went ashore where a member of the club most courteously gave us a stranger’s card and then to P. O. for lots of good news from home and so to a little restaurant for a good bite to eat. Mighty hot and sticky ashore with steam rising everywhere. Most enervating. Our legs going all wibbly, wobbly so. Mighty glad to get on board again where it is snug, peaceful and quiet. Scotty much to the bad again this evening with a real, genuine fit. Don’t know what to do for her and am very glad she has lately taken a fancy to sleep with H.

Turned in only to be turned out by Scotty who refused to have her fit comfortably in the lazaret, and proposed having it and actually did have it in the cabin. H. hid under his blanket, but I was brave, faced the danger and got Scotty’s initials scratched all over my bare feet. Shipwreck is nothing to a wet cockpit, bare feet, dark night and a fitting cat. Soused her with cold water and bundled her away under cockpit for the night. At four o’clock in the morning H. woke to find her cuddled to sleep most contentedly on his blanket, so that danger is for the moment past.

January 8th. Turned out to a most muggy, foggy enervating day with thermometer at 75 degrees. Decided we better keep moving her southward, and if we ever get any time have it at the far end and on the return trip when the country should be at its best. So it was on shore with anchor for a new stock and to get a kedge anchor and things too numerous to mention but which sadly depleted my finances. To cap the climax, word comes from home that wifey has decided to keep what money H. had for Christmas and I could advance it to him. Don’t that beat all? Such a bully dinner of steak and fixings. Such a glorious hot bath and after that a long session with tonsorial artist. Then tumbled everything on board and by gum if up didn’t go northwest storm warnings. No place to take a twister, this Charleston. So up anchor and into the clubhouse wharf where we tied snugly. On shore for another good feed. Charleston, nominally prohibition, is really more wide open than any town I ever saw. The blind tigers are running with wide open eyes at every corner and the signs of open gambling everywhere. Commend me always to a good, gambling bar for good cooking and so we hit a mahogany palace having an electric roulette wheel for a sign. Right we were and a delicious steak we had.

Map D.

January 9th. Comes cloudy, mean and with a chilling wind that smacks of easting. The swash at the open dock had us rolling and gave me good warning to be up and away. It was early up town to a quick breakfast and visit to P. O. then on board, clap in two reefs, twist her round and off up the Ashley River to the tune the old cat died on. We soon found mouth of Wappoo Creek which was our inland way and up it we hustled under canvas. All day we kept the sail on her, winding and twisting through the marsh under a cold, cloudy sky. We finally were glad to drop over hook in a broad reach just below Martin’s Pt., perhaps 30 miles from Charleston. We knicked her once but twisted her into deep water, and jumped her up all standing on a middle ground just before anchoring for the night, but were soon off again. The night shut in dark and cloudy with a cutting wind out of northeast. Glass is again up to 30-2/10 and I suspicion trouble. Am all snug here and Scotty is all right again, the fire drawing well, so let her blow.

January 10th to 15th. Am not going to write daily log of this time for it would be too tedious reading, but it was by no means tedious living. We became part and parcel of the swamp and marsh. We were of it, in it, and passed through it like a muskrat or mink, like a snipe or plover. The tide; its set, speed and turning. The wind; its strength and direction. These were what counted and on them we either halted or went on. The ripple of the tide at every bend, the line of foam bubbles on every reach was a matter of constant interest and study. Such days are not for either rich or poor, for those ignorant or wise, but for those only who can cast themselves bodily into nature and be absorbed by it. I don’t wonder big launch owners and houseboat owners always send their boats south under charge of the crew. There could be nothing more dreary than just a-setting still and being taken through these twisting rivers that lead for miles and miles through the never ending rice marshes. We saw some ducks and shore birds, but got shots at very few and missed those ingloriously. One morning during a thick fog, H. tried Helen Keller at a cormorant which down here they call a nigger’s goose. The bird was on the wing, yet once it sounded as if the bullet had found meat but the bird didn’t drop. Two or three hundred yards farther on we came across him stone dead with the lead through his heart. The fog was a nuisance and brought us to anchor at the mouth of the river leading into St. Helena’s Sound which we wished to cross on our way to Hunting Is. H. went ashore to try and pick up a mess of something to eat, but at 5 p.m. yelled out of the fog that his boat was high and dry and he would like me to send him his supper on a tray. Foolish little boy. I got him on board again about 7 and mighty glad he was to crawl into the warm cabin and eat a good hearty supper for he had been nearly bogged, was wet through and plastered with mud. A bit scared, too, and I don’t believe will try this country again alone. He got seven shore birds, but cooked and ate them on shore himself. Greedy cuss. He brought me a present in a match box and when I opened it, out hopped a chameleon lizard right into my lap. What with Scotty trying to catch it and I trying not to, there was a very busy cup of tea. We caught him next day. Have named him Bill from Alice in Wonderland and added him to ship’s company.

One morning the fog burned away to as pretty a bit of blue sky and southerly wind as you ever saw. We were off to cross St. Helena’s Sound at once. What do you think? In an hour a black, vicious looking squall made up in the west and struck just as we had tied in two reefs. A short smother of rain and wind and then cloudy skies and light airs with strong tide and lumpy seas. That Sound is no Massachusetts Bay. All about are 1 ft. and 2 ft. spots. I did the best I could, but one spot that should break didn’t and everything else did and what with the tide sweeping us about we had a mighty anxious hour or two with the lead giving us from 9 to 10 feet of water on a falling tide. Finally got into our creek and of all dreary surroundings these certainly won out over any we have yet seen. For miles and miles the dark brown oyster bars stretched endlessly and the creek with many branches wound about like a maze. It was near night when we took bottom and learnt from some nigger oyster gatherers that we were way out of the main creek and bound for the sticks. So it was snug down for the night. At high tide these oyster bars will be covered and we will be anchored in a great shallow lake through which it would be most dangerous to try to navigate for these bars are simply covered with sharp pointed oyster clusters which differ in my opinion mighty little from rocks. Hundreds of big plover all over and about this afternoon. Big as pigeons, tame as pigeons, too. Went in launch to get some for supper. Missed them sitting, also flying, and came back without one. I am in that delightful stage when I pull the trigger three or four times before I shoot. Flinching? Well, I guess so. H. ain’t no better than I am. We have a standing bet of five glasses of Coca-Cola to one that the other fellow don’t kill. So far we stand even and nobody has hit a thing. Dreary, cold, cloudy, northeast weather. Put launch ashore and repacked stuffing box, but that didn’t stop leak which now threatens to almost sink her overnight.

The clouds all rolled away and a morning broke as bright as a new dollar with a waspish northeaster whisking across the marshes. It was off and away “pronto.” With single reef we cut things wide open. Slack sheet, down peak and away we rushed the reaches. In sheet, up peak and we beat her up the bends and then repeat with our wake swashing from bank to bank. We kept at it all day and it was one of the sporting sails of my life. Through narrow creeks, down broad rivers, across big sounds we drove and hustled. Just a little slip-up in jibing or tacking and we would have been in the meadows, but we made none. When we shot out of the creek into Port Royal Sound we made just three jumps and landed with a swash in the river on other shore. Old Mascot only wet her garboards twice in crossing, and the launch never touched water at all. So it was all day and we anchored for the night with Savannah, Ga., but a few miles away. The night came pretty as a picture, but snappy cold and with the highest glass we have yet seen, 30.2. Think must have change soon. When glass is persistently high down here I promptly suspicion trouble. By 4 a.m. I felt sure we were in for another duster for glass began to drop, heavy clouds rolled up from northeast and wind piped on. I lay awake hoping that I wouldn’t have to get out anchors until daylight for it was pesky dark and cold. Suddenly all the breeze let go to a dead calm and then came out of the northwest smartly but not troublesome and I got in some handsome winks until seven o’clock when I turned out to an undeniably pretty day and good breakfast. Then it was away under sail once more, and passing for a mile or so through a little winding creek, we entered the Savannah River and by noon were sailing along the water front of one of the busiest of southern ports.

January 16th. Comes deliciously fair, bright and warm. We have worked mighty hard for some sunlight like this and a little “dolce fa niente” served with some prawns creamed on toast won’t hurt either of us. To town where I was quite the centre of effort when they learnt at the bank that I had brought a 24 ft. catboat down under sail in midwinter. I felt just like Dr. Cook. Sorry H. wasn’t along. In p.m. we took up hook, put launch behind and twisted our way for 10 miles through marsh to Thunderbolt. It looks very attractive here and if we can find a decent beach to haul out on, we’ll stay a day or two and complete repairs. We caught many flies for Bill to-day, but Bill is a dope and won’t eat a thing. You look out, Bill, or you’ll come off the way you come on.

January 17th to 21st. Found a boatbuilder and turned the launch over to him. Hauled Mascot on beach. Covered patch on her side and found rudder-hanger iron all torn off. Would have looked pretty bobbing about the Atlantic without any rudder. Air soft and mild, feels awful good and we were contented to take things slowly. Found Senator Cameron on houseboat Alamida. He asked us to luncheon and we went you bet. Bully lunch and decided change from my cooking. He must be a lonely man for he asked us to come again next day. Accepted, of course. He offered to tow us way to Jacksonville. I refused as it didn’t seem sporting to welsh on the last leg. Looked on at public dance at electric road’s casino. Everything as well ordered and conducted as at a private party. No rowdies, no splurge, but just a bully good time. There is no foreign or mill population to contend with, and no cheap sports throwing their coin. At the little roadhouses and inns on the way to town everything is well handled and we saw many little parties of two or three ladies together having supper without escort. Savannah is out and out the most attractive place we have yet seen.

Turned out one morning at 3 a.m. to twist Mascot around on beach for rudder repairs. These beaches, so-called, are not real beaches at all but huge mud banks covered several feet deep with oyster shells through which the brown clay mud oozes at every step. Into this stuff we had to shovel a pit deep enough to crawl into and get under rudder. H. did it you bet and such a mess as he was. In fact by time we got Mascot into deep water once more everything was plastered with slippery clay. Found and calked a little leak around rudder port and think I may have turned a neat trick. Put more canvas and copper tacks on old launch and finally one afternoon settled ourselves in cabin for a quiet hour or two with feeling that things were pretty well taken care of. The weather continued gloriously bright and warm. A beautiful moon made each night as light almost as day and so feel we have cheated winter of two victims if nothing more. It would be hard to explain why, since leaving home we have never used an eel spear, fish grain, net or even dropped over a line. The daily strife against wind and tide has been far too engrossing. The constant repairs to sail, rigging gear and engine have occupied every moment and every bit of our energy so that with each hour of leisure we have wanted to stretch out and rest. I still have the remains of two 10 ft. bamboo poles. Every other bit of fishing gear has been either broken or swept overboard. I am clinging to these two broken and twisted bits of bamboo with the idea that I will yet catch a fish on them before throwing them away just as matter of sentiment. We began breaking them in Hell Gate and foot by foot they have shortened up ever since. Will make good walking sticks pretty soon.

January 21st to 22nd. Turned out to find a thick fog and light northeaster. Filled water tanks and at 10 o’clock at turn of the tide we slipped away into the mist with launch a-kicking astern and whole sail pulling ahead. It is a dreary thing to point your bow into these desolate wastes of marsh, swamp, and barrens when the sun shines brightly. Indeed, it’s doubly so when the fog spreads over all and gives you view only of two mud-bordered, sedge-covered banks on either side. But tide and wind were fair and we hit it right merrily. Up the creek, down that reach, across the rivers and open sounds. Sometimes with a fair tide, often with a strong head one at it we plugged. These inland streams make up from one big river or sound and after many miles turn and run out into another arm of the sea. You may start into one with head tide and no slouch of a tide either, a good two to two and one-half knot current. You buck it for four or five miles and then come to the divide where, say 50 yards the tide is slack. After that away you go a fluke-o down to the next big water. All day we were at it with freshening breeze and driving fog. At 4:30 p.m. we came to St. Catherine’s Sound which I wanted to cross before night as we had fair wind and weather looked so dirty I thought I might not get over in the morning. Thicker than burgoo by this time, but only a knot and one-half to go. It was the same old story, tide was swirling up river, and I thought it was running down. Pretty soon we were driving through tide rips with 7 and 8 feet of water and then we had 6 feet and then 4 feet and then we were bumping sand good and plenty. By this time I had guessed my error on tide and a few more lucky guesses and plenty of wind let me drag her over the middle ground and sight the opposite shore close aboard. It was getting after 5 o’clock and I had less than an hour of light to find a creek in a strange shore, and a lee one at that, without knowing which side of it I was on. Made a good guess and slipped into it just as night was shutting in. It was a good day’s sail and Jorrocks would have said, “Cum grano salis with a touch of cayenne.” Even H. admits that no other sport offers quite the joyful sensation that follows the slipping into calm and quiet harbor at the falling of night after a good, smart bit of anxious work in dirty outside weather.

January 23rd. Comes without a ripple and with lifting fog giving a wide horizon. Close aboard to the east was St. Catherine’s Island with groves of live oak, and palmetto to the water’s edge. The tide was up and to the west stretched the marsh unbroken as far as eye could see. I like to fancy it the desert, but here are no soft footed camels, no stately dahabiehs with thick-necked Baroudis, and when you shut off the motor you have no soft song of the pumpers of water. Instead there is a nigger shooting marsh hens from his dugout and that is all, and he but adds to the dreary loneliness of the whole. We are off and swallowed up in the solitude by 8 o’clock. How different from our northern summer cruising where I have always looked upon the trip from New Bedford to Newport as quite a bit of sailing with its 33 miles of water. Here we provision for two and possibly three weeks and head her away for one hundred and fifty or two hundred miles at a clip. It brings back the old Mizpah freighting days up the West branch of the Westport River. Thank goodness the ice and snow of many a Mizpah trip are not with us. The twists and bends of the bank came slowly out of the fog, and by 10 o’clock we were at the entrance to Sapelo Sound over which the fog hung most dismally. No more of this sound navigation in fog, thank you. Over with the hook and pipe crew to sewing canvas ballast bags. By noon the fog lifted to an undeniably pretty day, and we were off quick, quick. To-day we saw pelicans for the first time. Funny looking duffers like little old men with long beards. Sapelo Sound is no kindergarten proposition and it was all we wanted with kicker and good breeze to beat the racing tide. When it came to beating up the narrow channel of Mud River, I just folded my tent and went into winter quarters to await the turn. H. on shore for a walk, but I am content to loaf quietly aboard and hope to pull back one of those wandering pounds of my precious meat. Under sail we had a pretty bit of going just at sunset and remarking that we seemed to have passed the region of lumber booms we dropped anchor in the middle of a creek. A beautiful moonlight night.

January 24th. Jumped out of my bunk at 5 a.m. to the shriek of a tugboat’s whistle. Turned out to find big tugboat alongside and bearing down stream a great boom of sawed timber. I jumped forward with hope of getting anchor warp buoyed before slipping, but it was no use for the huge mass was on top of me in a minute and I only had time to cast off my turns and take a range from a post on the shore. We were off with a boom to the accompaniment of some extra choice tugboat language. H. and I jumped onto the slippery mass and finally pushed Mascot across the end and clear of it. Then over big yank and take account of stock. No damage done and so turned in again believing Scotty had sought seclusion of lazaret during the rumpus. Turned out for breakfast but no Scotty. After thorough search the awful fact dawned upon our minds that Scotty, the pride and joy and comfort of our trip was no longer on board. Vanished without leaving a single clew. It was a mighty sad breakfast we sat down to with thoughts of that little kit clinging desperately to that old log raft or washing about in the tideway of the sound. Just as we were preparing to wash up, Henry’s quick ear caught a strange sound from the marsh. Then even my half busted ears heard a faint wail. Gosh all hemlock! it was the last, despairing cry of our Scotty. No lifesavers ever tumbled into a boat quicker than we into the launch, and it was give a twirl and away. We guessed at direction and let her go right into the sedge for the tide was up and two feet of water flooded the marsh. To our calls we got one more wail of anguish. H. was overboard and floundering in the sedge in a jiffy. By the greatest piece of luck he came upon a little black spot in the water. He almost ran by it. Then he stooped and picked up Scotty, unconscious. When he handed her to me there was no sign of life and I could touch her eyeball without her winking. Wouldn’t have given a peanut shell for half a dozen such cats. Back to Mascot we rushed. Hot brandy and water for she was still faintly breathing. As luck would have it she had a convulsion just then and bit off end of medicine dropper. The hot cloths all over her and then wait and watch. This all happened just three hours ago and our Scotty is now happily asleep in the sun apparently none the worse for her four hours of semi-submarine life. That was about the closest call yet. We suppose she was on deck and being frightened at the tugboat whistle jumped overboard and managed to reach the marsh. When tide came she must have had at least two hours of swimming and clinging to the sedge. My eye, but we are glad to have her with us again, and only hope that no serious results will follow the swallowing of the end of the glass dropper. Luck she brought us quickly, for making a grapnel out of the bent irons on my davits, helped out with a bit of pipe and stick of wood, I caught and picked up the slipped anchor warp and anchor from 20 ft. of water on the second try. Then it was up sail and away on the turn of the tide although the wind, a strong whole sail breeze, was dead ahead. Hard alee and repeat all morning until crossing a big river we found a racing tide ahead in the creek on the other side. Down yank for another wait. Who cares? The breeze is from the south without a touch of chill and the warm sunlight is luxury. There we were a-setting all comfy, when along comes tugboat and log boom No. 2. No time for nothing. This one was built with two big timbers in form of triangle at the bow and when it hit us I slacked cable and we were pushed bodily one side and the raft went on without my having to slip my rode. It was really all my own carelessness, this getting mixed up with these two booms for I had no business to drop anchor in channel. Mighty lucky to escape with only a little less paint. Late in the afternoon we hitched on little kicker and after 4 or 5 miles anchored for the night at entrance to Altamaha Sound. Taking it all in all, this day was a pretty busy cup of tea. I expect there is more excitement to a polar expedition or an African lion hunt, but I guess this will hold me.

January 25th. The night warm and muggy with torrential rain showers. The morning dull and warm. Were under way by 8 and crossing Altamaha Sound, entered a creek far more attractive than any we had been in for some time. At times we ran close to heavy wood where the big live oaks with long wavy, mossy beards dropped to touch the stream. Here we saw an army of buzzards feasting on some dead carcass. Rather a horrid sight, that. Cloud and sunlight with breeze to southard right in our eye so we let the kicker do the pushing. To-day we first saw orange trees in fruit and great flocks of white herons. The air soft, and truly balmy, not like real air at all. It somehow fails to satisfy. Doesn’t seem to fill the lungs. By noon to St. Simon’s Sound, where we struck the fiercest of ebb tides. Nobody ever told me about these tides. There is a rise and fall of 7 feet and with kicker going strong and braced to a light air, we could not gain and over yank in deep water where we had to give 15 fath. scope. The tide was running better than 4 knots and that’s some tide. A beautiful afternoon and I boiled and roasted half a ham besides a duck which H. got yesterday on the wing with the rifle. Also made my ninth canvas ballast bag all French seamed and Bristol Fashion. At 5 p.m. tide slacked, and we made our next creek and anchored soon after for the night. We can make neither head nor tail of these creek tides and just have to go when they serve and drop over hook when they don’t. Sometimes one sound will dominate the tide in a connecting stream, sometimes the other, and the time of change cannot be judged by change in either sound, but depends upon size of water body drained by that special stream. Local knowledge alone can solve the problem. Under these conditions and with head winds we make but slow progress and must be satisfied with 10, 15, sometimes 20 miles a day. To-day we passed the plantation of Frederica, where John Wesley established Methodism in this country. A deserted, tumbled down outfit to-day, but has the well preserved ruin of a big stone fort at water’s edge built, I suppose, against Indian attack.

January 26th. Turned out early for a good try at Fernandina, but had to give it up as an impenetrable fog set in at daylight. In a lift we worked out to the shores of Jekyl Sound, but dared not poke my nose out into the fog and tide. Passed Edwin Gould’s beautiful place on Jekyl Island but the whole thing is monotonously flat which must, after a while, become very tiresome unless your interest all rests in the shooting and fishing. Nasty little midges like black flies pester us considerably and we will have to use dope if they continue. This morning, while the fog kept us at anchor we put a strap around stern of launch and with main boom as swinging crane hoisted boat far enough out of water to repack stuffing box. She seems pretty tight now and it is a great relief for there have been a good many nights when we feared she might sink before morning. On turn of tide at noon fog lifted and we were away with the tide racing us seaward. Turned a little past light and began the long, hard buck against the tide in St. Andrew’s Sound for these two Sounds, Jekyl’s and St. Andrew’s, meet and flow to sea as one. We were precious lucky in having a nice little breeze come out of the southeast and with sheets broad to starboard and kicker kicking for all it was worth, we made fair headway by nicking into shoal water under the shores of Little Cumberland Island. This island, like big Cumberland, is far and away the best looking bit of sand we have seen in many a day. Good sand dunes and fine woods. Big Cumberland belongs to Andy Carnegie and I wonder if Oliver Ricketson isn’t within a mile of me as I write, for, after bucking tide until 5:30 the fog shut in again with rain, and we over anchor quick, quick, only a little way from a good looking outfit near shore of the island. Had good supper of fried oysters with slices of Virginia bacon.

January 27th. Comes with heavy southwest blow and rain. Neither of us quite used to this warm weather yet. Nights not much cooler than days and we don’t sleep very soundly. Clouds broke about 10 and we put whole sail to her and dragged it down river until we were fairly overblown and sought a lee under a marsh island where we lunched. Think will wait until later before double reefing and putting her across mouth of St. Mary’s River to Fernandina for tide is running ebb until 5:30 and it may be as well to get over and take first of flood up the harbor. Am gaining daily in my respect for these tides in the open stretches. Might just as well try Quick’s Hole and in a strong breeze the sea over these shoal grounds is fierce. Were severely cautioned before leaving not to get slack in manners and behaviour, so have been especially careful. Today, however, with Florida in sight H. threw slices of bacon at me and dipped out mustard with his thumb. Guess he’ll eat on back porch awhile when he gets back.

Breeze freshened steadily all day to a 4 point drop in barometer. Double reefed her at 4 p.m. and gave her a touch of peak to help her up tideway for H. to get his anchor. Crash! bang, and away went boom crutch tearing out both deck plates. Scotty swore she hadn’t cut loose main sheet and H. had to own up. I got a range on it as it drifted out of sight and finally when we got ship to going we kept a smart lookout and not only saw it but picked it up first grab. This soft feeling wind kind of deceived me or else it did breeze on quickly. At all events I soon found myself mightily overblown and thrashing it in a fearful blobble of lumpy water. The launch hung back like a yoke of steers and Mascot was nearly out of hand. Cockpit rail to the water and the dust coming kerswish across decks at every jump and she jumping sixty to the minute. Eased the peak a bit, but this would never do at all. Tide swashed me out a mile or so and then I got her round and dropped yank in lee of a bit of marsh. I am kind of young and inexperienced, but I certainly hardly expected to have to run to cover in a land-locked bay only two miles wide, but my hands were up and both anchors down and there we are with the lights of Fernandina twinkling only two miles away. This morning it was “Florida or bust” and we busted. This blow which reached proportions of a gale of wind, came out of a clear sky like our northwest winter gales. Barometer starts up at 8 p.m. but with heavy clouds to northward and eastward we wonder a little what next?

January 28th. The gale sort of naturally blew itself out during the night, giving us an uncomfortable shaking up for an hour or two on the full of the tide at midnight. The morning came raw and cold with breeze piping on again with the dawn from the northwest. We were off under double reef by 8 and had a sporting sail down wind to Fernandina some three miles away. Were visited by owner of a nearby launch who inquired about make of our noiseless engine. He was quite surprised to find that we had none for they don’t see any good sailing craft about here and we noticed that we attracted considerable attention as we sailed by the wharves. Guess I was showing off her paces a little, too, as I had a piping breeze, two reefs and smooth water. Found on shore that yesterday’s blow reached over 50 miles an hour and don’t wonder I was a bit overblown in spots. I went to Jacksonville and back for mail in afternoon. Have caught a lumbago by this sudden change in weather and when I first start I walk like a buzzard.

January 29th. Fernandina. The day was a peach but I enjoyed it little, feeling mean, headachy and generally down. Did up letter writing all morning. Provisioned ship in p.m. and felt fairly perky by night although a sight of the map of this country would have made me cry. H. not much better. Our slump undoubtedly due to sudden change with 3 or 4 strenuous days ending with that sharp blow and cold.

January 30th. Turned out to a dandy morning, feeling much better all round. Good breakfast helped still more and putting kicker astern we were soon headed southward. Came to drawbridge, but just as it was opening I took bottom and made an inglorious halt. Off again and through that draw and then on and on through marsh and creek as so many days before. Here posts with boards nailed to them are supposed to guide you on your way, but the boards are ripped off and the posts all broken down so you have to rely upon guesswork and what knowledge you have acquired to pick your way. We had luck and only scraped the keel once to Nassau Sound, where we nicked a strong tide under the shore and were able to double a point and square away into the marsh once more. The breeze came fresh easterly and putting the big rag to her, with fair tide we certainly did eat up the miles. Everything went finely. H. killed a duck on the wing with Helen Keller and the St. John’s River was only a mile away when, kerplunk, we took the mud and it was all off. Set two anchors to keep from bilging and employed crew in usual ship’s duties. We must have cleaned up better than 30 miles since morning and it was 4 p.m. and time to stop anyway. I made a crout-au-pot for supper. Good thing for scurvy. Tried to get H. to rub some back of his ears, but he wouldn’t. Obstinate boy.

January 31st. Came on and off from midnight until 3 a.m. until ship floated and I hauled out my sleepy crew to pull anchors and work boat into deep water. This done it was quick to bed for some good snooze. Up, breakfast, clean up, and away by 8:30 with launch astern. Made our mark on an oyster bar first thing, but jumped her over. Across St. John’s River where tide was running fiercely. Promptly went ashore twice, trying to make creek on opposite shore. Got off each time with luck and the spinnaker pole. Breeze came dead ahead and tide in same direction so it was slow pushing all the morning and was almost glad when I ran aground good and hard and had time for lunch. Floated and were off again. Today saw old Mississippi-type river steamer with big stern wheels thrashing white water. Stern-to they looked like big, cottontail rabbits. The marsh more attractive today. More color, prettier and longer grasses, and glimpses into the lonely cypress swamps. Still the whole thing is pretty flat and unprofitable. Should stop, spend a month to study and explore. H. has a notion he will cut quite a dash at Ormond Beach, and I have advanced him 25 cents for the purpose, so it is ever on, on, on. Grounded twice more in afternoon, but come off as I came on. If you lay flat on your stomach and waited for a spring tide you might be able to drown about here. Towards night the clouds banked up ugly in west and a sharp little squall swept the river as I dropped hook for the night. By 8 o’clock skies had cleared, but it doesn’t seem as if the wind blew hard enough to sweep the clouds very far away.

February 1st. Comes early, say about 1 a.m. when tide turned and with smartish northeaster, we ran plunk onto an oyster bar. Might as well run into the Old Cock of Hen and Chickens. Turned out to find nothing. Black as indigo. Had to get compass to find out whether it was Florida or Chelsea. Messed around and hauled into channel. Turned in with thoughts of steamers, tows, and log booms all on top of me at once. Up and away under whole sail to freshening northeaster. Took bottom almost immediately but crowded off and smothered down stream. Breeze pricked right on and we had our hands full slacking peak, jibing, hoisting again and trying to keep in enough water to wash dishes. Jumped her good and plenty once more but we were boring at it so hard that we just split that mud flat wide open and went on. We boomed into St. Augustine at 10:30 cutting a few fancy steps along the water front and making a North River jibe to our anchor. Took things easy and didn’t go ashore until after lunch. Going ashore at a resort of this kind after leaving the swamps and marshes seems somehow like going into a 10-cent store. Everything looked pretty cheap and nasty. We wandered about for a few hours. Saw old Fort Marion and the Ponce-de-Leon Hotel. The courtyard of the hotel is truly beautiful. The street crowds look a good deal like those at Cottage City and we were glad to get on board and have supper by ourselves. Saw by the paper that another 3 master was dismasted within 20 miles of us in the blow we took the day before reaching Fernandina. Too much of the wreck business going on at my door. At Southport the 4 master went on Frying Pan. Off Georgetown when we layed to in the southwester, the 3 master McFarland was dismasted and we saw the hulk at Charleston. This last dismasted derelict we saw as we crossed St. John’s River, into which a revenue cutter had towed her. Must mind my P’s and Q’s or will be getting my come-gee-come myself. Here we are getting cold, raw weather for most part with fierce gales sweeping the coast every few days and all letters tell me of mildest weather in the north. Trees budding, flowers blooming. It all seems kind of topsy-turvy.

February 2 to 4. Just fooling around St. Augustine and waiting for Chinamen to wash up our wash.

We went to the much advertised South Beach where we expected to find quite a bit of life, but instead found the cheapest sort of outfit with not a soul in sight. There was an alligator farm with hundreds of the critters from the biggest and oldest down to teeny, weeny little fellows. They also had lots of rattlers and moccasin snakes caught right about here. I guess the Mascot’s cabin is full as good as tent life in these parts. St. Augustine differs from all the other cities we have seen because it is the oldest one in the United States and has a distinct and most attractive individuality handed down from days of Spanish rule. We should have done a little sightseeing but for us, sufficient for each day is the hustle thereof. One evening long after dark as we were leaving the wharf in putt-putt, a man hailed us and asked us where our lantern was. I replied that it was on board the big boat and asked if they were fussy around here. The voice from the dark said, “You are talking with the inspector.” I didn’t just remember the repartee for the situation, but meekly told H. to row on board. Am awaiting arrest now, and it ain’t so funny as it sounds. Would rather be layed to outside than languish in prison. Wish I knew how to spell “Layed-to.” Never feel sure whether I am a sailor or a hen-yard. Have our shore grub in a sort of “Club,” all dolled up in imitation Moorish fashion. Not badly done and good cook. We have never seen more than three persons besides ourselves eating there. I fancy hotels and all are sort of subsidized by Henry M. Flagler. One night we heard a bully crash and down the stairs came a girl imitating Scotty in a fit. H. and I to the rescue pronto. We picked her up, and undoubtedly saved her life, but got no prize, and she dined with another fellow. That makes me think that Scotty being particularly well got some meat the other day. The fun began in the fore peak, but instantly spread over the whole ship. A tangled mass of claws, teeth, and fur landed first in my lap, and then in the cockpit. While H. jumped on deck to see if it had gone overboard, down through the skylight it came like a rocket stick scattering pens, ink, paper, etc., etc. all about. When I picked my head out of my bunk pillows the cyclone had disappeared in the lazaret, the entrance to which we blocked up promptly. No more meat, Scotty.

Map E.

February 5th. Were away in an undeniably pretty chance. Single reef and good breeze northeast with clear skies. Much more attractive going with shores edged with timber and with water clear and with some color. Strong head tide, but we bucked it handsomely until 12:30 when we took bottom good and plenty giving us a chance to lunch quietly and write log. With coming tide we floated and were stuck again in 100 yards. Floated and ran ashore some more. Next time we got her going, away we went like a pigeon without his tail, for an oyster shell had somehow wedged itself into the bottom rudder pintle hole and so lifted rudder that wheel wouldn’t go in gear. Merry minutes until we could dig old tiller out from lazaret and ship it. Night was falling and after working her around a particularly bad bend we anchored for the night which was clear and precious near frosty.

February 6th. Another peacherino morning with nice working northerly airs. Never had sailboat a better weather chance to work southward. Would like to work it hard but am only just mending up after the previous hard spells and must go easy, so 8:30 before we slipped away. Down river with fair wind and tide abooming. Passed a fine bit of old Spanish ruin. By far and away the best thing of its kind I ever saw over here. It was an old tower built as a southerly defence for St. Augustine. Then we crossed Matanzas Inlet and entered upon some most pernickety navigation. With H. on bowsprit and clear water we managed to get along 4 or 5 miles with repeated draggings, and jumping her over. At last we made a sad miscue and ran her up on an oyster bar with everything standing and at about full of the tide. Had to get mighty busy and mighty quick. Little anchor astern no good. Up hatch and drag out those big 200 lb. sacks of wet sand and put them on rail. No good. Out big anchor, and as last resort, before throwing ballast overboard, I hitched on throat halliards and held her down to her rail. Just as we came two blocks she moved a hair and by lustily pushing and hauling we worked her off and piped crew to dinner. Close call for a 12 hour set and midnight circus. Away after lunch and entered the cuttings of the Florida East Coast Canal Co. Had a bully afternoon. Bright warm sun. Woods open to edge of canal and canal itself interesting with its dredged banks sometimes 20 or more feet high on either hand. Sand mostly of beautiful coloring, siennas, chromes, deep browns and now and then great streaks of gamboge. Sometimes the cuttings had gone for miles through the shell rock called coquina, and here the canal water had cut hundreds of little miniature caves and grottos. Later we passed orange plantations with some trees all in yellow fruit close to the bank. The whole afternoon was fine and the most peaceful and restful we have had for many a day. We saw pelicans and white herons and blue herons, hawks, buzzards, swallows, and big, fat mallard ducks. We skirted close and peered into great, gloomy palmetto forests which somehow had the look of sheltering alligators, and snakes. At nightfall we came to a highway bridge and tooted our horn in vain. Stopped, tied up, and investigated. On a sign we read that if we left the draw open we would have all manner of things done for us. H. was soon playing ring-around-rosey with the iron bar and back the draw was going when down the road from nowhere comes an auto. “Hey, there,” says the pompous one, “Shut that draw and let us over.” “Not much until I’m through,” says I, and we didn’t. The chauffeur came to look at Mascot and said, pointing to her, “Will that go upon the ocean?” “Sure,” says I. “I thought so,” he replied and went to tell the people in the car the remarkable fact. As near as we can find out nobody has ever come down here under sail before. The natives stare with astonishment at the bit of canvas. It is my impression that nobody else will ever come, either. We tied up to the bridge abutment for the night.

February 7th. Weather had turned to the bad during the night, and in the pitch black of 5 a.m. I was waked from a bully sleep by a hurry call on deck from H. First time this cruise that H. has had to call me. Tumbled out to find a big scow houseboat trying to get through the draw and being swept back and down atop of us. We pushed and pulled awhile and finally he worked through and we turned in again. We entered the broad reaches of the shoal Halifax River where stakes and finger posts guided us along a channel having about 6 feet of water. Often for miles there were no posts and we had to go it blindly with help of lead. It rained bucketsful and I wished I could turn boat bottom up, for there was plenty of water upstairs. Worked down past Ormond Beach and passing through the bridges found ourselves off the wharves of Daytona. In trying to reach the wharves we ran her ashore for keeps so went to town in launch. Met Henry’s uncle who was much troubled to think of the Mascot stuck on the mud. Kind friends at the yacht club at once organized a relief expedition which resulted in the running ashore of the relief launch and the smashing of her rudder. Much pulling and hauling followed, but old Mascot never budged which was quite as it should be for I might have broken my rudder if she had started. Late that evening when a few inches of tide served, H. and I put out our big anchor with all our chain to hold it down and after dumping over a little sand ballast, floated her without trouble and somewhat to the surprise of the natives were lying quietly at yacht club wharf early next morning.

February 8th to 16th. Put in quietly and pleasantly at Daytona, which is a mighty attractive place. Mr. Rodman, Henry’s uncle, was most kind in every way. Hired bicycles and rode to Ormond Daytona Beach, which is a wonder. Saw flying machines taking up passengers at $25.00 each, and we envied the rich. H. showed signs of having a brain, for after discussing the rather tedious proposition of pushing, pulling, and hauling old Mascot further south through the mud and sand, he suggested taking the launch and making a dash for the pole. That sounded good to me, so we built a framework of boards along the rail of the launch to carry our dunnage and after sawing off the legs of two chairs bolted them to the thwarts. It made a funny looking ferryboat, but I believe if we strike good camping weather and sprinkle lots of carpet tacks about to keep the alligators and Seminoles away o’nights, we may have a mighty good time with sporting element not lacking, which would certainly be the case in Mascot. Plan to sew spinnaker into some form of tent to be set up with oars and boat hook. Letter from John Bullard says Jack Reynolds is reporting Scotty as dead. What do you make of that? He must be trying to manipulate the market and selling short. Spent all one evening trying to define what I mean by the word “sport” and sifted it down to this:

Sport

The pursuit of pleasurable occupation which requires exposure to weather, exercise of all bodily muscles, judgment, skill of hand, foot and eye; never to be followed without a degree of personal risk. Under such classification I put

Sailing of boats,
Handling of horses
Hunting and Canoeing
Mountain climbing.

I know of no other purely sporting propositions.

Went to Orlando one day and back the next. Saw my old farmer, Erving Reed, and his wife. He is manager of a big orange grove. Gave me the skin of a 5 ft. rattler, with 12 rattles, which he killed on the place a short time ago. Sometimes I wonder a little bit about the camping trip which we propose. If the moccasins get you in the water and the rattlers on the shore, where in H—— do you sleep, anyway? Weather pulled northeast drizzly again. Three days of hard northeast rain, which is probably good for garden truck and such.

February 16th. Before turning in last night we saw the clouds split wide open to the westward, and we slept with two blankets and were cold at that. Gave up the idea of going in launch, for this cold northeast rain has made it dangerous for camping on the ground, and I have plenty of rheumatix now. Up with the light and away at 8 o’clock. Launch astern and Mascot light without her ballast. Made good time before smart northerly airs. The water clear and so it was fairly easy to avoid the many sand bars. The channel wound in, out, and around many little wooded islets, and it was quite like sailing on the still waters of some northern lake. Down past New Smyrna and so with many crooks and bends to Mosquito Inlet, where is a fine great light tower. Here we miscued badly, but the clear water saved our bacon and we were able to turn the outfit around and regain the deep water. Then on until we got badly boxed and had to go channel hunting in launch before we could get on. Without ballast old Mascot pushed around as easy as you please and while we got aground many times, we had little trouble in working off. Just before reaching the little settlement of Eldora, we passed the big, Indian shell mound and in a few miles approached Mosquito Lagoon, a good big stretch of water spread out mighty thin. No place for me to be bobbing about in with no ballast and only a dinky little launch, so it was haul to the bank, and fill up some canvas bags with sand and stow them. Then out to entrance of big lagoon, which spread beautifully calm before us. It was late afternoon and the east was all blue and purple mists. Across the water to the west, lay a broad, blood-red pathway to the sun just dropping, a great ball, behind the dark line of palmettos. Flights of pelicans and big, long necked cranes stood out sharply against the crimsoned sky. We tied to the bank of a little island for the night which was filled with the strange calls and cries of strange birds. H. complained of sore throat so he did his gozzle up with cold bandage and red flannel.

February 17th. Never a day broke fairer. H. had good night, but turned out with a fearful cold and pretty sore throat, so waited for sun to warm things up well before tripping our hook. Then away into broad Mosquito Lagoon in which we grounded a good many times before reaching the haulover canal or out leading through into Indian River. Passed through the cut and as we entered the river we saw a great, black pig quarter mile from shore quietly rooting away in water 15 in. deep. Now what do you make of that? If swordfish iron hadn’t been washed overboard long ago might have had a little aside at pig-sticking from the launch. Indian River same as Mosquito Lagoon, except there are a few more feet of water and practically no danger of grounding. The river is wide at this point just above Titusville, and as the shores are low, the whole thing is uninteresting even on such a perfect afternoon. Lots of ducks and very tame. I got two with old Bess and might have had many more but didn’t need them. We pushed on and on and it was long after dark when we dropped hook off village of Cocoa. Think we must have done our forty miles or better today. I seldom measure it off. In fact we never look at the charts ahead to see just how far it is to any place, but start in at top of a chart, work through it, and unroll another to be handled in the same way. After doing this several times we finally unroll one that has our stopping place. At starting we had 39 charts in the roll. Tonight we put the keebosh on No. 35 so we must be pretty close to the jumping off place. H. turned in early feeling kind of meechin from effect of his cold, which has gone to his head and taken away his taste to that degree that he no longer finds fault with my cooking.

February 18th. Turned out to another bright, warm, calm morning. H. sneezing and coughing at a great rate. Into wharf for gasoline and oil where was also interviewed by newspaper man. Then away southward once more. Set our awning. Most grateful, cooling shade. There we sat in our easy chairs, smoking and reading just like the nasty rich, who passed us in their palatial houseboats. Ducks, ducks, ducks. Acres and acres, thousands and thousands. So tame it seemed we must surely run them down. Fun to see their little feet paddle, paddle so fast to help them rise from the calm water. It was the same story all day. Low, uninteresting shores dotted here and there with houses and little villages and ahead always that great stretch of calm water. Towards end of day we came to some right pernickety navigation and we jumped her again and again, but always were able to push off and on once more. At five o’clock with sky sort of festering up, we snugged into Sebastian’s Creek and over hook in 6 ft. of water which is a handsome depth, here away.

February 19th. Turned out before light to find an ugly look to sky and sort of soaking air southeast. Anchorage under these conditions didn’t suit me a bit so was away early with breeze in my eye and pricking on. Six miles and more down to Indian River Narrows and couldn’t put sail on as there was only 5 ft. in channel and nothing on either side the last mile or so. Came pesky hard, but by taking in awning little launch was able to kick us into a snug little cove where we put down hook to await better chances. Made up a new recipe for game and had most successful noonday feed. Here you go for duck a la Mascot.

Sauce

Boil one tomato and strain for essence. Add little of gravy smothering duck. Thicken with cream, flavor with tablespoon of guava jelly, dash of Worcestershire, pepper, salt, and add one egg beaten. Don’t get in too much duck gravy as it is too greasy.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

EPILOGUE

Now that the cruise of the Mascot is ended, you may have some curiosity about what is described in children’s story books as “... and they all lived happily ever after.”

FIRST, THE MASCOT ...

The Mascot finally left the Plummer family, and slowly moved north. They kept track of her until she got north of Rockport, and there they lost her. As matters turn out, she hadn’t gone much farther, just barely by New Hampshire’s 15 mile coastline to Kittery, Maine where she became a well known resident of the Piscataqua River.

The author of the following account, David C. McIntosh, settled down to the business of building boats at Dover Point, New Hampshire, on the upper reaches of the Piscataqua in 1932. He trained for his profession by studying literature, first at Dartmouth, and then at Harvard. Despite these advantages he has been building very good boats ever since. He still cherishes his last remaining relic of the Mascot, a feather duster.

Wyn Mayo and his old boat were a living legend in Kittery before we knew either of them. Tales came up the river with the fishermen: of cruises to the east’ard ending in shipwreck; of the two of them riding out the ’38 hurricane up in the Creek, with two anchors out ahead, the engine wide open, and the bridge so close astern that Wyn’s friends, gathered there to drag him up out of the wreckage, were passing him cups of hot coffee, hand to hand, ’long about the end of it. Opinion was that when Wyn and the Mascot did something, it was done with spirit. When they had a fire going under the cockpit, it was no piddling little smudge. When they came in through the rip off Whaleback with the wind strong southeast they came (to hear Wyn tell it) with the power of a tiger bounding through tall grass. And when the Mascot sprang a leak, another leak, a new leak, it was a real leak. That’s why Wyn came to the boat shop in the autumn of ’45.

Those who knew and loved him (as we all did) will agree with me that Wyn had a feeling for the dramatic. When he asked the simple question, “Can you save her for me?” there were tears in his eyes, his step faltered, and he knew very well that we had fallen under his spell. “She’s old,” said Wyn, and his face sagged thirty years: “But she’ll sail again!” said Wyn, resuming the expression appropriate to his emotional age, which would be about eighteen. As a matter of fact, she’d been sailing that morning.—So it was arranged that Monty would tow her up on next day’s flood, and we’d haul her out right away and try to figure out where all that water was coming in. And the centerboard was jammed—must be warped. And the steering gear was a little loose. And while we were at it, wouldn’t this be a good chance to install a new engine? (The old one had given up some time before—after the mighty effort in the ’38 hurricane—and been put ashore).... And, said Wyn, he’d always wondered how she’d do with a sloop rig.... “Yes!” we said, full of enthusiasm. Somehow, in October, in a boatyard, with winter coming, spring seems very far behind; but it’s never far enough.

By this time, we’d learned that Mascot was 66 years old, or thereabouts; had figured in high adventures when a mere thirty; that Wyn had bought her from a man named Plummer twenty-odd years back; and that she’d been a way of life for him, a sanctuary with wings, ever since.

Next day they came up river behind Monty’s power boat. Wyn was steering, Georgie was pumping for dear life. We held her off long enough to unhook the centerboard (she had one of those Buzzards Bay Patent Hangers) and drive it out, to be recovered at low water; then we put her on the carriage and hauled her slow and easy, trying to spot the leaks. There wasn’t much use trying to particularize. She dripped at every butt, and at the foot of the stem; she poured water the length of both garboards; and the rudder port was a melancholy sight indeed. And the pattern of her bottom planking chronicled half a century of strandings and repairs. Hardly a plank was left that had not a patch of some kind, and some of the patches had been patched in their turn.... Lester thought she’d usually got bilged to starb’d, for some reason, but the rest of us couldn’t detect any real evidence of consistency. She’d been caulked, and nailed, and re-nailed, and caulked some more, lovingly and earnestly, but not tenderly. They hadn’t managed to move the garboards, but they’d pushed the keel inward, in the way of the slot, so that no clearance was left for the board. But she was still some chunk of boat, without a distorted curve in her anywhere.

We rolled her off the railway and jacked her up. We tore off the garboards (they came hard, and lost all identity in the process) and the transom (which was held in place by the deck canvas and some particularly sticky seam filler they’d tried at the end); and we left her to dry out over the winter, while we went back indoors to work on the new sloop.

Spring came in a few days, and Wyn with it, bearing a matched set of lovely little lignum vitae deadeyes and a new sail plan. We needled him about it. “Marconi? Faugh!” said Wyn, and dust stirred in the far corners of the shop. We’d take two cloths off the leach, and shorten the gaff, and move the mast right back against the house, and give her two heads’ls. (And these things we did; and after Wyn tried her out, rather late that summer, he reported that she sailed and handled better than she’d ever done before.)

But before that, at odd moments through a short and bitter spring that was full of harsh words from other owners, we fitted new garboards to a reinforced keel, put on a new stern, lined the rudder port with a four-inch lead sleeve, bridged innumerable shattered butts-on-timbers. Finally we hoisted aboard a new and beautiful little four-cylinder engine, lined it up, coupled it to the old shaft, and told Wyn he’d have to find someone else to finish the installation.

We launched her on the fly, and hauled her half out again to save her, because she needed two days’ soaking for the old planks to take up. Starcrest towed her to Witham’s Wharf, in Kittery. Wyn’s friends hooked up the engine while he bent on sails and got the gear straightened out—and she was off, tight and fairly sound again in her 67th year; getting used to the new rig, and re-establishing sovereignty over her section of Pepperell Cove.

Wyn came up and told us about some of the trial cruises. Big kedge got away from him when he was catting it just inside the Annisquam Bar—but what mattered another stove plank to Mascot? Hell, this one was clear above the waterline! And how she came home that day, with the wind s’utheast and the Bay feather-white!

Mascot wintered well, so did Wyn. They started off to do some serious voyaging that summer of ’47, when their combined ages amounted to about a hundred and forty years.

Then one day came a rumor of disaster somewhere away to the eastward. Mascot had blown up, burned, and sunk. Wyn came by and told us about it. They’d gone in to Brown’s Wharf at Port Clyde for gas, and had spilled a quart or two on the cockpit floor. Waited a few minutes for it to evaporate, and then pushed that newfangled starter button. That did it. Wyn said he’d never realized how old and weak she was until he saw the water gushing in and the flames creeping up ahead of it.

Wyn got himself another boat after a year or two, but it wasn’t the same. He’s gone now, and a great many people mourn his loss, and feel that there’ll never be another like him.

As for Mascot: all these years we’ve been thinking of her lying full fathom five, and suffering a sea change. Brooksy, who fastened off her new garboards in the spring of ’46, volunteered to do some field research a couple of weeks ago. He found her. She’s hauled up at the head of a cove at Pleasant Point, ... “and those new garboards and new stern and rudder we put on look darned good!” says Brooksy. Charlie Stone hauled her there, after the mess at the wharf was cleaned up, and he boarded her over for a platform to store his lobster traps on. I’ll bet they’re the best-held-up damned lobster traps on the Maine coast!

David C. McIntosh

... THE BOY ...

Our delight in the discovery that the Mascot, again given up for lost, was, like Daddy Warbucks, still leading a useful life, was exceeded only by our pleasure in the discovery of the whereabouts of “the Boy.”

We tracked him down to a hospital bed where he was recovering from a coronary. He was able to clear up one point, which completely mystified us on our initial reading.

It seems that some of the fowl which provided the succulent meals which are described in the log were not always in season. For this reason their demise was coded into a reference to some domestic animal on which there was no season.

With this mystery cleared up, we are now happy to bring you direct from the pen of Henry M. Plummer, Jr. his recollections and impression of the trip.

For several years the idea of publishing The Boy, Me and the Cat has been in my mind, but until the present publishers undertook the project the idea was more or less nebulous. Now with the project under way I feel that many people who are interested in cruising will not only find in this book a new impetus to their hobby, but will also find many new ideas to increase their pleasure.

Let me begin by saying that I was not a sailor. Most of my youth had been spent in the mountains away from the seashore, to which I had made only short visits, because of asthma which was aggravated by the salt air. Thus, although I had learned to sail, my knowledge of cruising was practically nil.

The art of cruising is quite different from just plain sailing as I was soon to find out. Three months of steady and hard preparation went into the start. My father and I built into the old Mascot all the things that we thought might make the trip more pleasure than work. A small bookcase for fifteen or twenty books, a kitchen cabinet for all dishes and pots and pans, a galley with a coal stove, and a primus for warm weather. Ice, coal and wood were kept in the cockpit in special boxes lashed to each side and used as seats. As we intended to live off the land, or perhaps I should say the sea, we carried fish poles, harpoon and other long items of this nature in specially built “cow horns” located on the forward deck and the end of the short bowsprit. These, by the way, were never used owing to the actual work of getting South. A rather large poop deck, which carried all extra impedimenta, was constructed hanging over the stern.

We started off in a blaze of glory, and all went well until we shot a coot. For those of you who are not acquainted with coot, let me say they were never made to be eaten. But notwithstanding this, father would and did make a coot stew. How I kept it down I don’t know, but I did, though I do not remember asking for seconds.

From here on, both down and back, it was push, push, push, to get where we wanted to go. There were many beautiful days to be sure, but as I recall, it was mostly just plain hard work.

In those days the channel of the inland waterway was marked by boards nailed to posts. If the top corner of the board was cut off it meant the deep water was close to the post. If the bottom corner was cut off, deep water was farther off. All of this was fine in theory, but in practice you just couldn’t depend on them. Continually we ran hard aground. With only three or four inches of tide, getting off meant an endless shifting of ballast and heeling of the boat over to raise her keel. After doing this four or five times a day, it became more than just monotonous.

Of course there was a great difference between the way we went South and the way the average motor cruiser goes South. We did most of it under sail, or at least as much as we could. It was slow, tedious work and I do not recommend it to anyone. But if you want excitement, you can certainly get it on such a cruise. Try riding a 15-foot dory with a three horsepower engine towing a 24-foot catboat through Hell Gate and the East River of New York. Try shipwreck on the great outer beaches of the Carolinas 30 miles from the nearest settlement. Try riding out a hurricane in a 15-foot dory, or sinking to your waist in the mud of a salt marsh, miles from help or chance of rescue. Such were the chances we took, and with each new experience we learned more about ourselves and each other. In the end we worked as a team and not as individuals, which was as it had to be for the successful completion of the trip.

In looking back over the years, I sometimes wonder how my father put up with me. I must have been a terrible strain on him at times, but I cannot remember him ever losing his temper or being anything but the gentleman he was. He was patient, considerate and helpful at all times, and yet always master of the situation.

The “Cat” we both came to love and, in the end, to grieve for her death. It is strange how one becomes so attached to a little ball of fur.

My father had sailed boats from early childhood and had learned cruising firsthand with his own boats. He had owned several, none of them large, all under 20 feet. With the Mascot he was able to do what he had dreamed about—plan a small boat cruise such as had never been undertaken before. As he had just retired from the insurance business, time was not too important. He had always been very good with his hands so that the work we did was far from new to him, even if brand new to me. Under father’s direction we created a boat which was most comfortable for cruising.

The old Mascot wasn’t a very long boat, and she was wide of beam, but she held on no matter how bad the going. For eight months she was home to me. For eight months I learned from both the boat and father. I like to think that some of this education is passed along through the brief entries of her log.

With these few words I pass along The Boy, Me and the Cat to the present publishers with my best wishes for their success in this venture.

Henry M. Plummer, Jr.
THE BOY

... AND ME.

When the curtain goes down it is customary to call for the author. This we cannot do, but without apology we reprint an editorial written about Mr. Plummer by Zeph Pease, editor of the old Mercury, who in the words of William Taylor, “... was a great editor of a great paper.” We feel that this glowing tribute by a close friend is a fitting conclusion to a great story.

“The chain rattled, the blocks sung their song and with a shake of the hand, the cruise was done.” This was the ending to the story of the adventurous expedition recorded by Henry M. Plummer in a delightful book that described the voyage of the author from Potomska to Florida made in 1912-13. A longer voyage is ended. The cruise is done. And it is our wish to give tribute to a gallant gentleman by the sea, whose business interests were on the sea, with a race of men that held a bit of hazard, and who accepted the slings and arrows of fortune in a sportsman’s way.

He had just written for the Mercury a series of articles on the life of a boy in New Bedford in the 70’s and 80’s, autobiographical, which was of historic value, touching lovingly upon the small town life of a village by the sea, whose business interests were on the sea with a race of men that had accepted chances, often disastrous, in conflict with the elements, as a part of the day’s work. There was an atmosphere of bravery about the town and it infected the youth of that day who found pleasure in sports in the open air, in gunning in the woods, and above all in boating. The aspiration of every boy was to “go to sea.” That was the vernacular of the town for engaging in the industry that had been so long the head and front of business undertaking. The boys of that period, notwithstanding whaling had waned, looked up to the masters of ships who had taken their vessels into uncharted seas, the Arctic, the south seas where they discovered new islands and new people, as heroes. The legends of long voyages and strange experiences, permeated the town and the boys that were worth while, scorned the soft side of life and sought out hazards.

The boyhood experiences of Mr. Plummer are so fresh to the readers of the Mercury, that we need not dwell upon them to impress how different were the boys of Mr. Plummer’s day from those of the present. It is not strange that he looked back upon the older day so pleasantly and that finding himself with a winter of leisure which he proposed to spend in a warmer climate to rehabilitate his broken health, he suggested writing the series of articles, which we accepted with enthusiasm. The reception was extraordinary. Readers wrote to the Mercury of the pleasure the articles gave and Mr. Plummer himself received a multitude of letters including many from strangers, who were moved to tell him of the joy he had given them. The fact was, Mr. Plummer had literary style, which he persisted in disavowing, declaring anybody could do the thing as well. Those who read the articles knew this was not true, and we have always felt Mr. Plummer missed an opportunity in not devoting himself to literature.

We have referred to the volume by Mr. Plummer, which was an original venture in publishing. Mr. Plummer sailed from this port on September 15, 1912, for a voyage to Florida, in a 23-foot Cape Cod catboat, 30 years old, accompanied by his son, Henry M. Plummer, Jr., and a cat. “The Boy, Me and The Cat,” was the title. The expedition was cast on the shore, with the catboat bilged and the tender smashed, near Cape Fear, and for ten days father and son, marooned on the lonely, lugubrious beach, stretching a thousand miles on either side, repairing their craft. Mr. Plummer on his return, prepared a typewritten story of a hundred or more large pages, illustrated with crude processes, which he mimeographed personally, turning out as unique a volume as was ever circulated.

There is such lure to the story that as we reread it we can hardly refrain from quoting: One vagrant sentence hit the eye. It was the following definition: “Sport. The pursuit of pleasurable occupation which requires exposure to weather, exercise of all bodily muscles, judgment, skill of hand, foot and eye, never to be followed without a degree of personal risk. Under such classification I put Sailing of boats, Handling of horses, Hunting and canoeing, Mountain climbing. I know of no other purely sporting propositions.”

But we think of another sporting proposition that involved Mr. Plummer. In 1924 a Cape Verdean boy came here on a schooner to join his parents and the immigration authorities refused him leave to land because of an eye infection, although the parents were able to keep him from being a burden upon the community. The little fellow was but ten years old. He was kept aboard the schooner all summer. Then the majesty of the law ordered his deportation, and the child was to be separated from his parents forever. This was not good sportsmanship to Mr. Plummer’s mind. Some people, we include ourselves in this instance were content to protest by writing about it. Mr. Plummer discerned that somebody must do something. He started for Washington and for days he went from pillar to post in behalf of that boy, protesting the injustice and humanity of the thing. As a sportsman Mr. Plummer fought for the underdog, the child from the Cape Verdes, and officialdom and the statutes of the United States dooming him to exile. Mr. Plummer won and the boy was allowed to join his family.

Mr. Plummer’s son, an aviator, was killed in the World war. The fates were not always kind to him. But he was a cheerful spirit and caroled as he went. The prayer of Robert Louis Stevenson comes to our mind. “Give us to go blithely on our business all this day, bring us to our resting beds weary and content and undishonored.” And now, he is granted in the end, the gift of sleep.

This Editorial reprinted from The Morning Mercury,
New Bedford, Massachusetts, May 9, 1928

Transcriber’s Notes

Nonstandard or inconsistent spelling and punctuation was mostly left as published.

The published version of this book used page number suffixes to indicates which of the five maps was currently in effect. These have been replaced with a sidenote every time the map reference changes.

Page 123: changed two to tow.

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Table of Contents

- The Boy, Me and the Cat
- PUBLISHERS’ PROLOGUE
- DEDICATION
- PREFACE
- The Boy, Me and the Cat
- EPILOGUE
- Transcriber’s Notes
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE