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 houseboatSwordfish. 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 hadto 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 oldMizpah. 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’sSound 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 thethree-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.
The Mangrove Swamp.
March 28th.Comes bright with waspish air at northeast and cold as blazes. Would have given most anything for a breath of this stuff in Miami. Tucked on all our winter clothes and sweaters and topped off with oilers. Feel now as if I had caught up that foolish month of December wasted along the Carolina shore. Away to the northard under two reefs and kicker to help us tack for tack. Crossed Doboy Sound a great stretch of brick-red water. What a country for the impressionist where nature has spread the color in great sweeps of her widest brush. Here is your red sea, your long lines of vivid green where red meets the new springing marsh grass crowned with the dark brown and golden yellow of the old. Above, a sky as blue as blue flecked with tumbling clouds as white as snow. Can you beat it? We drove her along all day, bruising it across the sounds sometimes with head, sometimes with fair tide. In Sapello Sound we had an especially long, hard thrash to windward during which the schooner houseboatAgnesslowly 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 literallydrive 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.
Varnishing the mast
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.
Sumter.
April 15th.At 3:30 a.m. the whistle blew and the game was on. The weather map of yesterday gave me every confidence, but my glass hangs lower than we have ever seen it in fair weather. Yesterday a schooner captain said, “Yes, it looks like a chance, but I wouldn’t bet a chew of terbaccer against a suit of clothes at this season.” We were away a little after five, for it takes two hours after turning out to cook and eat a good breakfast, wash up, have a quiet smoke, and tend and fill lights, hoist sail and away. An ebb tide and a fresh southwest breeze swung us quickly down the harbor and a big, red sun bursting above the heavy cloud banks which seem always to hang over the gulf, lighted up the little fluttering flag that flies so bravely night and day over the pile of brick and mortar called Sumpter. My hat came off to it this morning. What other flag have we got flying more worthy of a bow at the break of day? We turned the jetty and headed northward in the heaving ocean swell which we have not felt for over three months. Gosh! but the place seemed to have grown vaster and more endless since we left it. It was cold and raw. We put on everythingwe 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 tooka 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 6:30and 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 fromhole 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 droppedhook 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.
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 hadfourbeds. 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.
Up sail, off and away,Balance partners, all chassé.
Up sail, off and away,Balance partners, all chassé.
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 couldhave 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 outbrightly 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 andstraightway 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 dayaverage, 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 motorboatin 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 didquickthat 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 abouthim, 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.