Twirling cat
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.
Last Whistling Swan.
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. Henrybagged 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 aboutour 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 oldfriends, 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 byQuerida IIand 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.
Ducks taking off
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 cryfor 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 beenailingfor 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.
in Pamlico
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 awayearly, 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 woodswhere 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.
Scotty with a chicken
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 himso 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 “thehuman sociationdone 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.
Beaufort N.C.
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 littleQuerida IIseeking 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 thencame 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.
Wrecked.
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 theNew 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 whilethere 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. waterand 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.
Busted Launch.
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 domuch 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 inthese 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.
Bilged
December 13-20.During these days we were marooned at New Inlet, as desolate a spot on our Atlantic coast as a man could pick out for the purpose. The fear of a northeast gale with heavy sea was constantly on our minds for that might easily spell imprisonment for days if not weeks. We lay in a narrow little gutter where the tide ran viciously, making constant shifting of anchors both night and day a necessity. I must utterly fail to give any idea of the great loneliness of the beach stretching 1000 miles on either side and trembling to the constant crash of roaring surf. When I stood and watched H. walk away, in a few yards he became but a speck on the face of that limitless sand. When we walked together it somehow felt better to hold hands and talk little. It was Swiss Family Robinson with us from daylight until dark, and as the weather was kind, we jumped right at work to be done and enjoyed our big workshop and the ever changing color of the scene.
With the dropping of the gale, we sent down throat halliard tackle and with aid of sand anchors made from oars, poles, &c., &c., we hauled the launch above high water mark. Boards ripped from a deserted fisherman’s shanty made material for new bottom, and gratings, seats and driftwood, we knocked together for a work bench. It took us three days to repair the launch and when we finished, the whole stern was made up of canvas patches, putty and copper tacks. The engine was full of salt water and sand, so we had to take it all to pieces and rebuild it. The spark coil was soaking and that we took apart, boiled in fresh water and repacked in a preserve jar with red flannel. What will we do now for flannel if we get sore gozzles? We worked slowly and carefully for it was no fool’s business, and when we had all in shipshape order once more, you should have seen the merry twinkle in the mate’s eye when the little engine started off at the first turn. We put the Mascot on the beach and patched the hole two foot long in her side with a bit of canvas well painted and laid over some sail battens. This patch was my pride and has never been removed. Scotty was the best company as long as we left her on the Mascot, but when we took her ashore for a bit of exercise she promptly had a most spectacular fit and I got her aboard again by the tail. Wonder if I will have to live forever and ever on the Mascot with Scotty. Might do worse.
In many ways the beach is strange. The surface only seems to befirm, 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.
Sunset
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 inour 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 hungup 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.
Scotty enjoying oyster stew
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 upin 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 lifeboatwith 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 offshore. 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.