The Boy, Me and the Cat (continued 3)

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

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

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

Sauce

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

Duck

Take the four breast meats of two duck. Smother them 5 to 8 min. in ½″ water skin-side down in covered saucepan. Dip in egg and cracker crumbs once and fry brown in very hot bacon drippings. Serve on toast with sauce poured over.

This is an economical dish, too, for you get all the breast meat and none of the other gets cooked until you put it into pot for a stew or soup. I think a touch of lemon in place of Worcestershire would help that sauce, but it’s a mighty good dream as it is.

Weather grew continually more ugly and finally about sundown it began to blow and rain southeast with good, earnest tropical rain. Well I guess, and more to come. It swept across decks like a flood and dashed into cockpit so hard we had to shut cabin doors. We smoked up our pipes and managed to create quite a cosy atmosphere.

February 20th. Turned out before day broke and found things shaping for a pretty morning. Queer what critters we humans be. Last night in the blow and rain I felt like home or die, and this morning it was Miami or bust. Kicked my crew awake and we were soon picking our way among the shoals and islands of Indian River Narrows. All the marshes were in young green. Vivid in the early morning light. H. could hear the birds everywhere and we passed a great flight of swallows winging north. From these Narrows we entered the long stretch of lower Indian River and stopped first thing to lend a man a hand who the evening before had run his little houseboat high and dry and with his wife had spent a most uncomfortable night. It was no use, we couldn’t budge him. Before we left he paddled over with his anchor and a warp big enough for the Fall River boat and asked us to bend it on for him as he frankly confessed he never could learn to tie those knots. We put sail to her and with fresh northwester on our counter began to reel off the miles in great shape. Having only about 500 lbs. of sand aboard the old boat would plow her nose right into it and try to turn and look us in the face, but with launch tied astern with quarter lines we kept her head southerly and let her boil with about 2 ft. of water under her keel. At Fort Pierce, a distressingly barren looking town, we stopped for gas and went on with a reef in the mainsail. The afternoon’s sail was what you read about. Smooth water as blue as blue can be. Green shores not too far away. A smart breeze with balmy warmth to it. Calm at sunset with a great full moon rising into a purple-blue tropic sky. Quietly to anchor under west shore some few miles below Jensen.

February 21st. Dawn found me peeking out and boiling coffee, but heavy land fog kept us at anchor and we didn’t point her nose south until 7 o’clock. The fog away, there came a bright hot sun which brought out the awning pretty quick. We crossed St. Lucie Inlet and there watched an Indian fisherman stand on the bow of his motorboat and take her over the shoals and through the surf. The bright sky, blue water breaking over the bar, the boat, the man so unconsciously graceful made a delightful picture. Then on into narrow crooked going, deep into the tangled mass of mangrove swamps. Finger posts guided us for the most part well but sometimes there were none, and we wandered off into blind leads only to have to push back and try again. About noon we passed through Hobe Sound where on left-hand shore which we skirted were lots of ideally beautiful Florida winter homes. The houses unpretentious, well done, and the gardens a mass of bloom and color. Again we plunged into swamp but now much more beautiful. Then we shot out into Jupiter River just above the inlet and making a mighty sharp bend jumped at once into the swamps again. We are in this swamp as I write. So narrow the creek that the palm trees cast shadows on the paper as I write. Color is everywhere now. Green in every shade, yellows, browns and reds. The mangroves with their thousand roots make a green wall along our way. The water flows in and under for Lord knows how far. I want to write to a man who has put up a “For Sale” sign and ask him whether he sells by the acre or gallon. Flowers, too, lots of them. Morning-glories and all sorts and kinds and colors that I don’t know the name of. Passed from the creek out into Lake Worth about 5 p.m. and sailed down towards Palm Beach as the sun was setting and that wonderful blue was growing in the east. Came to anchor at nightfall off the docks and gardens of the Royal Poinciana and watched the big moon rise over the gables of that famed establishment.

For several days now Scotty has given us much anxiety. Even warm malted milk has what you call distressed her, and she has not been particular as to where to be distressed. Tonight after supper we finally found her stiff as a board in bottom of launch. We gathered round to shed a tear when she lifted her head, cried “skizzgah! skizzgah!” and returned to life. She is a mighty sick mimi tonight, however. I am afraid that old broken end of glass medicine dropper is trying to permanently locate in her interior. She does not seem to suffer pain so will just let things go. I hate to think of her leaving us. Trains of cars cross the bridge near by, and the fit may have been caused by fright at their noise.

At 9 p.m. I had a fit of my own and nothing for it but must doll up, go ashore and see the sights. To the hotel, of course, and there instead of finding people out enjoying the glory of the beautiful evening we found them working hard at the dance and at cards. It is all very interesting and to me novel. I have never seen a crowd of Americans of this stamp at play. The women looked tired and fagged and the men not much better. There was no light-heartedness anywhere and the whole thing done as if on the stage. There were several couples who later in the grill-room danced the “trot” for the edification of all hands to the music of a nigger band and singers. I got the impression the girls were professionals and the men working out board and lodging. I learned later that their names appeared in the newspapers as “society leaders.” I saw only one or two aristocratic looking women, the others were not more than one generation from the immigration office. It will be many a year yet before our people learn how to enjoy their leisure time. How easy in this new workshop of ours to make a few dollars, but how hard it seems for people to get any real pleasure in the spending of them when made.

February 22 to 28th. Palm Beach. From our anchorage the whole scene is most attractive. The Royal Poinciana is a huge caravansary and with its roof topping the green of the palms has a good bit of grandeur. The color scheme is undeniably good with light yellows of the palm, the blue-green of the palmetto, pure whites and faintest pinks reflected from red piazza roofs, themselves hidden by white balustrades. Launches with merry parties are dashing all about and lend flashes of bright color. Houseboats with bunting fluttering come, anchor, and go again while now and then an army hydroaeroplane jumps in air with roar of motor. On shore the band plays and nice looking people take tea beneath the palms or are wheeled about in chairs. We go ashore and look and stare. Watch the bathers and even venture to take a meal or two in the “winter garden” but take it from me, brown-tail moth is nothing to the sting of poverty and somehow there seems to be a light-heartedness lacking to it all and soon my interest flags and I want to be into the swamp and away. Over it all floods hot sunshine with muggy air which has no freshness even in the early morning.

February 28th. We turned out at daylight and took the ship over to West Palm Beach where we put in a mighty hot, weary morning getting provisions, water and ice. The wind was heavy from south, square in our teeth, and rain squalls added to the general soaking wet conditions. H. caught himself just as he was going to say something about not going any farther and smothered it up. We were on fine edge, both of us. I have heard about these tropic conditions and the way they will break a man up and am rather glad to give them a try. We were off at 11 o’clock and made better headway against sea and wind than we expected. At the foot of Lake Worth we entered a long canal cutting with banks beautifully overgrown with all manner of trees, bushes, vines and flowering plants. The breeze came a bit fresher and we gradually relaxed the nerve tension and by evening were able to speak quite civilly to each other. At night we tied up to the canal bank with a great magnolia tree half filling the cockpit. Our first mosquitos appeared in force, but we rigged nettings and kept the cabin free of them and also free of any breath of air. It was pretty stifling hot, and having still a few nerves on hand, my night was not of the best.

March 1st. Comes bright, hot, and with the same steady southerly wind. When we went to cast off our shore lines we found that the one made fast in the tree was only a foot or two from a wasps’ nest with critters on it as big as bats. How we escaped an awful stinging up last evening I don’t know for we were pulling and hauling with our heads and shoulders among the branches. Rather a problem, the casting off of that line. We settled it with one barrel from old Bess, a quick jump to the limb and a noble effort by little putt-putt astern. Then it was away through the Everglade swamps with now and then a turn which brought us within sound of the pounding surf just over the narrow sand strip separating us from old ocean. Passed Hillsboro Inlet, and new Inlet, taking bottom in good shape at last named. The way was walled with green and many flowers gave touch of bright color. Soon after starting we had the luck to see a good-sized alligator floating not more than 10 feet from the boat. He was probably 5 or 6 feet long, an ugly looking cuss. H. won 10 Coca-Colas for seeing him first. Funny little crabs with bright red legs and white nippers scurried back and forth under the long mangrove roots. With exception of pelicans and herons this was the only sign of life and the absence of it makes much of the dreariness and it is dreary. About 4 in the afternoon we came to our last canal, where a heavy chain across effectually stops navigation. $3.60 bought us our round trip ticket and a ride on the roller coaster and we were soon far into the sticks again. At night we again tied to trees and the mosquitos descended in clouds. Scotty insisted on constantly going in and out and leaving a gap in the netting. The air was hot and heavy, the cabin suffocatingly warm. Mosquitos as big as buzzards and with venomous stings. One gave me a fierce touch of malaria right on the knuckle of my big toe. I was good and tired, but I had the twitchums all over as soon as I turned in. At midnight we turned out and battled the brutes with Japsticks and with fair success.

March 2nd. Comes with blazing sun heat. We are both in good working shape again and a broken night’s rest means little discomfort. Had good breakfast and were away into sun’s glare at 8. My eyes suffer some even behind blue glasses. Like yesterday, the road is pleasant to travel, bordered by the deep green of mangroves and giving every now and then a peep up some little branch into the mysterious silences of the great swamp. We crossed lagoons and big lakes in which we always got aground as the finger posts were either broken down or unplaced. It was particularly attractive just before entering Biscayne Bay for the trees were higher and overhung the river more completely. We both compared it with the upper waters of the Charles. Biscayne Bay looked mighty big as we left the narrow little creek and pushed out against a strong southwester. It didn’t seem possible not to find our 3½ ft. of water in such a great sea, but that’s just where we missed it, for we have found on the whole trip no more puzzling navigation than we had to tackle this afternoon. The water was a light brunette and the shoals didn’t show, while the posts were at long intervals and often no way of telling which side to leave or how close to go. We jumped her along about 2 miles and then stuck her. Pushed off, ran across narrow channel and slid her way up on other side. Then heavy squalls swept up the bay with sheets of rain and we ran below for lunch. Lunch over, along came a Christian in a launch and offered to give us a pull. He said he knew just how and made fast to my anchor warp about half out to the anchor on his bow cleet. Then he called for plenty of slack so as to get a good start. I accommodated my friend, of course, and away he went 10 knots an hour. Things happened when that line taughtened and I thought the launch would throw a somersault. It stayed right side up, however, but he ran out towards my anchor and picked up the bight of the warp in his propeller and went out of business until, with head under water, he managed to free the mess. I certainly did pity that man. When all was fair again he gave me another pull in Bristol fashion and twitched me off so hard I again shot across the deep water and piled up on the opposite flat. He went off then and H. and I prepared to labor, but quicker than scat, all the squall clouds that had come over from the southwest banked in the northeast and came charging back with such deluge of rain and spiteful wind that we ran below for shelter. The rain was soon over and a good cool, squally northeaster took place of the warm souther. We sprung single reef mainsail on her and finally landed her afloat, but heading towards home. Carried anchor line to quarter and tripped the hook when her head was right, and nosed along with a little peak of sail. In about half a mile we came to the post with sign meaning “keep away.” We kept away and have kept away ever since for we landed her harder than ever and made a bad matter worse by crowding her on still more with sail. The day was about over and we had had enough, so after finding that the channel ran close to the stake we called it quits, and went below for supper and the night with the lights of Miami in view. We are broadside to wind and sea. The former threatens to blow on a gale but the latter is insignificant on account of shoal water and a handy weather shore.

March 3rd. Passed comfortable night except for an occasional loud slap as some wave would smack square on her bilge. Turned out to a downright owly northeast blow and pouring rain. Rather gloomy prospects for wrecking operations, but soon after breakfast I felt Mascot getting uneasy and quickly running out big anchor and putting our ballast all on starboard deck, we hauled into deeper water without any trouble at all. We certainly had a morning tide 6 inches higher than the previous evening one. I figure the heavy southwesters of last week blew the bay waters up into the swamps for hundreds of square miles. The sharp turn to strong northeast blew the bay water out and to fill up the hole all the swamp water got on the move. When the incoming tide in the bay met the outgoing swamp current the two just naturally humped right up. With Mascot afloat we took launch a mile or so down the bay and sounded out a little water to travel in. It was a bit lumpy and we were soaked on our return. Goose winged our sail and we were off for Miami where we arrived about noon and dropped hook off wharves.

I guess this is the southern end of the cruise. I want to go a-fishing and I want to go down among the Keys, but the season is getting on and indeed the road to the northward is long. The south point on my compass is all rounded off from steady use, and you can hardly read the letter “S” it is so worn. I must rest satisfied with having brought the boat down and, I hope, taking her back.

March 5th to 11th. We wasted no time, but put the Mascot into shipyard at once where we overhauled and painted. The yard was some ways up the Miami River where no breeze reached us and where the hot sun poured fiercely down and sopped every ounce of ambition from us both. At night we had to screen the cabin on account of the mosquitos and we tossed on our transoms until well into each morning. The air so lifeless and saturated with the pungent smell of copper paint that I was sick to my stomach in the mornings which was no happy beginning for a long, hot day. I have been looking the sun straight in the eye for 5 months with result that my own eyes pain me constantly and I am always behind blue glasses and canvas patches. It is all a bit tedious and makes home look a good ways off. Miami, like all the towns we have visited, seems to be in the midst of a real estate boom. The sun pours down and is beaten back into your face and eyes from new cement sidewalks and buildings. A jumble of architecture without any apparent why. No quiet, no shade, no cool narrow street into which to turn. No escape from the raw crudity of it all except to the boat where the paint is blistering on the deck and the motor launches are shaking the very air with unmuffled exhaust. The Royal Palms offers a bit of pleasant contrast with a rather small but well done garden not unlike Monte or Mentone and a good view of a sea gorgeously blue. To go fishing from here requires a hired launch and men and is too expensive and the season is so well along I dare not take the time to go down among the Keys in Mascot.

On returning alone to the boat one night, H. having gone to the movies, Scotty failed to meet me at the rail. To my call I soon heard her little feet scrabbling across decks and before I could catch her in my arms she fell into the cockpit and with a little paw on my foot died. “Pauvre petit Miami-mi.” The heat, the noise, the smell, too much for little Scotty. You who love animals will know how we missed that little bunch of fur, and you who don’t are of little account anyway. We gave her a sailor’s burial in the Miami River and by mutual understanding have not mentioned her name since.

March 11th. Right merrily did we jump to halliards and quick as scat did we trip our hook and send it swinging to the bowsprit end for we were homeward bound with kicker astern and a smashing breeze on our quarter. Hard earned experience stood us in good service and we successfully negotiated the pernickety waters at the upper end of Biscayne Bay and plunged into the mangrove bordered swamp channels beyond. About 5 p.m. we came upon the 90 ft. powerboat Osprey hard aground and swung across the canal about a mile from the tollhouse and barrier chain. In trying to squeeze by his bow we also fetched up, and between us we effectually put that canal out of commission. After much pushing and hauling we worked by but immediately were swept ashore again by the tide. This time we had to run a line from masthead to a tree and heave down a little. Mighty glad to get going, for a night in that canal with its clouds of “skeeties” is no joke and I sure pitied those poor Osprey folks who couldn’t float before midnight. We anchored in the beautiful lagoon near the New River Inlet where we saw a wonderful sunset and ate a wonderful supper of beefsteak and proper fixings. The night fell calm and hot and I had to turn out and put on nettings to keep the beggars out.

March 12th. Up with daylight. Think H. has been bitten by a tsetse fly, for he sure has the sleeping sickness. Osprey II came down lagoon about seven o’clock and we let him pass us before picking our hook. Osprey promptly went aground when taking the cutting at foot of lagoon. She backed off and we went ahead and gave him the good water, but tide was running sharply and he lost control and piled up again. We left him frittering away at the mud and sand. We had some trouble of our own later, but it all goes much easier this way. The sun isn’t glittering on the water ahead. We know how to avoid many of the worst places and when we do stick, each one of us knows just what to do and when to do it. This trip back ought to be a dandy. We have both spoken today of our feeling of relief from strain. There is no wind today, but it is fairly cool under the awning. Saw three alligators, one an old whopper, and one so near the boat we could have struck him with the boat hook. Later we saw three more “gators” and H. put a bullet slap into the head of one. We thought he was our meat sure for he was in only six inches of water. The little 22 cal. pellet failed, however, to stop him. Towards three o’clock we came into the lower reaches of Lake Worth and had a beautiful trip down its smooth waters. The motorboats and speed launches filled with gay parties passed us without a look. Offsprings of Mammon, the nasty rich. Anchored off Poinciana where things begin to look draggy. Today was a good run indeed for the little putt-putt. Over 40 miles in 11 hours.

March 13th. Turned out at daylight again. No use for the bunk these hot, lifeless mornings. Got provisions, ice, etc., and up anchor by 10:30. “She’s the Liverpool packet, My Boys, let her go.” North from Palm Beach the sail along the shore is most beautiful. More flowers are in bloom than when we came down and I guess it was a “riot of color” this morning. I am mighty glad to have seen it, but am not sorry to be leaving it. When I asked a storekeeper why everybody didn’t leave it, he answered, “By God they just can’t. In three years they lose all their money farming and then they ‘gotter’ stay.” Some of these farming propositions look short of criminal. A sample of Everglades soil sent to Washington for analysis was returned to Miami with report that there was no value to it for any crop except slight trace of moisture. The old trade wind blew heavily from south, but for comfort’s sake we kept awning up and let her jog along with motor. It is no joke to pile up under sail in heavy breeze and have to push, pull and kedge in blazing sun. Down past Jupiter Inlet with rushing fair tide and on into Hobe Sound which we thought more attractive than Lake Worth. The trout were jumping beautifully all day. Everybody was fishing, but in all the while we have been in Florida waters we have not seen a fish caught. Way up northerly end of Hobe Sound we anchored for the night at 5 o’clock to escape the “skeeties” which would follow a night spent in the swamps beyond.

March 14th. A good night with only one turnout to furl awning on account of wind. A little more freshness to the air this morning yet we are still sleeping with only sheet as cover and this morning a letter from home gives temperature there as near zero. Under way by seven and promptly hidden away in the swamp. There is nothing new to say of this sort of thing. I never get tired of watching the color but I have no words to describe that. Great green-headed tsetse flies with yellow striped bodies make things occasionally quite merry, but otherwise there is little doing. We remember most of the bad bends from bitter experience and so we go chugging along most contentedly comfortable and I wouldn’t be surprised to pick up a pound or so of that weight I dropped on way down. Beautiful white herons, cranes and smaller blue herons with now and then an eagle make something for the eye to follow, but I sadly miss all signs of other animal life along the way. H. saw a coon shinny up an old palm tree and disappear down the hollow trunk. Besides that we have seen no fur. We most successfully negotiated the narrows under power and double-reefed the mainsail after crossing St. Lucie Inlet. This Inlet is very attractive looking both in itself and surroundings. A boiling swirl of tumbling combers break on shoals through which run the deeper channels of darker blue and emerald green. To the south are the Jupiter Narrows with hundreds of miles of interesting mangrove swamps. To the west runs the St. Lucie River along the banks of which are located the Cow Creek Indians. Stretching to the north are the broad waters of Indian River. We wanted to stop and look the country over, but a day or two is nothing for the purpose and the strong, fair wind too tempting.

We started to hoist sail when slam, bang down on deck came topping lift block and masthead band. Away went boom and sail into water to leeward. I don’t see now how that band jumped the masthead, but it did. Luckily the boom didn’t break and we crutched it again with a strap and peak halliards. H. don’t fancy masthead business much. Says it looks high from deck and seems a good deal higher from aloft. Must keep him up there a day or so for practice. We let her run with kicker to Fort Pierce where we anchored and H. went aloft to put back the block on a strap for temporary use. Then we had a fine sail before a stiff breeze for rest of the day. The sailing was mighty quiet and restful work after motor-going. No matter how perfectly the little engine is working you somehow have it constantly in mind and are unconsciously listening for a skip and speculating on probable cause. To escape mosquitos, we anchored outside Indian River Narrows and took a heavy rain squall as we dropped hook. The squall killed most of the wind and the rain turned the hot, lifeless air into a steam bath. It promised a mighty uncomfortable night, but the Japsticks drove “skeeties” out of cabin and double nettings kept them out, so we got in a pretty good line of sleepings.

March 15th. Comes warm, muggy and full of cloud but with promise of better things and a good stiff breeze. We used power through the Indian River Narrows and “good bye” to our last cocoanut palm as we ran out into the upper Indian River and spread our two-reefed sail to the ever freshening breeze. Everything bully. As I write we are bowling along five to six knots. The sun is shining, the birds twittering somewhere and lots of happiness for me. ——! ——! Those lines and marks represent a fearful crash when we heeled to an extra heavy puff and a whole fowl merrily boiling in the big pot on the oil stove broke loose and went bottom up on the floor. Oh, dear! oh, dear! was there ever such misfortune. All my happiness suddenly turned to sorrow and greasy soup.

For the rest of the day with wind on port quarter blowing spiteful in the puffs, we stormed it up river and anchored once more off Cocoa for the night, having done some 50 miles for the day.

March 16th. Up with the day which broke with sharp rain squalls and freshening breeze hauling to north and northeast. My right eye has again given me trouble and I am once more harnessed to hot compresses and stingy drops. I am all covered up with little nubbins where “skeeties” have lunched and some big nubbins where a spider has taken a meal. It may be beri-beri, but I favor the spider idea, for H. saw a big black one this morning like a soup plate. He lives aft under cockpit seat days, and comes nights and Sundays to bite me.

It breezed on fresh and as boat is all out of trim with almost no ballast, it seemed foolish to buck to windward all day without centreboard so tied up to leeward of the dock and went to knitting and clothes washing. The cool, crisp wind makes everything seem much better. In afternoon I got in a bully walk along shore to Rockledge. This Cocoa and its shore are attractive. Beautiful orange groves and some plantations. The air was full of the scent of orange blossoms and flowers. Beautiful places line the roadway by the water and nice boathouses with cement breakwaters shelter all manner of motor craft. The speedboats are to race in a day or so and the little vermin were whizzing up and down river in great shape. The night came ugly, with sharp rising glass a good sign in these parts for northeast troubles.

March 17-19. We lay out a heavy Florida norther at Cocoa, for this branch of Indian River is over 60 miles long and buttered with water only from 6 inches to 6 feet deep and it is no joke to get piled up out in the middle in a gale of wind. Morning of 19th the barometer showing symptoms of dropping I just naturally had to take a chance and was away with the first streak of light and a deluge of rain. Gee, but it did rain and it was hard work for little putt-putt to push us against sea and wind. No use looking at it any longer, however, and every mile puts us nearer home. Found ourselves short two important articles, kerosene and knitting cotton. The production of the latter in Florida is almost nil. It is quite gratifying to find we both eat more and enjoy meals aboard after five months of my cooking. To continue keeps me on my mettle and makes three meals a day less a chore. The shore grub, unless at the swell hotels is abominable, and we begrudge every cent paid for it. Wish I could get inflammation out of my eye which constantly troubles me. Rain poured steadily for three or four hours when clouds broke and we had an undeniably fair afternoon. Shook out our canvas and all the motorboats came close aboard for the “coosies” to snap pictures of us as a curiosity. Truly it seems strange to see such a sail in these diggings. Since leaving Chesapeake Bay, H. and I have not seen a bit of canvas so big. We left that much overrated Indian River through the very attractive Haul Over Cut and successfully negotiated the shallows of Mosquito Lagoon. Night caught us just above Eldora and in sight of the strange Indian shell mound. Mosquitos caught us, too, swarms and clouds of them. We drove them from the cabin with Japsticks and our nettings working finely we had most comfortable night with air quite fit to breathe.

March 20th. A good morning and we were off by seven. I came below to write this foolish tale and we have been going aground constantly ever since. Have had to push, poke, pull and shift ballast. Under these conditions, this being an author is some job. At this moment I am covered with blue mud and “skeetie” bites. Oh, you dear old Florida, how we love you. There she goes jumping bottom again. Pulled into Daytona about 3:30 and anchored off Yacht Club. Air fresher here and my eye mending up nicely.

March 21st. Comes southerly. Beautifully fair. The glass is on up-jump, however, and great tumbling masses of squall cloud are hanging near southern horizon. Twice we have seen easterly weather forecasted by just such conditions and we both remarked the fact. H. to masthead where he replaced topping-lift block band and riveted it solidly. Then on bicycles along Daytona’s wonderful beach to Clarendon Hotel, a very good and new shop but a robber’s roost. Here we disported ourselves in the ocean nit. We each took a warm tub and soap. Then a nice cold lunch in a cool, shady little grill-room where the constant slamming of a screen door disturbed seemingly nobody but me. I must be very queer. Then home quick, quick, on account of rain squalls all about. Provisioned up; went to P. O., and as we came on street again we saw the very meanest of looking clouds banking up at northard and eastward. It was hurry to wharf, into launch and off on board. The wind broke before we reached Mascot and we caught her on the fly and hung on. Threw stuff on board, scrabbled after it and to cover just as the sheeting rain and wind tore down river. There it was again at east just what doctor said in the morning. Things cleared away to a lovely, calm evening and we went on shore to walk by moonlight under the palms. The people all out on streets after the shower just like toads at home.

March 22nd. As fair as can be with light airs at northeast. Could wish them at southwest. Away with kicker at eight and had truly a devil’s own time getting up to Ormond. Ran repeatedly hard aground and had vexatious time shifting ballast, pushing and pulling, but there is no better training for business troubles than a cruise in these waters, and H. is getting his. Said good-bye at last to the broad reaches of Halifax River and entered the narrow and palm bordered upper branches. Came to and passed the drawbridge which you have to open and close yourself. Then on and on down seemingly endless stretches of canal. When we passed over it before we plugged straight into the eye of a strong southwester and consoled ourselves with the thought of booming back with sheets broad off, but no such luck for wind held brisk at northeast and we had the kicker on all day. It was a good day, however, for the air was fresh and cool from the sea and the sun bright and warm at our backs. My eye, much mended, gave me little trouble and everything O.K. At night a few miles south of Matanzas Inlet we anchored bow and stern for a quiet night and finished up our day with a supper of strawberry jam pandowdies. Not restaurant ones, but the kind when you cut them the butter and jam squidge out both ends.

Map D.

March 23rd. Beautiful morning with air still hanging at northeast. Away down canal by eight. Crossed Matanzas Inlet and met such a strong tide we had to clap sail on her to stem it. On through the marshes, avoiding by luck and chance all of the flatgrounds which hung us up so long and hard on way down. At one o’clock we sailed through the St. Augustine drawbridge and came to anchor off the wharves. Last evening the big black spider paid the cabin another visit but we were up and ready and H. swatted him deado. To help us on the way down we had the story of the Inside Route published in the “Rudder.” It is fairly well done and helped us a lot. The author evidently never thought a man once down the East Coast would ever try to come back again, so there is no reverse to the yarn, and complications are fearful. We have tried all ways including upside down, looking glass, etc., etc., but before H. can find where we are in the story, it’s all off and we are high and dry in reality. Things thickened up during afternoon and had I been bound around the Cape, I sure would have stayed in Vineyard Haven. Glass way up to 30.2 and the squall hit about eight o’clock just as I was knitting comfy. Mascot in the sharp running tide began cutting pigeon wings at once. She is sure a very slippery piece of wood either under way or at anchor. Bang and more bang. On deck in pouring rain and smartish breeze to find us most strenuously ramming the stern of the big houseboat Swordfish. Got our anchor and also very wet. Tried to find a good big space for Mascot to play in but wind and tide were too much for putt-putt and after ingloriously turning round and round several times, we dropped hook in time to save running into a wharf. Squall blew out in little while and we turned in for peaceful night.

March 24th. Bright and fair. Ashore early for provisions and away with sail and kicker to the northward. This is a chance and must drive her a little. Put canvas to her and with freshening southeast trade drove her mile after mile at steamboat speed. Ran into canal and here the wind, whiffling over tree-tops and high banks, produced such wonderful and unexpected jibes that, to save the spars we had to douse the canvas. With a fair tide we legged it fast and about 4 p.m. shot out into St. John’s River and then into Sestor Creek where we soon passed oyster bar on which we spent a night coming down. Then troubles began and we ran ashore so many times in the next mile that we plugged ourselves all out at the push hole and anchored her stem and stern for the night.

March 25th. Off to a good start with breeze hauling to the southwest and blowing most viciously. Set a goose wing to help her up the bends of the snake-like little river and stormed on through the marsh which is as brown as when we came down, although there is much new leaf on the trees that makes good color. We had to make a board into the wind’s eye before shooting out into Nassau Sound and when I brought her to it she just whirled round and ran back up creek. I tried her twice but like a colt at a steam roller she would have none of it and we had to jump the two-reefed canvas on her. “Youse all” just ought to have been on the beach and seen that little shippy work up that narrow reach, tack for tack like on parade. On her ear with no ballast, and a chicken stew lashed to the stove pipe she certainly cut out some turkey trots. Never was such a little vessel. Built on honor out of oak just like old Mizpah. The most wonderful thing that I should have owned and sailed the four best boats in the world this last thirty-five years.

We bruised that Nassau Sound water scandalously and fairly boiled into the stream beyond. Kept the two reefs on her only settling peak for several sporting jibes. Had Fernandina in sight when we nicked a bend and piled her way up. Tide was falling and it meant quick work. It seems to me sometimes as if H. stopped to think, and there ain’t no time for thinking when you’re high and dry with half a gale pushing you on harder and tide running out from under. I guess I talked some quick and sharp before I got that sail down, her head pushed round, sail hoisted on other tack and dragged her into the channel. I apologized all handsome, however, and we are still on friendly terms. Ran up to wharf at Fernandina about 2 p.m. and have again doubled on our time down.

March 26th. Undeniably fair morning with freshening breeze at southard. Away under two reefs. Saw lots of shipping at anchor, loaded and ready for sea. Couldn’t understand why they didn’t get away but found out later. Stormed across Cumberland Sound and we must have waked up the Laird of Skibo in his castle on Cumberland Is., for we roared by like the bull of Basham. Crossed St. Andrew’s Sound with the water all a tawny, yellow red, and so thick with mud that the quarter wave sounded “swush” instead of “swish.” On into Jekyl Creek tearing and bruising the water dreadfully, twisting, turning, jibing and wearing her around. Here as we made a jibe our chart blew out of cockpit and overboard. There was no room to turn so H. jumped into launch and went back while I scudded on. H. caught the chart but couldn’t catch me and away we went as tight as we both could lick it until I shot out of the creek into St. Simon’s Sound, dropped anchor and smothered my canvas. It was now blowing harder than I ever saw it out of a clear and cloudless sky; but it was fair and we were homeward bound, so we tucked in the third reef and let her whittle. Crossed the Sound and dropped hook for the night well up into the next creek. Barometer slowly working down and a good fresh gale of wind blowing. Guess those schooner captains knew a few things.

March 27th. Turned out to find things looking mighty different from day before. Wind a point more to westward and blowing viciously. Heavy squall clouds all about. Mistrusted trouble but thought might poke along a little way, so got our two anchors and square away under our three reefs; caught a regular tartar soon after. Rain in sheets and blowing so hard I doused sail to save chance of splitting it. An hour more and the sky lifted in northwest and down she came a screamer. We were at Altamaha Sound, but it seemed no use to put sail and rigging to such strain when it would have been impossible to beat her any distance up the creek beyond the sound if we crossed it, so finding a good weather shore we dropped hook to await events. Now you fellows just think a minute. We anchored last night about 400 miles from Miami which we left just two weeks ago and have had ten sailing days. That’s driving a little boat through pernickety country some. My, but this cold norther feels good and the air is fit to breathe. We were not sorry to bid good-bye to Florida yesterday morning. It is a queer puzzle of a country and I understand it not at all. A land filled with hope, enthusiasm and speculative boom on one side; with poverty, want and failure just around the corner. A land of sweltering, enervating days and nights. A country full of dark, silent, mysterious places and fringed with bright, sparkling beaches. A land of creeping, crawling things and of big birds with broad wings. In two hundred years I will come again and see how it turns out. In meantime it will do its part as the winter playground for half a nation. The venom kind of blew out of the norther, so about four o’clock we gave her the three-reefed canvas and beat her across Altamaha Sound putting another milestone behind. Anchored short ways up creek beyond where night came mighty cold and we slept long and well, snug and warm under two blankets.

March 28th. Comes bright with waspish air at northeast and cold as blazes. Would have given most anything for a breath of this stuff in Miami. Tucked on all our winter clothes and sweaters and topped off with oilers. Feel now as if I had caught up that foolish month of December wasted along the Carolina shore. Away to the northard under two reefs and kicker to help us tack for tack. Crossed Doboy Sound a great stretch of brick-red water. What a country for the impressionist where nature has spread the color in great sweeps of her widest brush. Here is your red sea, your long lines of vivid green where red meets the new springing marsh grass crowned with the dark brown and golden yellow of the old. Above, a sky as blue as blue flecked with tumbling clouds as white as snow. Can you beat it? We drove her along all day, bruising it across the sounds sometimes with head, sometimes with fair tide. In Sapello Sound we had an especially long, hard thrash to windward during which the schooner houseboat Agnes slowly beat us out under her power. When we drew out into the broad reaches, however, and got the full force of sea and wind, Miss Agnes bounced at it a little while and then ran away up into a creek for comfort. Old Mascot faced it like a horse and we soon popped into our river and were away again. It was all in all a very sporting day and we anchored her for a quiet night just before going out into St. Catherine’s Sound. The air fresh and cool and filled now and then with the sweet scent of magnolia blossom which we can see budding on the big trees ashore.

March 29th. Comes fair with wind still hanging doggedly to eastward and viciously puffy. Away under single reef, for we must drive her a bit to make Thunderbolt tonight. Across St. Catherine’s Sound where we kicked up a good bit of dust and then creek and river winding and twisting through the marsh and giving the quartermaster all he wants at the wheel. We are bidding good-bye to our old friends the pelicans which sometimes have made us feel as if we were sailing on a pond in some big “zoo.” Bully old birds they are. The “dodo” of Alice in Wonderland. We never failed to laugh at their clumsy effort to get started, or to admire their glorious sweeping flight when under way. We carried sail hard and H. about filled the standing room in one wicked puff. Good fun to see the attention we get from ashore. All hands stop work to see us go a-roaring by. People in launches waved their hats and even a sawmill gave us the compliment of three whistles. At four o’clock we rounded to our anchor in Thunderbolt. Nineteen days out of Miami; fifteen sailing days, four hundred and fifty miles, and that’s going some for a twenty-four foot boat. Don’t know where I would have carried her if I could have seen out of both eyes.

March 30th. First thing to do here is to set the clock one hour ahead for eastern time. Crew occupied all morning in ship’s duties. H. at launch engine, I cleaning cabin. Swarms of midges, worse than Maine black flies, drove us below behind nettings and made us grease up with dope. The day shifting back and forth between northeast and south winds and hourly downpours. Looking the northeaster three days in the face put my eyes out of commission once more and they are in bad shape today.

March 31st. Will fit out here for northward run, for we are far enough up for the season and this is a much better place than Charleston. Am figuring on the April moon for the outside run. Have had two rainy moons in succession and hope for a good spell on next one. The weather has broken undeniably fair today and spring is in the air. Every darky cabin is abloom with roses, and flowers are everywhere in wood and field. I guess the birds are singing, for I see their bills and throats wriggle. Wish I could hear them, but I can’t do everything and I can play “The Devil’s Dream” and “Root Hog or Die” on my fiddle which is more than any pesky spring bird can do. Sent H. to masthead to scrape the spar down. He shows no enthusiasm for the job and I will apprentice him to some tailor with middle class trade in small town. Told him spars were like us human critters, the best had some weather cracks and the smooth ones were to be mistrusted. My eyes mending up nicely now and can see with both of them open at same time.

April 1st. For three days we have been very busy at ship’s duties. H. has spent the time in the boatswain’s chair using scraper and varnish brush a little and swearing much. He has the mast and hoops scraped, shellacked and varnished and has a definite idea as to what I have been doing on my holidays for past ten years. I have made a set of screen doors and hatch screens all varnished and quite shipshape. It has all been rather slow work as we have to do three miles to Savannah for each little thing needed. The sand flies have been fierce. They are a little bigger than a black fly but have venom in their bite and literally drive us out of cockpit when it is calm. They are equally bad on shore where the darkies build little smudges of leaves in the gutters and huddle for protection in the smoke. We saw people dining at a shore restaurant where smudges had been built all around the house and were ourselves driven from a meal at the casino and fled aboard to protection of our screened cabin and greasy dope. I am in hopes weather will be ugly in a few days and then when it breaks fair again I want to be in Charleston and do up the outside business on a good moon.

April 8-15. We left Savannah with some regret for it is a most attractive city. Our last afternoon ashore we passed in looking over the ruins of an old rice plantation. Fine old southern mansion, beautiful avenues of great, wide-spreading live oaks shading rows of little brick slave cabins. In the long shadows of late afternoon it was easy to people it in mind as of 70 years ago. A cold northeaster whistled across the Savannah River as we again poked our bows to the northard. Suspicioned trouble and lashed oil stove and stew pot with extra care. We caught it good and plenty in Calibogue Sound with the dust flying and we smashing into it under double reefs. That afternoon found us in Port Royal Sound with pretty savage conditions for little boats. To double the end of a middle ground before the turn of tide we tucked launch astern in spite of a vicious sea and started at it. We drove her hard and those nasty, curling red waves came kerswish, kerswish across decks so fast there was no time to spit between. Launch filled, went out of business and nearly sank. Had to do the last of the way under sail alone. We just made our mark at the turn of tide and easing sheets a hair we boiled up the Beaufort (N.C.) River. The crew of a Gloucester fishing schooner riding out the blow at anchor had evidently been watching our little circus, for, as we stormed by they all jumped on the rail and gave us a swing of their caps. Fishermen don’t do that often, but I fancy we made quite a little picture with the yellow light of a low-hung sun flashing on our bit of white canvas, our wet decks with cockpit rail level to the red suds and we in yellow oilers, one braced to the wheel, the other perched on weather quarter holding a turn of the sheet. The next day found us floundering about in Coosaw River where the breeze put us entirely out of business and forced me to lay to until, swept along by the tide, I noticed a little creek making into the land and taking a chance, I popped in to quiet water like a Jack-in-the-Box.

For the past few days we have seen the swallows in their flight. Thousands and thousands of them. The air filled with the little devils. A merry, joyous flight it is. Whirling about, up and down, hoppity skipping along and hobnobbing with each other as if it was the greatest fun going. I saw two bound for Potomska and the Pascamanset. I knew them for the two happiest little cusses of the whole bunch.

Coosaw River took us into St. Helena’s Sound and with strong southerly breezes we ate up the miles to the northard under double reefs and all we could stagger to. Passed the point where on way down H. went on shore and was nearly bogged. He now confessed that it was about his first experience of real fright. Good thing to get scared up now and then. Sort of gets you used to the feeling and helps you to keep yourself in hand. Wouldn’t give much for a man who says he was never scared as it simply means he is either a fool or has never been properly tried out. So on and away before the gale. Sometimes beating up the bends and again stretching down the reaches with that old main boom jibing across decks as if it would tear the whole stern out of us. H. wouldn’t let me go ashore and catch the very nicest little razorback shoat I saw running on the beach with a lot of brothers and sisters. Could have made ice chest into a nice little pen and put butter and other stuff in the coal box. Would have made him handy as a lady’s maid in no time. Funny how little some people care for pets. And so our twisting winding way to Charleston where we gave our spars and rigging a good looking over and rove a peak down haul to gaff end as an added precaution.

April 15th. At 3:30 a.m. the whistle blew and the game was on. The weather map of yesterday gave me every confidence, but my glass hangs lower than we have ever seen it in fair weather. Yesterday a schooner captain said, “Yes, it looks like a chance, but I wouldn’t bet a chew of terbaccer against a suit of clothes at this season.” We were away a little after five, for it takes two hours after turning out to cook and eat a good breakfast, wash up, have a quiet smoke, and tend and fill lights, hoist sail and away. An ebb tide and a fresh southwest breeze swung us quickly down the harbor and a big, red sun bursting above the heavy cloud banks which seem always to hang over the gulf, lighted up the little fluttering flag that flies so bravely night and day over the pile of brick and mortar called Sumpter. My hat came off to it this morning. What other flag have we got flying more worthy of a bow at the break of day? We turned the jetty and headed northward in the heaving ocean swell which we have not felt for over three months. Gosh! but the place seemed to have grown vaster and more endless since we left it. It was cold and raw. We put on everything we had and topped off with oilskins and rubber boots. We were still shivering and cold and finally in a burst of confidence admitted that we were both badly in need of some of those dress shield things that women folks wear, for we were gosh dinged nervous and no mistake. What on earth calls me to tackle this kind of thing I don’t know. We were under single reef and made noble time straight for Cape Romain and the shoals outside. You may get some little idea of this country and famous Cape when you read in government reports that a vessel drawing 22 ft. touched bottom 16 miles at sea. The day quickly clouded over and squalls gathered to the westward. This seems, at this season with wind at southwest, to be the regular order of things, but it is not pretty to look at. One-half the worry and care of this outside work would be avoided by putting on a yawl rig, standing out 50 or 75 miles and jogging quietly along ready to ride out in deep water what came your way. This constant fear of heavy breaking seas on shoal ground is what gets to your nerves and we have seen and know something about it. We were off the Cape by noon, nearly out of sight of land. The squalls were making up so heavily to westward that a shift of wind off shore seemed certain, so I flattened my sheets and stood in for the beach or rather the breakers, for you can’t get very near the beach here. I was well up under the land when we took a sharp puff with rain out of west and was able to ease my sheets and still keep my course for Georgetown jetties. During the afternoon we took squall after squall, but none of them hard enough to pull us down to double reef, but all looking as if they intended blowing us right out of water. It was a villainous sky to look at when we rounded the jetty, hauled our sheets and beat up into the bay below Georgetown and dropped our hook in calm waters. It is no use; I am getting too old and good looking for night work along shore. I intend getting in every night on this run if I can. I thought on my way down I was as good as ever for a knockdown, dragdown proposition, but I found I couldn’t come back after it. I lay the whole trouble with my eyes to that month of sleepless nights and anxious days. I have never gotten back the measly little nine pounds I lost in weight and if I lost another nine there would be mighty little besides shoes and stockings left.

Map C.

April 16th. Through the night the clouds all went off and morning came as pretty as a picture. It was turn out again at 3:30. H. is alive to the game and needed no second call. Off and away under single reef to smart breeze at west-southwest. Not so much worry to it today, for we could haul the beach close aboard and drive her along handsomely in smooth water. It was a repetition of yesterday. To the eastward, the sea; to the west, the low, desolate coast fringed with the white of the beach and breaking seas. The thickening sky and then the black squalls which came so heavily we had to tuck in our double reef. At five o’clock we were off Little River inlet, one of the best on the coast, with buoys to help the stranger. It didn’t seem possible for such an ugly-looking sky to clear away, or I should have kept going for Southport 30 miles away, so I ran into the hole in the wall and found such smooth water inside that I was mighty glad I came. When this inlet business works it works finely, but you have it always in mind that once inside you stay inside for a week or longer if the ground swell picks up on the bar. This inlet would be a grand one to come to for a bit of shooting. We saw lots of big sickle-bill curlew and the marsh was loud with the whistle of birds. I suggested to H. he better take the gun and get a mess, but sufficient of one of these days is the worry thereof, and he couldn’t be driven three feet away from his bunk and blankets. The night came very ugly and I thought we were surely in for trouble, although glass still remained low and steady.

April 17th. Clouds did all clear away, but how they did it is a mystery to me. The morning came bright, cool and fair with rising glass and light airs drifting from southeast. We were away at 6:30 and with Southport only 20 miles ahead were able to drop care and worry and enjoy as perfect a bit of sailing as we have had for many a day. Have been figuring on this chance of the April moon for a long time and drove up the coast to be on hand. This outside run should always be made by little boats on the full of the moon. Not so much because of the light as for the high tide in late afternoon which makes inlet running so much easier. The sea, except for a heaving bit of ground swell, was smooth and good to look at. The sky without a cloud, the sun warm. I am already suspecting it for a breeder and making my guesses as to how long the chance will last. To run an inlet tonight or push her through with hope of Beaufort at noon tomorrow? At this writing, 2 p.m., and just after running the Cape Fear slew, I have a notion that my old fondness for getting little boats along will keep me pegging at it tonight. I wouldn’t mind seeing a few clouds. Don’t much like a cloudless sky, scalding sun and rising glass in April. Still, the land don’t loom and there is a breeze. If it was dead calm I would run Wrightsville Inlet sure. Who said I was old? Am no older than you are, and of course when I reached Wrightsville Inlet and saw the pretty night ahead and thought of the alternatives if I stopped, I just sort of naturally kept a-going. As pretty a night as ever seen. We were some bothered on account of launch stuffing box springing a leak which necessitated bailing every half hour and would have caused no end of trouble in case of a breeze of wind. Beyond this, there was little worry except when about midnight wind hauled northeast and it was for several hours a question whether it would pipe on hard or not. It remained very light and with the sea smooth, stopped us little. A big moon in a cloudless sky made things almost as bright as day and we jogged on without incident until the light broke in the east. On making the beach, we found our dead reckoning all O.K., and about ten o’clock pushed our way against a strong ebb tide into Beaufort. In catching and accepting this chance we completed the run of 250 miles in the running time of 50 hours and total time of 77 hours. It took us one month to cover it going down. It is a wonderfully interesting stretch of country and seacoast. If the right fellow was here right now, in spite of the fact that I have had but one hour’s sleep in the last 30 hours, I would gladly go over it again. I feel I am only just beginning to learn how to do it properly. It is the most tremendously lonesome thing you can think of. Not a sail or a boat do you see unless it be some motor yacht streaking it for harbor. We saw just two of them. Now and then little local trading boats with motors sneak quickly from one inlet to another like a mouse from hole to hole, and sometimes a fisherman launches his skiff from the beach, but for the most part you are alone, entirely alone. To the east, the big Atlantic lies with its constant heaving swell; to the west the low beach broken only by the inlets marked by the white breakers on the bar sometimes a mile or more to sea. Turtles, great, big, seagoing ones, we did see four of, and one so close we might have noosed it if we had been ready. I wish the right man would come along and say, “Here, take me with you, build any kind of outfit you want, all expenses will be paid and it will be worth your while, too. Just show me how to get pleasure out of this kind of thing.” If he was game I bet I could give him a run for his dollar.

April 19th. Turned out feeling as bright as a button, all sewed on. Thought a week ago that when I reached Beaufort I would stay, perhaps a week, for with its big fishing fleet coming and going daily, it is a lively, busy cup of tea. Now that we are here, however, we both find the constant noise of motors so damnable that we want to get straightaway back to the sticks where with the coons and wildcats a man can get his rest. We may go to Stumpy Point again, but I have a notion that the people of Stumpy are like some Boston folks who eternally spend their vacations at the same summer hotel. Very estimable, industrious and sober. Of great worth to the community, but la, la, la, Oh! la, la, la.

April 20th. Breeze came cold northeast with the sun and we congratulated ourselves on making good the chance of getting here. We know at least four boats that must be trying to get up from Charleston. I have no worry unless broken down. We were away by nine o’clock but the breeze and tide were so strong dead ahead, that in the narrow dredged cutting leading across the big shallow bay which forms Beaufort’s back yard, we were helpless and had to anchor for turn of tide. We were under way once more about two p.m. and had no difficulty in picking our way by the different ranges which in the clear air we easily found. Passed the point where we grounded in the fog on way down and entered canal leading northward towards Pamlico. Here we saw the last of our palmetto scrub which last December we hailed with glee as a sure sign we were getting to the southland. Pesky little did we then know where we were going. Beyond the canal a pretty river beginning to take on the appearance of approaching Christianity with its banks heavily wooded with pine. The strong northeaster grew mighty cold as the sun dropped low in the sky, the color of the bloom on a Concord grape, and we were both of a shiver as we dropped hook in a little branch, down which the big moon flooded its silver light between the darkly wooded shores.

April 21st. Gloriously fine but with singing breeze still at northeast. No use poking my nose out into Pamlico. Get it blown off sure. It is great to be able to just loaf and take it easy, for we have caught up our time and can afford to. The wind softened in afternoon and taking the launch we wandered far up into the creek and found the piney woods folks who were raising stock on what they called the “reedy lands” which offered forage the year round. Here once more was the peace and content writ upon the faces; plain for those to see who will but come and look. I wonder if such peace comes to those who live where the tide ebbs and flows as comes to mountain folk. Where has been the nursery of our biggest minds?

The night came calm and still, and the big moon rose on the peace of the world which so very many never see.

April 22nd. Colder than blazes all night and woke to a heavy land fog enshrouding everything. Regular chills and fever stuff and think better be moseying along to more open waters. Mighty shivery to us who have but just left summer’s warmth. Yesterday we picked ripe, wild strawberries, so I have a notion there are warmer times in store. Think this country hereaway should certainly be looked over for its shooting and hunting. As at Stumpy Point the “bars ketch up all the hoags” and there are deer, possum, coon, fox and wildcat. Above all there is vast country in which to roam. I would bring a double-walled tent, set it up near some village and keep my own quarters getting some local hunter to pilot me.

We were soon off and in light airs stretched down to Neuse River and across to little town of Oriental, where sent a telegram and bought a fine shad just landed from the traps. Then away in freshening southeast breeze. Kept launch humming at it until the short, quick seas began breaking over her stern, for we had pretty long 40 mile road to travel before reaching Wysocking Bay on west shore. This Pamlico Sound may be inside waters but mark me it is a pernickety piece of thin-spread moisture. The shores low, we soon ran out of sight and bowled along as if in mid-ocean until a cast of the lead gave us but 15 feet of water. The Mascot is in no ways fitted for the work here and a right smart breeze would put her at once out of business. The local boats are, as usual, about the ticket. Rather narrow for length, slack bilge and easily driven with small sail. The sea picks up and beats at you as if it were a succession of stony walls and Mascot beamy, short and heavily sparred simply flounders helplessly about. We had rather uncomfortable work making Wysocking Bay just at nightfall. We overran our log and, getting mixed on the bearing of the lighthouse, found ourselves driving along in six feet of water with combing seas precious near in cockpit. Finally got straightened out and ran in under the land to an anchorage, but it was 8:30 before we sat down to fried shad and potatoes and H. most too tired to pick out the bones. Guess must rest up my crew a little in Manteo.

April 23rd. Comes fair with wind hauled to southwest a-breezing right on. Had visit from local old codger who said he did a lot of shooting. Deer in summer, geese in winter. He allowed he didn’t want nothing to do with “bar.” Just naturally didn’t fancy ’em. He hunted his deer by turning on a dog and butchering the critter when it took to the water. Said he would be glad to put us up for a hunting trip any time. Could easily accommodate four of us because he had a good house with only himself, wife and daughter, and had four beds. Me for my own tent or boat in this country. Like the good people of Stumpy, he had never seen a woolen muffler or sweater and couldn’t keep his hands off of them. To his mind they seemed the very essence of comfort and warmth. Think a little trading voyage along here in fall of the year might pay expenses. We tucked single reef in and then it was

We stormed it along all day with short, sharp following sea which made us give launch a painter long enough to reach into next county. On that she towed like a bird. We passed Stumpy without going in, for a second visit would but spoil first impressions. Everywhere were the fish traps and had to keep constant watch not to get inside the outside trap which is often three or four miles from shore. These traps add a distinct danger to navigation in these waters. If overblown you cannot seek shelter and smooth water under a weather shore, but must stay outside and bang away at it. To get mixed up in a set of stakes and net is a very pernickety proposition. We had to guess the laneway between nets some 3 miles away from the creek which forms the fisherman’s harbor of Roanoke Marshes. We hit it right and dropped hook to quiet anchorage in midst of a busy settlement of tiny fish shanties. We were at once boarded by the population which made itself thoroughly at home and roosted about watching us cook and eat our supper. We tried to get a little information as to harbors at Roanoke Is. just across the sound, and sailing directions for any port are given something like this. “It’s this a-way. Youse all keep in the middle between the two pints close to the south pint. When youse all gets up in a little, youse will see a fish house to the northard and a little island. Go either side of the island, but there ain’t no water on the south side since a year gone by last Thanksgiving. No, I reckon it was Christmas when we had the big tide that wrecked Simmon’s wharf. When by the island just steer for the big tree and look out for the shoal ground off the fish house. Say, how much water might youse all be drawing?”

“Three and one-half feet.”

“Well, I swan, you can’t get in thar noways for there ain’t more’n 2 feet water anywhar.”

April 24th. We were off and following caution to keep about middle of creek we soon piled her high and dry in the mud. Had to drop sail, run out anchor and heave off with aid of launch. Then away for pleasant little 15 mile sail to Manteo on Roanoke Island. Manteo was good to look at. A rambling, scattering lot of houses with a nice little creek making the snuggest of harbors. From here we look across Roanoke Sound and see the back of Hatteras Beach with rounded sand dunes like mountains against the blue. Before we left Roanoke Marshes we were given a fine shad and tonight we had it smothered and then creamed. O, my. O, my. I wish youse all could have had some. Had lots of trouble cooking it because H. was catching crabs as big as soup plates and I had to keep rushing on deck to handle the net. Lots of Canada geese decoys swimming up and down creek and honking most cheerily. One old gander stands watch on the beach not 20 yds. away to guard his mate who has a nest under an old boat near by. Let any of the others come swimming too close and the old fellow with a sharp hiss is into the water and at ’em.

April 25th. Comes pretty as a picture. A truly wonderful spell of pleasant weather we are having. Up early. Put up a basket lunch and went ashore after breakfast to spend the day driving up island to see the site of Raleigh’s “Lost Colony” and the spot where Virginia Dare was born. We made a good day of it and enjoyed the shade of the woods and green of the trees. Except for electrics this was our first shore ride since leaving home. The country was like Cape Cod, and the roads deep with sand. Our little beach pony dragged the buggy around at a walk and we just kind of sot, and sot and then sot. When we got back to village we were bid to go out sturgeon fishing tomorrow. I guess H. will go, but the old man feels his age a bit and will let the young fry pull its heart out from 4 a.m. till noon. I have gained back two pounds of weight and my eyes are much better, so it’s me for the rural, quiet life.

April 26th. I put in a nice, quiet day shipping rope’s ends and getting out stock for a wire screen on fore hatch. H. turned up at 3 p.m., disgracefully hungry and tired. His day had been a great success. Very sporty get-a-way through triple line of breakers on the beach. A long day three miles at sea pulling heavy nets and catching all manner of strange fish, but no sturgeon. He wants to go again, and as I like it here, too, think we may stay. H. reports two litters wild razorbacks roaming the outside beach. This is interesting news and think must visit that part of country as reports say some of the shoats are red ones. In late afternoon we had a little crab picking bee and for supper crab flakes on toast. Don’t it beat all?

April 27th. Sunday and no noise of motorboats for Sunday down here is Sunday in very truth. The morning came with nice, soft rain from southwest hauling westerly and with lifting cloud. Gave our special orders to the grill-room and sat down to breakfast. Coffee, hot buttered toast, H. fried oysters and crab flakes in cream for me. The oysters have turned milky and have little taste but make a pretty good fry still. Visits from fishermen in afternoon and the sun coming out brightly we joined a motorboat party to Nag’s Head on the Hatteras Beach. Had a fine chance to see the sand dunes which seem to me much more beautiful and remarkable than those of Provincetown. Here, like the cone of Vesuvius, they rise from the very sea level and stand out alone against the sky. From Manteo at sunset they are like rose-tinted, snow-covered mountains against the deep blue eastern sky of a southern twilight. They move up and down the shore with the gales, and under one big fellow now lies completely hidden a little hotel just back of the fishing village of Nag’s Head.

April 28th. Comes fine in spite of a barometer that tumbled four points yesterday. H. off early again with the sturgeon fishermen. I at work on ship’s duties and making fly screens. By noon, squall clouds made up. Wind hauled northeast and blew freshly. Guess it’s all right, but wish little Asticot was back. He came back all right, having had fine time and helping catch a sturgeon which from sporting standpoint was nix as they just hauled him into the boat half drowned and rolled up in the gill net. They caught two big man-eaters about 14 ft. long and a 75 lb. green turtle. H. appeared on board with plenty of sturgeon steaks and the whole of the green turtle. We had the steaks for supper and they were fine. Sweet and tender but not a bit of taste like fish. More like the most tender veal.

April 29th. Saw us with kicker astern bucking all day against head winds and seas until we dropped anchor at Elizabeth City which is at mouth of the Paskotank River leading towards Dismal Swamp canal. Today we opened Mr. Turtle and got about 25 lbs. of meat. Am going to make soup and stews. Have the medicine chest open and within easy reach. Morphine, I think, will have the call.

April 30th. Whoop-ee!! I’m a wild horse. Never felt better in my life. Have turned H. out at 4:30 every morning for two weeks. Tried to show him the beauties of the “pride and glory of the day.” Might as well have talked to John the Orangeman. Bless his memory. Afraid he has no imagination and will buy him a peanut stand; stick candy and Coca-Cola on the side. Am rid of the old blue glasses and can see the world and look the clear, smart, cool northwester in the face. H. is shivering at the wheel with sweater, muffler and pants on. What is this new generation coming to, anyway? Green turtle soup is beginning to smell deliciously. Bet it’s food and drink. Corned sturgeon’s steaks for breakfast with Lyonnaise potatoes. Just like the Copley Plaza. All day winding along through the woods and straightway for 22 miles through the Dismal Swamp canal. Was tempted to stop midway of canal and in the launch run up and have a look at Lake Drummond, but having heard there was nothing to see but a big pond surrounded by endless swamp, we thought it better to take advantage of the beautiful day and jog along. We crossed the height of land and locked out at 5 p.m. This canal, with approaches, is more attractive than the Chesapeake and Albemarle route which we took last winter, but the latter is shorter.

Little engine going finely all day and in the calm of a beautiful spring evening we pushed down the little creek, entered the river, set our lights as darkness fell, and hauling along close to navy yard and the big battleships, we dropped anchor at 7 p.m. off the Norfolk Rowing Club. We are a total of 50 days from Miami with 31 sailing days for a distance, as crow flies, of about 1,000 miles. This means over 30 miles a day average, and, the size of boat considered, together with character of water passed through, makes it rather a remarkable record. Day after day we sailed farther than New Bedford to Boston, and, with exception of one night run outside, all runs were made by daylight.

Map B.

May 1st. Tripped anchor after breakfast and ran through the drawer into a little inner basin like the Charles River one on a smaller scale. It is called the Mowbray Arch Ghent, though why I have not yet discovered.

May 2nd. Fair and deliciously warm. None of the Cape Cod dampness on any of this trip. Leather shoes tucked away forward for the whole cruise turned out today without any mould whatever. Always a little dust when sweeping the cabin floor.

H. left me this afternoon to visit coal mines in West Virginia. It was hard to see him go. When his steamer sailed I was out in the launch to wave him good-bye. I guess it was just as well the steamer’s swash came along and gave me all I wanted to do to keep putt-putt right side up. Feelings, like stomach aches, are queer things. Am afraid he won’t come back quite my boy again. Sort of making a start on life’s cruise I fancy, and somebody else is going to be captain. He’ll help sail me home, tie me up to dock and then spread canvas and away. Quite right. I wouldn’t wish it otherwise and the master that gets him will know he’s got a man when the time comes. For H., this cruise has not been all a pleasant summer’s outing. Once or twice he has seen the edge of the big shadow not so very far away and has neither batted an eye nor quivered a lip. He’ll do. Bene, it is well.

Back to the boat a little lonesey and found many things to do pronto.

This Mowbray Arch is very lovely just at the close of day. As you look eastward, on the left is the stone embankment, green grass and trees; a bridge lit with lights in cluster spans the foreground and beyond in soft mist the city and little church with square topped belfry. On the right, the city with its lights and in the dark shadow are wharves with barges, derricks, lighters and little tugs. Don’t you get it? It is the Seine, Tuilleries, Pont Neuf, Notre Dame and the Quartier, all in miniature. It was all very beautiful as I ate my Turtle soup and sipped my glass of iced, Clysmic water.

May 3rd. You hear me howl. Turtle soup, Madeira with iced Clysmic may be the proper food for a dry cruise, but for nightmares it makes beer and Swiss cheese look like “also rans.” I saw things last night that beat any contraptions this cruise has yet furnished. Got a bump like a pigeon’s egg over my right eye where I tried to break a deck frame and am expecting complaints from shore as a public nuisance. Bet a noggin of New England rum would have kept the critter quiet. That soup is sure awful good and filling and I’ve got some more brewing now. Don’t know whether I dare tackle it again or not. Wouldn’t like to see those things again for anything, although I disremember just what they looked like now.

I have been four days alone on the boat living very quietly and peacefully in the Arch of Mowbray Ghent. That name is good. I find myself repeating it often. The place is good and I like it much. First along I looked at the conglomerated architecture of the houses of “the best people” and watched the children of Mammon play at the game called “automobiling.” They seem to get lots of fun out of it, play it all day and sometimes late into the night. They scream and laugh more when they play it at night. Sometimes I wonder. I am a little tired of the houses which make me think of the stern of the launch, mostly paint, putty and copper tacks. Across the stream it is more interesting. Buckeyes with long raking masts, coal barges with slow-moving, lazy niggers unloading cargo, and sometimes letting go a wild bit of wailing song. The draw opens often to give a glimpse of the outer harbor with its crowd of shipping half-hidden in the haze of smoke from many stacks. I have rather dreaded these days with the expected calls from shore people, and the invitations to breakfasts, lunches and suppers to follow. “Nix on it Mutt.” I might as well be in Patagonia for all the visitors I have had. A man who lives fifty yards away stopped one evening to see if I would pump out his motorboat in case she wanted to make a sink of it. When I explained it wasn’t my pumping night he went away. I asked a very blonde young man with red cheeks, paddling a green canoe, “the color scheme not bad at all”; what was the meaning of the name of the place? He replied that the promoters named it, and he thought “Ghent” was English, but had never heard who Mowbray was. I asked him aboard, and was going to suggest a lighter green for the canoe in the way of complete harmony with pink cheeks, but he muttered some excuse and paddled off down stream like the white rabbit in “Alice through the Looking Glass.” The “Best People” of Boston who don’t live, but dwell at Beverly and Manchester, would at least have sent word by the head gardener that they wished I would go away. Yankee inquisitiveness would prompt investigation; southern courtesy would compel a call—but here it is neither one thing nor the other. A sort of neutral zone where nobody seems quite certain of his own individuality.

Today the wind is light, southerly, soft with misty air. I can’t just tell whether the mist is due to weather or to the sickening sweetish smell which comes from the rotting refuse of the crab and oyster houses. What people are these who can daily face a breakfast table with such a nuisance in their front yard? For last four nights I have dined superbly on dry toast and turtle soup. I found I was making my brew too strong and so by diluting with half water I toned things to a point where I could eat all I wanted and not see great, long things covered with eelgrass. A truly wonderful soup experience it has been. Were it not for my 25th anniversary in June, I would be tempted to spread canvas and “ketch” me another green one off Hatteras. As regards high cost of living, it interests me some to figure up the expense of all my food on board for past week, since leaving Manteo, at 10 cents per day.

A fruit peddler gave me a tip on some jet black bananas ripened in the sun, which, on account of color he was offering for five cents a dozen. He threw in three more for good measure. They fairly melted in my mouth, and such a flavor. Last night I sliced some in sugar with a spoonful of sherry and stood them on deck. This morning I crawled out just at sunup and ate them cool with the coolness of the night and not at all the same thing as the cold of an ice-chest. They were so good I sliced up and ate some more and so spoiled the whole thing. It can’t be did quick that a-way.

I am now going to write a lot about turtles. I know nothing about turtles, but want to remember this one and what I have thought about him, so skip it, skip it. When he came on board fresh from the sea he was the most delicate shade of milky, bluey green. Not a bit the green of clear, deep ocean water but more the wide shallows churned often by big waves. When the young green of silver-leafed poplars turns downsides upsides on a gray southerly morning you are hitting it mighty close. The shell, 19 × 18 inches, has now turned to a stunning mixture of grays, browns and purply reds. It will make a fine memento of the cruise. The head is the best. Have never had anything get me quite so strong. Was going to mount it all to the merry with pop eyes made with marbles, pipe in mouth, etc., etc., etc. For a week it has stood before me as it stands now on the centreboard box. Have watched the green go and the color of old ivory come. The solemn majesty of that face impresses me so that no indignity will come to it from me. The power and relentless strength of the ages past and yet to come is in the curve and hook of that half open, bony jaw. I will try to do some careful work on it, mount it with silver as a paperweight and give it to Henry as a keepsake. That head might lend courage to a man who found himself some night with head in arms at a table piled high with trouble. I like to wonder what yarns it could spin of its deep sea swimmings and warm floatings between the Tortugas and Cape Cod. That head has looked on strange sights, and that hook has maybe ripped its way into some pretty gruesome shadows. Mighty relentless is the face. If I thought he was on my trail at the dark of the moon I wouldn’t walk or I wouldn’t run, I’d fly, but he’d sure get me just the same. I’m mighty glad he didn’t die in vain for he made awful good soup and that is a pesky sight more than I will do.