Part 11
_April 17th._ Clouds did all clear away, but how they did it is a mystery to me. The morning came bright, cool and fair with rising glass and light airs drifting from southeast. We were away at 6:30 and with Southport only 20 miles ahead were able to drop care and worry and enjoy as perfect a bit of sailing as we have had for many a day. Have been figuring on this chance of the April moon for a long time and drove up the coast to be on hand. This outside run should always be made by little boats on the full of the moon. Not so much because of the light as for the high tide in late afternoon which makes inlet running so much easier. The sea, except for a heaving bit of ground swell, was smooth and good to look at. The sky without a cloud, the sun warm. I am already suspecting it for a breeder and making my guesses as to how long the chance will last. To run an inlet tonight or push her through with hope of Beaufort at noon tomorrow? At this writing, 2 p.m., and just after running the Cape Fear slew, I have a notion that my old fondness for getting little boats along will keep me pegging at it tonight. I wouldn’t mind seeing a few clouds. Don’t much like a cloudless sky, scalding sun and rising glass in April. Still, the land don’t loom and there is a breeze. If it was dead calm I would run Wrightsville Inlet sure. Who said I was old? Am no older than you are, and of course when I reached Wrightsville Inlet and saw the pretty night ahead and thought of the alternatives if I stopped, I just sort of naturally kept a-going. As pretty a night as ever seen. We were some bothered on account of launch stuffing box springing a leak which necessitated bailing every half hour and would have caused no end of trouble in case of a breeze of wind. Beyond this, there was little worry except when about midnight wind hauled northeast and it was for several hours a question whether it would pipe on hard or not. It remained very light and with the sea smooth, stopped us little. A big moon in a cloudless sky made things almost as bright as day and we jogged on without incident until the light broke in the east. On making the beach, we found our dead reckoning all O.K., and about ten o’clock pushed our way against a strong ebb tide into Beaufort. In catching and accepting this chance we completed the run of 250 miles in the running time of 50 hours and total time of 77 hours. It took us one month to cover it going down. It is a wonderfully interesting stretch of country and seacoast. If the right fellow was here right now, in spite of the fact that I have had but one hour’s sleep in the last 30 hours, I would gladly go over it again. I feel I am only just beginning to learn how to do it properly. It is the most tremendously lonesome thing you can think of. Not a sail or a boat do you see unless it be some motor yacht streaking it for harbor. We saw just two of them. Now and then little local trading boats with motors sneak quickly from one inlet to another like a mouse from hole to hole, and sometimes a fisherman launches his skiff from the beach, but for the most part you are alone, entirely alone. To the east, the big Atlantic lies with its constant heaving swell; to the west the low beach broken only by the inlets marked by the white breakers on the bar sometimes a mile or more to sea. Turtles, great, big, seagoing ones, we did see four of, and one so close we might have noosed it if we had been ready. I wish the right man would come along and say, “Here, take me with you, build any kind of outfit you want, all expenses will be paid and it will be worth your while, too. Just show me how to get pleasure out of this kind of thing.” If he was game I bet I could give him a run for his dollar.
_April 19th._ Turned out feeling as bright as a button, all sewed on. Thought a week ago that when I reached Beaufort I would stay, perhaps a week, for with its big fishing fleet coming and going daily, it is a lively, busy cup of tea. Now that we are here, however, we both find the constant noise of motors so damnable that we want to get straightaway back to the sticks where with the coons and wildcats a man can get his rest. We may go to Stumpy Point again, but I have a notion that the people of Stumpy are like some Boston folks who eternally spend their vacations at the same summer hotel. Very estimable, industrious and sober. Of great worth to the community, but la, la, la, Oh! la, la, la.
_April 20th._ Breeze came cold northeast with the sun and we congratulated ourselves on making good the chance of getting here. We know at least four boats that must be trying to get up from Charleston. I have no worry unless broken down. We were away by nine o’clock but the breeze and tide were so strong dead ahead, that in the narrow dredged cutting leading across the big shallow bay which forms Beaufort’s back yard, we were helpless and had to anchor for turn of tide. We were under way once more about two p.m. and had no difficulty in picking our way by the different ranges which in the clear air we easily found. Passed the point where we grounded in the fog on way down and entered canal leading northward towards Pamlico. Here we saw the last of our palmetto scrub which last December we hailed with glee as a sure sign we were getting to the southland. Pesky little did we then know where we were going. Beyond the canal a pretty river beginning to take on the appearance of approaching Christianity with its banks heavily wooded with pine. The strong northeaster grew mighty cold as the sun dropped low in the sky, the color of the bloom on a Concord grape, and we were both of a shiver as we dropped hook in a little branch, down which the big moon flooded its silver light between the darkly wooded shores.
_April 21st._ Gloriously fine but with singing breeze still at northeast. No use poking my nose out into Pamlico. Get it blown off sure. It is great to be able to just loaf and take it easy, for we have caught up our time and can afford to. The wind softened in afternoon and taking the launch we wandered far up into the creek and found the piney woods folks who were raising stock on what they called the “reedy lands” which offered forage the year round. Here once more was the peace and content writ upon the faces; plain for those to see who will but come and look. I wonder if such peace comes to those who live where the tide ebbs and flows as comes to mountain folk. Where has been the nursery of our biggest minds?
The night came calm and still, and the big moon rose on the peace of the world which so very many never see.
_April 22nd._ Colder than blazes all night and woke to a heavy land fog enshrouding everything. Regular chills and fever stuff and think better be moseying along to more open waters. Mighty shivery to us who have but just left summer’s warmth. Yesterday we picked ripe, wild strawberries, so I have a notion there are warmer times in store. Think this country hereaway should certainly be looked over for its shooting and hunting. As at Stumpy Point the “bars ketch up all the hoags” and there are deer, possum, coon, fox and wildcat. Above all there is vast country in which to roam. I would bring a double-walled tent, set it up near some village and keep my own quarters getting some local hunter to pilot me.
We were soon off and in light airs stretched down to Neuse River and across to little town of Oriental, where sent a telegram and bought a fine shad just landed from the traps. Then away in freshening southeast breeze. Kept launch humming at it until the short, quick seas began breaking over her stern, for we had pretty long 40 mile road to travel before reaching Wysocking Bay on west shore. This Pamlico Sound may be inside waters but mark me it is a pernickety piece of thin-spread moisture. The shores low, we soon ran out of sight and bowled along as if in mid-ocean until a cast of the lead gave us but 15 feet of water. The Mascot is in no ways fitted for the work here and a right smart breeze would put her at once out of business. The local boats are, as usual, about the ticket. Rather narrow for length, slack bilge and easily driven with small sail. The sea picks up and beats at you as if it were a succession of stony walls and Mascot beamy, short and heavily sparred simply flounders helplessly about. We had rather uncomfortable work making Wysocking Bay just at nightfall. We overran our log and, getting mixed on the bearing of the lighthouse, found ourselves driving along in six feet of water with combing seas precious near in cockpit. Finally got straightened out and ran in under the land to an anchorage, but it was 8:30 before we sat down to fried shad and potatoes and H. most too tired to pick out the bones. Guess must rest up my crew a little in Manteo.
_April 23rd._ Comes fair with wind hauled to southwest a-breezing right on. Had visit from local old codger who said he did a lot of shooting. Deer in summer, geese in winter. He allowed he didn’t want nothing to do with “bar.” Just naturally didn’t fancy ’em. He hunted his deer by turning on a dog and butchering the critter when it took to the water. Said he would be glad to put us up for a hunting trip any time. Could easily accommodate four of us because he had a good house with only himself, wife and daughter, and had _four_ beds. Me for my own tent or boat in this country. Like the good people of Stumpy, he had never seen a woolen muffler or sweater and couldn’t keep his hands off of them. To his mind they seemed the very essence of comfort and warmth. Think a little trading voyage along here in fall of the year might pay expenses. We tucked single reef in and then it was
Up sail, off and away, Balance partners, all chassé.
We stormed it along all day with short, sharp following sea which made us give launch a painter long enough to reach into next county. On that she towed like a bird. We passed Stumpy without going in, for a second visit would but spoil first impressions. Everywhere were the fish traps and had to keep constant watch not to get inside the outside trap which is often three or four miles from shore. These traps add a distinct danger to navigation in these waters. If overblown you cannot seek shelter and smooth water under a weather shore, but must stay outside and bang away at it. To get mixed up in a set of stakes and net is a very pernickety proposition. We had to guess the laneway between nets some 3 miles away from the creek which forms the fisherman’s harbor of Roanoke Marshes. We hit it right and dropped hook to quiet anchorage in midst of a busy settlement of tiny fish shanties. We were at once boarded by the population which made itself thoroughly at home and roosted about watching us cook and eat our supper. We tried to get a little information as to harbors at Roanoke Is. just across the sound, and sailing directions for any port are given something like this. “It’s this a-way. Youse all keep in the middle between the two pints close to the south pint. When youse all gets up in a little, youse will see a fish house to the northard and a little island. Go either side of the island, but there ain’t no water on the south side since a year gone by last Thanksgiving. No, I reckon it was Christmas when we had the big tide that wrecked Simmon’s wharf. When by the island just steer for the big tree and look out for the shoal ground off the fish house. Say, how much water might youse all be drawing?”
“Three and one-half feet.”
“Well, I swan, you can’t get in thar noways for there ain’t more’n 2 feet water anywhar.”
_April 24th._ We were off and following caution to keep about middle of creek we soon piled her high and dry in the mud. Had to drop sail, run out anchor and heave off with aid of launch. Then away for pleasant little 15 mile sail to Manteo on Roanoke Island. Manteo was good to look at. A rambling, scattering lot of houses with a nice little creek making the snuggest of harbors. From here we look across Roanoke Sound and see the back of Hatteras Beach with rounded sand dunes like mountains against the blue. Before we left Roanoke Marshes we were given a fine shad and tonight we had it smothered and then creamed. O, my. O, my. I wish youse all could have had some. Had lots of trouble cooking it because H. was catching crabs as big as soup plates and I had to keep rushing on deck to handle the net. Lots of Canada geese decoys swimming up and down creek and honking most cheerily. One old gander stands watch on the beach not 20 yds. away to guard his mate who has a nest under an old boat near by. Let any of the others come swimming too close and the old fellow with a sharp hiss is into the water and at ’em.
_April 25th._ Comes pretty as a picture. A truly wonderful spell of pleasant weather we are having. Up early. Put up a basket lunch and went ashore after breakfast to spend the day driving up island to see the site of Raleigh’s “Lost Colony” and the spot where Virginia Dare was born. We made a good day of it and enjoyed the shade of the woods and green of the trees. Except for electrics this was our first shore ride since leaving home. The country was like Cape Cod, and the roads deep with sand. Our little beach pony dragged the buggy around at a walk and we just kind of sot, and sot and then sot. When we got back to village we were bid to go out sturgeon fishing tomorrow. I guess H. will go, but the old man feels his age a bit and will let the young fry pull its heart out from 4 a.m. till noon. I have gained back two pounds of weight and my eyes are much better, so it’s me for the rural, quiet life.
_April 26th._ I put in a nice, quiet day shipping rope’s ends and getting out stock for a wire screen on fore hatch. H. turned up at 3 p.m., disgracefully hungry and tired. His day had been a great success. Very sporty get-a-way through triple line of breakers on the beach. A long day three miles at sea pulling heavy nets and catching all manner of strange fish, but no sturgeon. He wants to go again, and as I like it here, too, think we may stay. H. reports two litters wild razorbacks roaming the outside beach. This is interesting news and think must visit that part of country as reports say some of the shoats are red ones. In late afternoon we had a little crab picking bee and for supper crab flakes on toast. Don’t it beat all?
_April 27th._ Sunday and no noise of motorboats for Sunday down here is Sunday in very truth. The morning came with nice, soft rain from southwest hauling westerly and with lifting cloud. Gave our special orders to the grill-room and sat down to breakfast. Coffee, hot buttered toast, H. fried oysters and crab flakes in cream for me. The oysters have turned milky and have little taste but make a pretty good fry still. Visits from fishermen in afternoon and the sun coming out brightly we joined a motorboat party to Nag’s Head on the Hatteras Beach. Had a fine chance to see the sand dunes which seem to me much more beautiful and remarkable than those of Provincetown. Here, like the cone of Vesuvius, they rise from the very sea level and stand out alone against the sky. From Manteo at sunset they are like rose-tinted, snow-covered mountains against the deep blue eastern sky of a southern twilight. They move up and down the shore with the gales, and under one big fellow now lies completely hidden a little hotel just back of the fishing village of Nag’s Head.
_April 28th._ Comes fine in spite of a barometer that tumbled four points yesterday. H. off early again with the sturgeon fishermen. I at work on ship’s duties and making fly screens. By noon, squall clouds made up. Wind hauled northeast and blew freshly. Guess it’s all right, but wish little Asticot was back. He came back all right, having had fine time and helping catch a sturgeon which from sporting standpoint was nix as they just hauled him into the boat half drowned and rolled up in the gill net. They caught two big man-eaters about 14 ft. long and a 75 lb. green turtle. H. appeared on board with plenty of sturgeon steaks and the whole of the green turtle. We had the steaks for supper and they were fine. Sweet and tender but not a bit of taste like fish. More like the most tender veal.
_April 29th._ Saw us with kicker astern bucking all day against head winds and seas until we dropped anchor at Elizabeth City which is at mouth of the Paskotank River leading towards Dismal Swamp canal. Today we opened Mr. Turtle and got about 25 lbs. of meat. Am going to make soup and stews. Have the medicine chest open and within easy reach. Morphine, I think, will have the call.
_April 30th._ Whoop-ee!! I’m a wild horse. Never felt better in my life. Have turned H. out at 4:30 every morning for two weeks. Tried to show him the beauties of the “pride and glory of the day.” Might as well have talked to John the Orangeman. Bless his memory. Afraid he has no imagination and will buy him a peanut stand; stick candy and Coca-Cola on the side. Am rid of the old blue glasses and can see the world and look the clear, smart, cool northwester in the face. H. is shivering at the wheel with sweater, muffler and pants on. What is this new generation coming to, anyway? Green turtle soup is beginning to smell deliciously. Bet it’s food and drink. Corned sturgeon’s steaks for breakfast with Lyonnaise potatoes. Just like the Copley Plaza. All day winding along through the woods and straightway for 22 miles through the Dismal Swamp canal. Was tempted to stop midway of canal and in the launch run up and have a look at Lake Drummond, but having heard there was nothing to see but a big pond surrounded by endless swamp, we thought it better to take advantage of the beautiful day and jog along. We crossed the height of land and locked out at 5 p.m. This canal, with approaches, is more attractive than the Chesapeake and Albemarle route which we took last winter, but the latter is shorter.
Little engine going finely all day and in the calm of a beautiful spring evening we pushed down the little creek, entered the river, set our lights as darkness fell, and hauling along close to navy yard and the big battleships, we dropped anchor at 7 p.m. off the Norfolk Rowing Club. We are a total of 50 days from Miami with 31 sailing days for a distance, as crow flies, of about 1,000 miles. This means over 30 miles a day _average_, and, the size of boat considered, together with character of water passed through, makes it rather a remarkable record. Day after day we sailed farther than New Bedford to Boston, and, with exception of one night run outside, all runs were made by daylight.
[Sidenote: Map B.]
_May 1st._ Tripped anchor after breakfast and ran through the drawer into a little inner basin like the Charles River one on a smaller scale. It is called the Mowbray Arch Ghent, though why I have not yet discovered.
_May 2nd._ Fair and deliciously warm. None of the Cape Cod dampness on any of this trip. Leather shoes tucked away forward for the whole cruise turned out today without any mould whatever. Always a little dust when sweeping the cabin floor.
H. left me this afternoon to visit coal mines in West Virginia. It was hard to see him go. When his steamer sailed I was out in the launch to wave him good-bye. I guess it was just as well the steamer’s swash came along and gave me all I wanted to do to keep putt-putt right side up. Feelings, like stomach aches, are queer things. Am afraid he won’t come back quite my boy again. Sort of making a start on life’s cruise I fancy, and somebody else is going to be captain. He’ll help sail me home, tie me up to dock and then spread canvas and away. Quite right. I wouldn’t wish it otherwise and the master that gets him will know he’s got a man when the time comes. For H., this cruise has not been all a pleasant summer’s outing. Once or twice he has seen the edge of the big shadow not so very far away and has neither batted an eye nor quivered a lip. He’ll do. Bene, it is well.
Back to the boat a little lonesey and found many things to do pronto.
This Mowbray Arch is very lovely just at the close of day. As you look eastward, on the left is the stone embankment, green grass and trees; a bridge lit with lights in cluster spans the foreground and beyond in soft mist the city and little church with square topped belfry. On the right, the city with its lights and in the dark shadow are wharves with barges, derricks, lighters and little tugs. Don’t you get it? It is the Seine, Tuilleries, Pont Neuf, Notre Dame and the Quartier, all in miniature. It was all very beautiful as I ate my Turtle soup and sipped my glass of iced, Clysmic water.
_May 3rd._ You hear me howl. Turtle soup, Madeira with iced Clysmic may be the proper food for a dry cruise, but for nightmares it makes beer and Swiss cheese look like “also rans.” I saw things last night that beat any contraptions this cruise has yet furnished. Got a bump like a pigeon’s egg over my right eye where I tried to break a deck frame and am expecting complaints from shore as a public nuisance. Bet a noggin of New England rum would have kept the critter quiet. That soup is sure awful good and filling and I’ve got some more brewing now. Don’t know whether I dare tackle it again or not. Wouldn’t like to see those things again for anything, although I disremember just what they looked like now.
I have been four days alone on the boat living very quietly and peacefully in the Arch of Mowbray Ghent. That name is good. I find myself repeating it often. The place is good and I like it much. First along I looked at the conglomerated architecture of the houses of “the best people” and watched the children of Mammon play at the game called “automobiling.” They seem to get lots of fun out of it, play it all day and sometimes late into the night. They scream and laugh more when they play it at night. Sometimes I wonder. I am a little tired of the houses which make me think of the stern of the launch, mostly paint, putty and copper tacks. Across the stream it is more interesting. Buckeyes with long raking masts, coal barges with slow-moving, lazy niggers unloading cargo, and sometimes letting go a wild bit of wailing song. The draw opens often to give a glimpse of the outer harbor with its crowd of shipping half-hidden in the haze of smoke from many stacks. I have rather dreaded these days with the expected calls from shore people, and the invitations to breakfasts, lunches and suppers to follow. “Nix on it Mutt.” I might as well be in Patagonia for all the visitors I have had. A man who lives fifty yards away stopped one evening to see if I would pump out his motorboat in case she wanted to make a sink of it. When I explained it wasn’t my pumping night he went away. I asked a very blonde young man with red cheeks, paddling a green canoe, “the color scheme not bad at all”; what was the meaning of the name of the place? He replied that the promoters named it, and he thought “Ghent” was English, but had never heard who Mowbray was. I asked him aboard, and was going to suggest a lighter green for the canoe in the way of complete harmony with pink cheeks, but he muttered some excuse and paddled off down stream like the white rabbit in “Alice through the Looking Glass.” The “Best People” of Boston who don’t live, but dwell at Beverly and Manchester, would at least have sent word by the head gardener that they wished I would go away. Yankee inquisitiveness would prompt investigation; southern courtesy would compel a call--but here it is neither one thing nor the other. A sort of neutral zone where nobody seems quite certain of his own individuality.