Part 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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