Part 11

_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.

[Illustration: Slave Cabins]

_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.

[Sidenote: 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.

[Illustration: The Mangrove Swamp.]

_March 28th._ Comes bright with waspish air at northeast and cold as blazes. Would have given most anything for a breath of this stuff in Miami. Tucked on all our winter clothes and sweaters and topped off with oilers. Feel now as if I had caught up that foolish month of December wasted along the Carolina shore. Away to the northard under two reefs and kicker to help us tack for tack. Crossed Doboy Sound a great stretch of brick-red water. What a country for the impressionist where nature has spread the color in great sweeps of her widest brush. Here is your red sea, your long lines of vivid green where red meets the new springing marsh grass crowned with the dark brown and golden yellow of the old. Above, a sky as blue as blue flecked with tumbling clouds as white as snow. Can you beat it? We drove her along all day, bruising it across the sounds sometimes with head, sometimes with fair tide. In Sapello Sound we had an especially long, hard thrash to windward during which the schooner 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.