Part 5

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.

[Illustration: Wrecked.]

_December 11th._ The wind not being friendly, hauled out south, and we took up the job of making it tack for tack along the shore. The afternoon brought thickening clouds and my glass still standing high with the southerly air began to make me mighty uneasy as to what was coming next, for I felt there was a change in store, and soon. The situation was not a good one. Before dark I could not reach the slew inside Frying Pan Shoals off Cape Fear. To run 12 miles to sea and round the shoals meant risking a gale on one of our worst bits of coast and I had decided that we were soon to have a shift either northwest or northeast. The sea was comparatively smooth and I thought that now was the time to take a chance at an inlet. On the chart 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.

[Illustration: Busted Launch.]

_December 12th._ Had to turn Henry out at 3 a.m. in drizzling cold rain for tide was out, we were over on our bilge, and now was chance to bail out launch if ever. His report was soon made that you could as easily bail out the ocean for her stern was split wide open, likewise her bottom and several planks. Now what do you make of that? Just after fixing her all up tight two days before at Beaufort. Nothing more to be done about it, however, so turned in again clinging to my transom like a bat to a rafter. Went to sleep in a minute, but H. was a bit nervous at the roar of the breakers close aboard and couldn’t 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.

[Illustration: Bilged]

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

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

In many ways the beach is strange. The surface only seems to 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.

[Illustration]

On the night of December 20th we took launch and sounded nearly four feet of water on the bar at top of the tide, and as the roll was fairly easy, we jumped the canvas to her and went to sea nicking our heel only once as we plunged through the tumbling surf. Looking back on our little prison we saw an old, black razor-back quietly rooting in the sand near the remains of our little work bench. He was the first, last and only visitor to our land of exile. That night I anchored just north of Cape Fear, a wind-swept barren, forbidding bit of desolate sand and stunted trees. The night was calm and fair or I should have had my worries, for in the darkness I didn’t dare to run the slew between Cape Fear and Frying Pan Shoals and the shoals stretched twelve miles to sea and we turned in with the roar of the breakers in our ears. The next morning we worked through the slew which is an easy passage under favorable conditions, and putting putt-putt astern made quiet anchorage off the wharves of Southport.

_December 23rd._ Comes with nasty cold rain and blow northeast. Almost impossible to get H. out of his bunk and fear he has no enthusiasm for the sport. The morning at darning socks. This little town has two banks, but no darning needles. The p.m. worse than a.m. and a government tug made us turn out in rain to shift berth. Tied up along side of a launch and cow horn on bowsprit ripped a whopping big hole in launch covering. Put our launch on beach this morning for little more overhauling and found her sunk by the seas which have been increasing during the day. O dear! O dear! Wonder if she will break up right size for our stove during tonight. Good big mail from home forwarded from Charleston. Everything all right there, and so who cares for the weather? Folks mighty good about writing and can have no idea how much it is appreciated.

_December 24th._ Comes with wind shifting by south and west to northwest where it blew itself clear with a regular squealer. In the morning we visited the old launch on the beach and as expected found her full of water, batteries run out and coil once more soaking in salt water. Hitched on two tackles luff on luff and began laboriously hauling her up beach. Along came 4 or 5 natives who, imbued with Xmas spirit, grabbed hold and carried her up for us. Then aboard for a good day’s rest and loaf. It is sure strenuous work this driving boats, but to my mind there is no such complete rest as is found in a well warmed, snug little cabin. Rolled in my bunk, with Scotty asleep in my lap, my book and my knitting within reach, I eased up to the limit. Discovered old Mascot complaining a little around rudder port. Nothing serious, but always a mean place to get at especially if have to unhang rudder. Evening came, and we went ashore for our usual plate of fried oysters. The boys are out with tin pans and horns making the noise of a southern Christmas. H. and I both a bit homesick and lonesey. It is my first Xmas away from home in twenty-four years. I am sure a devil of a way off. We have each bought things for the other’s stocking and will live up to traditions if we sink her. Beautiful night and just our chance to be away with light northerly. In two days when we are ready wind will probably haul to southard again. Don’t it beat all?

_December 25th. Christmas._ Turned out to be a bright, frosty morning with a skim of ice in pans on deck. Great excitement, for there hung our two stockings filled with presents which we had hung up last night. Looked kind of Christmasy anyway. Breakfast over, we opened our bundles, dolled up cabin with two little red paper bells and would have decked Scotty out with a red ribbon, but just then she heard something like a train of cars somewhere and flew to snug quarters in lazaret. Took things easy, but put in an hour or two on launch. At 3 p.m. began preparations for grand feast. Menu to be, raw oyster cocktail, roast pork, applesauce, spuds and a mince pie. Everything going like mice when, just as pie went into oven, round came the wind and away went my fire draught. After hours of coaxing we finally sat down to some pork scraps stewed in fry pan and boiled spuds at 8 p.m. Pie did finally dry up enough to be called cooked and was not so bad. Scotty appeared this p.m. and with her pretty new ribbon around her neck, enjoyed a little oyster stew made of three oysters. So ends Christmas 1912 which I had expected to spend in Jacksonville.

[Illustration]

_December 26th._ Threatened to feed H. on tar and oakum if he wasn’t smarter about turning out. To the beach where we worked on launch. It is all very snug and comfy on this little beach. At the base of a big skeleton wooden tower is the Club-room of the fifteen Southport pilots who daily do congregate for lengthy gams and pleasant smokes. Now and then one more energetic than the rest climbs slowly the stairs of the old tower and sweeps the sea with spy glass in search of ships that seem to never come. They come and whittle sticks and talk to H. and me, and we are tied to their private wharf where the sign reads “Landing forbidden,” and they will know the reason why if we can’t stay all winter if we want to. The boat-builder is nearby, the storekeeper across the way and the sun shines warmly on us all and saps the energy out of H. and me, and we are glad to sit and listen to the yarns spun in this softly spoken southern tongue.

The signs of Christmas are about gone. The two skiffs dragged up in front of the little bank building are again on the beach, and the wheelbarrow and ash barrel, which for past twenty-four hours have decorated the weather signal pole, have been taken down, and in their place are again flying the dreaded northeast storm warnings. Down came the rain just after lunch so it was scuttle on board and spend a delightfully quiet afternoon with my book. Quahaug pancakes for supper. Not so much because we wanted them, and indeed it was wet work opening them in the rain, but Scotty dotes on quahaugs. To-day we once more repacked and fitted up our much abused electric coil and away went little motor at first whirl of wheel.