Chapter V: Front Matter (5)

Strange, how we are always trying to avoid mishaps, and yet when they come we are so often glad of them! A leaky boat had not been in our plans, but if we could change that first wild row across the big bay, if we could cut out that leakiness, that puddling bottom, the difficult shifts of baling and rowing, would we? We would not. Again, as we look back over the days of our cruise, we could ill spare those hours of labor on the hot stretch of sunny beach between the wharves, where we bent half-blinded over the dazzling white boat, our spirits irritated, our fingers aching as they worked at the _push-push-push_ of the cotton waste between the strakes. We said hard words of the man who thought he had put our boat in order for us, and yet—if we could cut out those hours of grumbling toil, would we? We would not. For one thing, we should perhaps have missed the precious word of advice given us by a man who sat and watched us. He recommended us to put a little motor in the stern. He pointed out to us that rowing was pretty hard work. We said we liked it. His face wore the expression I have already described.

We launched her again at dusk. Next morning Jonathan was a moment ahead of me on the wharf.

“Any water in her?” I called, following hard.

“Dry as a bone,” he shouted back, exultant; but as I came up he added, with his usual conservatism, “of course we can’t tell what she may do when she’s loaded.”

But our work held. For the rest of the trip we had a dry boat, except for what came in over the sides.

Now that we were in the home State, we got out our guns and hugged the shore closely, on the lookout for plover. We drifted sometimes, while we studied our maps for the location of the salt marshes. If we were lucky, we had broiled birds for luncheon or supper; if we were not, we had tinned stuff, which is distinctly inferior. When we spent the night at an inn, we breakfasted there, but most of our meals were eaten along the shore, or, best of all, on some island.

“Can we find an island for lunch to-day, do you suppose?” I usually asked, as we dipped our oars in the morning.

“Do you have to have an island for lunch?”

“I love an island!” choosing to ignore the jest. “That’s one of the best things about a boat—that it takes you to islands.”

“Now, why an island?”

“You know as well as I do. An island means—oh, it means remoteness, it means quiet—possession; while you’re on it, it’s yours—you don’t have every passer-by looking over your shoulder—you have a little world all to yourself.”

I could feel Jonathan’s indulgent smile through the back of his head as he rowed.

“Well, you know yourself,” I argued. “Even a tiny bit of stone and earth, with moss on it, and a flower, out in the middle of a brook, looks different, somehow, from the same things on the bank. It _is_ different—it’s an island.”

And so we sought islands—sometimes little ones, all rocks, too little even to have collected driftwood for a fire, too little to have grown anything but wisps of beach-grass, low enough to be covered, perhaps, by the highest tides. Sometimes it was a larger island, big enough to have bushes on it, and beaches round its edges. One of these we remember as best of all. It lay a mile off shore, a long island, rocky at its ocean end and at its land end running out to a long slim line of curving beach. In the middle it rose to a plateau, thick-set with grass and goldenrod and bay bushes, from which floated the gay, sweet voices of song sparrows. Ah! There was an island for you! And we made a fire of driftwood, and cooked our luncheon, and lay back on the sand and drowsed, while the sea-gulls, millions of them, circled curiously over our heads, mewing and screaming as they dived and swooped, and behind us the notes of the song sparrows rose sweet.

If we had had water enough in our jug, we should have camped there. We rowed away at last, slowly, loving it, and in our thoughts we still possess it. As it dropped astern I pulled in my oars and stood up to take its picture—no easy task, with the boat mounting and plunging among the swells. But I have my picture, its horizon line at a noticeable slant, reminiscent of my unsteady balance. It means little to other people, but to us it means the sweetness of sunshine and wind and water, the sweetness of grass and bird-notes, all breathed over by the spirit of solitude.

Then it melted away—our island—into the waste of waters, and we turned to look toward the misty headlands beyond our bow. Where the marshlands were, we followed them closely, but where the shore was rocky, or, worse still, built up with summer cottages, we often made a straight course from headland to headland, keeping well out, often a mile or two, to avoid tide eddies. We liked the feeling of being far out, the shore a dark blue, the cottages little dots. But we liked it, too, when the headland before us grew large, its rocks and bushes stood out, and we could see the white rip off its point—a rip to be taken with some caution if we hoped to keep our cargo dry. And then, the rip passed, if the bay beyond curved in quiet and uninhabited, how we loved to turn and pull along close to shore, watching its beaches and sand-cliffs draw smoothly away beside our stern, or, best of all, pulling about and running in till our bow grated and we jumped to the wet beach and ran up the cliff to look about. Such moments bring in a peculiar way the thrill of discovery. It is one thing to go along a coast by land, and learn its ways so. It is a good thing. But it is quite another to fare over its waters and turn in upon it from without, surprising its secrets as from another world.

But to do this, your boat must be a little one. As soon as you have a real keel, the case is altered. For a keel demands a special landing-place—a wharf—and a wharf means human habitation, and then—where is your thrill of discovery? Ah, no!—a little boat! And you can land anywhere, among rocks or in sandy shallows; you can explore the tide creeks and marshes and the little rivers; you can beach wherever you like, wherever the rippling waves themselves can go. A little boat for romance!

A little boat, but a long cruise, as long as may be. To be sure, a boat and a bit of water anywhere is good. Even an errand across the pond and back may be a joy. But if you can, now and then, free yourself from the there-and-back habit, the reward is great. The joy of pilgrimage—of going, not there and back, but on, and on, and yet on—is a joy by itself. The thought that each night brings sleep in a new and unforeseen spot, with a new journey on the morrow, gives special flavor to the journeying.

Not the least among the pleasures of the cruise were the night-camps. When the shore looked inviting, and harborage at an inn seemed doubtful, we pulled our boat above tide-water, turned her over and tilted her up on her side for a wind-break, and there we spent the night. The half-emptied dunnage bags were our pillows, the sand was our bed. Sand, to sleep on, is harder than one might suppose, but it is better than earth in being easily scooped out to suit one’s needs. Indeed, even on a pneumatic mattress, I should hardly have slept much that first night. It was a new experience. The great world of waters was so close that it seemed, all night long, like a wonderful but ever importunate presence. The wind blew that night, too, and there was a low-scudding rack, and a half-smothered moon. As we rolled ourselves up in our blankets and rubber sheets and settled down, I looked out over the restless water.

“The bay seems very full to-night—brimming,” I said.

“Not brimming over, though,” said Jonathan.

“I should hope not! But it does seem to me there are very few inches between it and our feet.”

“And the tide is still rising, of course,” said Jonathan, by way of comfort.

“Jonathan, I know just where high-tide mark is, and we’re fully twelve inches above it.”

Silence.

“Aren’t we?”

“Oh, was that a question?” murmured Jonathan. “Why, yes, I think we are at least that.”

“Of course, there are extra high tides sometimes.”

Silence.

“Jonathan, do you know when they come?”

“Not exactly.”

“Well, I don’t care. I love it, anyway. Only it seems so much bigger and colder at night, the water does.”

At last I drowsed, waking now and then to raise my head and just glance down at those waves—they certainly sounded as if they were lapping the sand close by my ear. No, there they were, quite within bounds, fully twenty feet away from my toes. Of course it was all right. I slept again, and dreamed that the tide rose and rose; the waves ran merrily up the beach, ran up on both sides of us, closed in behind us. We were lying on a little sand island, and the waves nibbled at its edges—nibbled and nibbled and nibbled—the island was being nibbled up. This would never do! We must move! And I woke. _Ripple, ripple, swash!_ _ripple, ripple, swash!_ went the unconscious waves. As I raised my head I saw the pale beach stretching off under the moon-washed mists of middle night. Reassured, I sank back, and when I waked again the big sun was well above the rim of the waters and all the little waves were dancing and the wet curves of the beach were gleaming in the new day.

The water was not always restless at night. The next time we camped we found a little harbor within a harbor, a crescent curve of fine white sand ending in a point of rock. In one of its clefts we made our fire and broiled our plover, ranging them on spits of bay so that they hung over the two edges of rock like people looking down into a miniature Grand Cañon. There were nine of them, fat and sputtering, and while they cooked, we made toast and arranged the camp. Then we had supper, and watched the red coals smouldering and the white moonlight filling the world with a radiance that put out the stars and brought the blue back to the sky. The little basin of the bay was quiet as a pool, the air was full of stillness, with now and then the hushed _flip-flip_ of a tiny wave that had somehow strayed in from the tumbling crowd outside.

We slept well, but once Jonathan waked me. “Look!” he whispered, “White heron.”

I raised my head. There, quite near us in the shallow water, stood a great pale bird, motionless, on one long, slim leg, his oval body, long neck, head and bill clearly outlined against the bright water beyond. The mirror of the water reflected perfectly the soft outline, making a double creature, one above and one below, with that slim stem of leg between.

I watched him until my neck grew tired. He never moved. Out beyond him, more dim, stood his mate, motionless too. Now and then they called to each other, with queer, harsh talk that made the stillness all the stiller when it closed in again.

When we awoke, they were gone, but we found the heronry that morning on one of the oak-covered knolls that rise like islands out of the heart of the great salt marshes.

* * * * *

All through the cruise, the big winds were with us more than we had expected. They gave us, for the most part, a right good time. For even in the partly protected Sound it is possible to stir up a sea rough enough to keep one busy. Each wave, as it came galloping up, was an antagonist to be dealt with. If we met it successfully, it galloped on, and left us none the worse for it. If we did not, it meant, perhaps, that its foaming white mane brushed our shoulders, or swept across our laps, or, worse still, drowned our guns. Once, indeed, we were threatened with something a little more serious. We were running down out of the Connecticut River, gliding smoothly over sleek water. It was delicious rowing, and the boat shot along swiftly. As we turned westward, it grew rougher, but we were paying no special heed to this when suddenly I became conscious of something dark over my right shoulder. I turned my head, and found myself looking up into the evil heart of a dull green breaker. I gasped, “Look out!” and dug my oar. Jonathan glanced, pulled, there was a moment of doubt, then the huge dark bulk was shouldering heavily away, off our starboard quarter. It was only the first of its ugly company. Through sheer carelessness, we had run, as it were, into an ambush—one of the worst bits of water on the Sound, where tide and river currents meet and wrangle. All around us were rearing, white-maned breakers, though the impression we got was less of their white manes than of their dark sides as they rose over us. Our problem was to meet each one fairly, and yet snatch every moment of respite to slant off toward the harborage inside the breakwaters. It took all our strength and all our skill, and all the resources of the good little boat. But we made it, after perhaps half an hour of stiff work. Then we rested, breathed, and went on. We did not talk much about it until we made camp that night. Then, as we sat looking out over the quiet water, I told Jonathan about the shadow over my shoulder.

“It was like seeing a ghost,” I said,—“no—more like feeling the hand of an enemy on your shoulder.”

“The Black Douglas,” suggested Jonathan.

“Yes. Talk about the scientific attitude—you’ve just got to personify things when they come at you like that. That wave had an expression—an ugly one. I don’t wonder the Northmen felt as they did about the sea and the waves. They took it all personally—they had to!”

“Were you frightened?” asked Jonathan.

“No, of course not,” I said, almost too promptly. Then I meditated—“I don’t know what you’d call it—but I believe I understand now what people mean when they talk about their hearts going down into their boots.”

“Did yours?”

“Why, not exactly—but—well—it certainly did feel suddenly very thick and heavy—as if it had dropped—perhaps an inch or two.”

“I believe,” said Jonathan gently, “you might almost call that being frightened.”

“Yes, perhaps you might. Tell me—were you?”

“I didn’t like it—yes, I was anxious—and it made me tired to have been such a fool—the whole thing was absolutely unnecessary, if we’d looked up the charts carefully.”

“Or asked a few questions. But you know you hate to ask questions.”

“You could have asked them.”

“Well, anyway, aren’t you glad it happened?”

“Oh, of course; it was an experience.”

“Do you want to do it again?”

“No”—he was emphatic—“not with that load.”

“Neither do I.”

If the winds sometimes wearied us a little, they helped us, too. We can never forget the evening we turned into the Thames River, making for the shelter of a friend’s hospitable roof. We had battled most of that day with the diagonal onslaughts of a southeast gale, bringing with it the full swing of the ocean swell. It was easier than a southwester would have been, but that was the best that could be said for it.

We passed the last buoy and turned our bow north. And suddenly, the great waves that had all day kept us on the defensive became our strong helpers. They took us up and swung us forward on our course with great sweeping rushes of motion. The tide was setting in, too, and with that and our oars we were going almost as fast as the waves themselves, so that when one picked us up, it swung us a long way before it left us. We learned to watch for each roller, wait till one came up astern, then pull with all our might so that we went swooping down its long slope, its crest at first just behind our stern, but drawing more and more under us, until it passed beyond our bow and dropped us in the trough to wait for the next giant. It was like going in a swing, but with the downward rush very long and swift, and the upward rise short and slow. How long it took us to make the two miles to our friend’s dock we shall never know. Probably only a few minutes. But it was not an experience in time. We had a sense of being at one with the great primal forces of wind and water, and at one with them, not in their moments of poise, but in their moments of resistless power.

* * * * *

After all, the only drawback to the cruise was that it was over too soon. When, in the quiet afternoon light of the last day, a familiar headland floated into view, my first feeling was one of joy; for beyond that headland, what friendly faces waited for us—faces turned even now, perhaps, toward the east for a first glimpse of our little boat. But hard after this, came a pang of regret—it was over, our water-pilgrimage, and I wanted it to go on.

It was over. And yet, not really over after all. I sometimes think that pleasures ought to be valued according to whether they are over when they _are_ over, or not. “You cannot eat your cake and have it too.” True, but that is because it is cake. There are other things which you can eat, and still have. And our rowboat cruise is one of these. It is over, and yet it is not over. It never will be. I can shut my eyes—indeed, I do not need even to shut them—and again I am under the open sky, I am afloat in the sun and the wind, with the waters all around me. I see again the surf-edged curves of the beaches, the lines of the sand-cliffs, the ragged horizon edge, cut and jagged by the waves. I feel the boat, I feel the oars, I am aware of the damp, pure night air, and the sounds of the waves ceaselessly breaking on the sand.

It is not over. Its best things are still ours, and those things which were hardly pleasures then have become such now. As we remember our aching muscles and blistered hands, we smile. As we recall times of intense weariness, of irritation, of anxiety, we find ourselves lingering over them with enjoyment. For memory does something wonderful with experience. It is a poet, and life is its raw material. I know that our cruise was made up of minutes, of oar-strokes, so many that to count them would be weariness unending. But in my memory, these things are re-created. I see a boundless stretch of windy or peaceful waters. I see the endless line of misty coast. I see lovely islands, sleeping alone, waiting to be possessed by those who come. And I see a little, little boat, faring along the coast-lands, out to the islands, over the waters—going on, and on, and on.

THE END

COLOPHON

The Riverside Press

CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS

U . S . A