Chapter IV: Part 4

_January 21st to 22nd._ Turned out to find a thick fog and light northeaster. Filled water tanks and at 10 o’clock at turn of the tide we slipped away into the mist with launch a-kicking astern and whole sail pulling ahead. It is a dreary thing to point your bow into these desolate wastes of marsh, swamp, and barrens when the sun shines brightly. Indeed, it’s doubly so when the fog spreads over all and gives you view only of two mud-bordered, sedge-covered banks on either side. But tide and wind were fair and we hit it right merrily. Up the creek, down that reach, across the rivers and open sounds. Sometimes with a fair tide, often with a strong head one at it we plugged. These inland streams make up from one big river or sound and after many miles turn and run out into another arm of the sea. You may start into one with head tide and no slouch of a tide either, a good two to two and one-half knot current. You buck it for four or five miles and then come to the divide where, say 50 yards the tide is slack. After that away you go a fluke-o down to the next big water. All day we were at it with freshening breeze and driving fog. At 4:30 p.m. we came to St. Catherine’s Sound which I wanted to cross before night as we had fair wind and weather looked so dirty I thought I might not get over in the morning. Thicker than burgoo by this time, but only a knot and one-half to go. It was the same old story, tide was swirling up river, and I thought it was running down. Pretty soon we were driving through tide rips with 7 and 8 feet of water and then we had 6 feet and then 4 feet and then we were bumping sand good and plenty. By this time I had guessed my error on tide and a few more lucky guesses and plenty of wind let me drag her over the middle ground and sight the opposite shore close aboard. It was getting after 5 o’clock and I had less than an hour of light to find a creek in a strange shore, and a lee one at that, without knowing which side of it I was on. Made a good guess and slipped into it just as night was shutting in. It was a good day’s sail and Jorrocks would have said, “Cum grano salis with a touch of cayenne.” Even H. admits that no other sport offers quite the joyful sensation that follows the slipping into calm and quiet harbor at the falling of night after a good, smart bit of anxious work in dirty outside weather.

_January 23rd._ Comes without a ripple and with lifting fog giving a wide horizon. Close aboard to the east was St. Catherine’s Island with groves of live oak, and palmetto to the water’s edge. The tide was up and to the west stretched the marsh unbroken as far as eye could see. I like to fancy it the desert, but here are no soft footed camels, no stately dahabiehs with thick-necked Baroudis, and when you shut off the motor you have no soft song of the pumpers of water. Instead there is a nigger shooting marsh hens from his dugout and that is all, and he but adds to the dreary loneliness of the whole. We are off and swallowed up in the solitude by 8 o’clock. How different from our northern summer cruising where I have always looked upon the trip from New Bedford to Newport as quite a bit of sailing with its 33 miles of water. Here we provision for two and possibly three weeks and head her away for one hundred and fifty or two hundred miles at a clip. It brings back the old _Mizpah_ freighting days up the West branch of the Westport River. Thank goodness the ice and snow of many a _Mizpah_ trip are not with us. The twists and bends of the bank came slowly out of the fog, and by 10 o’clock we were at the entrance to Sapelo Sound over which the fog hung most dismally. No more of this sound navigation in fog, thank you. Over with the hook and pipe crew to sewing canvas ballast bags. By noon the fog lifted to an undeniably pretty day, and we were off quick, quick. To-day we saw pelicans for the first time. Funny looking duffers like little old men with long beards. Sapelo Sound is no kindergarten proposition and it was all we wanted with kicker and good breeze to beat the racing tide. When it came to beating up the narrow channel of Mud River, I just folded my tent and went into winter quarters to await the turn. H. on shore for a walk, but I am content to loaf quietly aboard and hope to pull back one of those wandering pounds of my precious meat. Under sail we had a pretty bit of going just at sunset and remarking that we seemed to have passed the region of lumber booms we dropped anchor in the middle of a creek. A beautiful moonlight night.

_January 24th._ Jumped out of my bunk at 5 a.m. to the shriek of a tugboat’s whistle. Turned out to find big tugboat alongside and bearing down stream a great boom of sawed timber. I jumped forward with hope of getting anchor warp buoyed before slipping, but it was no use for the huge mass was on top of me in a minute and I only had time to cast off my turns and take a range from a post on the shore. We were off with a boom to the accompaniment of some extra choice tugboat language. H. and I jumped onto the slippery mass and finally pushed Mascot across the end and clear of it. Then over big yank and take account of stock. No damage done and so turned in again believing Scotty had sought seclusion of lazaret during the rumpus. Turned out for breakfast but no Scotty. After thorough search the awful fact dawned upon our minds that Scotty, the pride and joy and comfort of our trip was no longer on board. Vanished without leaving a single clew. It was a mighty sad breakfast we sat down to with thoughts of that little kit clinging desperately to that old log raft or washing about in the tideway of the sound. Just as we were preparing to wash up, Henry’s quick ear caught a strange sound from the marsh. Then even my half busted ears heard a faint wail. Gosh all hemlock! it was the last, despairing cry of our Scotty. No lifesavers ever tumbled into a boat quicker than we into the launch, and it was give a twirl and away. We guessed at direction and let her go right into the sedge for the tide was up and two feet of water flooded the marsh. To our calls we got one more wail of anguish. H. was overboard and floundering in the sedge in a jiffy. By the greatest piece of luck he came upon a little black spot in the water. He almost ran by it. Then he stooped and picked up Scotty, unconscious. When he handed her to me there was no sign of life and I could touch her eyeball without her winking. Wouldn’t have given a peanut shell for half a dozen such cats. Back to Mascot we rushed. Hot brandy and water for she was still faintly breathing. As luck would have it she had a convulsion just then and bit off end of medicine dropper. The hot cloths all over her and then wait and watch. This all happened just three hours ago and our Scotty is now happily asleep in the sun apparently none the worse for her four hours of semi-submarine life. That was about the closest call yet. We suppose she was on deck and being frightened at the tugboat whistle jumped overboard and managed to reach the marsh. When tide came she must have had at least two hours of swimming and clinging to the sedge. My eye, but we are glad to have her with us again, and only hope that no serious results will follow the swallowing of the end of the glass dropper. Luck she brought us quickly, for making a grapnel out of the bent irons on my davits, helped out with a bit of pipe and stick of wood, I caught and picked up the slipped anchor warp and anchor from 20 ft. of water on the second try. Then it was up sail and away on the turn of the tide although the wind, a strong whole sail breeze, was dead ahead. Hard alee and repeat all morning until crossing a big river we found a racing tide ahead in the creek on the other side. Down yank for another wait. Who cares? The breeze is from the south without a touch of chill and the warm sunlight is luxury. There we were a-setting all comfy, when along comes tugboat and log boom No. 2. No time for nothing. This one was built with two big timbers in form of triangle at the bow and when it hit us I slacked cable and we were pushed bodily one side and the raft went on without my having to slip my rode. It was really all my own carelessness, this getting mixed up with these two booms for I had no business to drop anchor in channel. Mighty lucky to escape with only a little less paint. Late in the afternoon we hitched on little kicker and after 4 or 5 miles anchored for the night at entrance to Altamaha Sound. Taking it all in all, this day was a pretty busy cup of tea. I expect there is more excitement to a polar expedition or an African lion hunt, but I guess this will hold me.

_January 25th._ The night warm and muggy with torrential rain showers. The morning dull and warm. Were under way by 8 and crossing Altamaha Sound, entered a creek far more attractive than any we had been in for some time. At times we ran close to heavy wood where the big live oaks with long wavy, mossy beards dropped to touch the stream. Here we saw an army of buzzards feasting on some dead carcass. Rather a horrid sight, that. Cloud and sunlight with breeze to southard right in our eye so we let the kicker do the pushing. To-day we first saw orange trees in fruit and great flocks of white herons. The air soft, and truly balmy, not like real air at all. It somehow fails to satisfy. Doesn’t seem to fill the lungs. By noon to St. Simon’s Sound, where we struck the fiercest of ebb tides. Nobody ever told me about these tides. There is a rise and fall of 7 feet and with kicker going strong and braced to a light air, we could not gain and over yank in deep water where we had to give 15 fath. scope. The tide was running better than 4 knots and that’s some tide. A beautiful afternoon and I boiled and roasted half a ham besides a duck which H. got yesterday on the wing with the rifle. Also made my ninth canvas ballast bag all French seamed and Bristol Fashion. At 5 p.m. tide slacked, and we made our next creek and anchored soon after for the night. We can make neither head nor tail of these creek tides and just have to go when they serve and drop over hook when they don’t. Sometimes one sound will dominate the tide in a connecting stream, sometimes the other, and the time of change cannot be judged by change in either sound, but depends upon size of water body drained by that special stream. Local knowledge alone can solve the problem. Under these conditions and with head winds we make but slow progress and must be satisfied with 10, 15, sometimes 20 miles a day. To-day we passed the plantation of Frederica, where John Wesley established Methodism in this country. A deserted, tumbled down outfit to-day, but has the well preserved ruin of a big stone fort at water’s edge built, I suppose, against Indian attack.

_January 26th._ Turned out early for a good try at Fernandina, but had to give it up as an impenetrable fog set in at daylight. In a lift we worked out to the shores of Jekyl Sound, but dared not poke my nose out into the fog and tide. Passed Edwin Gould’s beautiful place on Jekyl Island but the whole thing is monotonously flat which must, after a while, become very tiresome unless your interest all rests in the shooting and fishing. Nasty little midges like black flies pester us considerably and we will have to use dope if they continue. This morning, while the fog kept us at anchor we put a strap around stern of launch and with main boom as swinging crane hoisted boat far enough out of water to repack stuffing box. She seems pretty tight now and it is a great relief for there have been a good many nights when we feared she might sink before morning. On turn of tide at noon fog lifted and we were away with the tide racing us seaward. Turned a little past light and began the long, hard buck against the tide in St. Andrew’s Sound for these two Sounds, Jekyl’s and St. Andrew’s, meet and flow to sea as one. We were precious lucky in having a nice little breeze come out of the southeast and with sheets broad to starboard and kicker kicking for all it was worth, we made fair headway by nicking into shoal water under the shores of Little Cumberland Island. This island, like big Cumberland, is far and away the best looking bit of sand we have seen in many a day. Good sand dunes and fine woods. Big Cumberland belongs to Andy Carnegie and I wonder if Oliver Ricketson isn’t within a mile of me as I write, for, after bucking tide until 5:30 the fog shut in again with rain, and we over anchor quick, quick, only a little way from a good looking outfit near shore of the island. Had good supper of fried oysters with slices of Virginia bacon.

_January 27th._ Comes with heavy southwest blow and rain. Neither of us quite used to this warm weather yet. Nights not much cooler than days and we don’t sleep very soundly. Clouds broke about 10 and we put whole sail to her and dragged it down river until we were fairly overblown and sought a lee under a marsh island where we lunched. Think will wait until later before double reefing and putting her across mouth of St. Mary’s River to Fernandina for tide is running ebb until 5:30 and it may be as well to get over and take first of flood up the harbor. Am gaining daily in my respect for these tides in the open stretches. Might just as well try Quick’s Hole and in a strong breeze the sea over these shoal grounds is fierce. Were severely cautioned before leaving not to get slack in manners and behaviour, so have been especially careful. Today, however, with Florida in sight H. threw slices of bacon at me and dipped out mustard with his thumb. Guess he’ll eat on back porch awhile when he gets back.

Breeze freshened steadily all day to a 4 point drop in barometer. Double reefed her at 4 p.m. and gave her a touch of peak to help her up tideway for H. to get his anchor. Crash! bang, and away went boom crutch tearing out both deck plates. Scotty swore she hadn’t cut loose main sheet and H. had to own up. I got a range on it as it drifted out of sight and finally when we got ship to going we kept a smart lookout and not only saw it but picked it up first grab. This soft feeling wind kind of deceived me or else it did breeze on quickly. At all events I soon found myself mightily overblown and thrashing it in a fearful blobble of lumpy water. The launch hung back like a yoke of steers and Mascot was nearly out of hand. Cockpit rail to the water and the dust coming kerswish across decks at every jump and she jumping sixty to the minute. Eased the peak a bit, but this would never do at all. Tide swashed me out a mile or so and then I got her round and dropped yank in lee of a bit of marsh. I am kind of young and inexperienced, but I certainly hardly expected to have to run to cover in a land-locked bay only two miles wide, but my hands were up and both anchors down and there we are with the lights of Fernandina twinkling only two miles away. This morning it was “Florida or bust” and we busted. This blow which reached proportions of a gale of wind, came out of a clear sky like our northwest winter gales. Barometer starts up at 8 p.m. but with heavy clouds to northward and eastward we wonder a little what next?

_January 28th._ The gale sort of naturally blew itself out during the night, giving us an uncomfortable shaking up for an hour or two on the full of the tide at midnight. The morning came raw and cold with breeze piping on again with the dawn from the northwest. We were off under double reef by 8 and had a sporting sail down wind to Fernandina some three miles away. Were visited by owner of a nearby launch who inquired about make of our noiseless engine. He was quite surprised to find that we had none for they don’t see any good sailing craft about here and we noticed that we attracted considerable attention as we sailed by the wharves. Guess I was showing off her paces a little, too, as I had a piping breeze, two reefs and smooth water. Found on shore that yesterday’s blow reached over 50 miles an hour and don’t wonder I was a bit overblown in spots. I went to Jacksonville and back for mail in afternoon. Have caught a lumbago by this sudden change in weather and when I first start I walk like a buzzard.

_January 29th._ Fernandina. The day was a peach but I enjoyed it little, feeling mean, headachy and generally down. Did up letter writing all morning. Provisioned ship in p.m. and felt fairly perky by night although a sight of the map of this country would have made me cry. H. not much better. Our slump undoubtedly due to sudden change with 3 or 4 strenuous days ending with that sharp blow and cold.

_January 30th._ Turned out to a dandy morning, feeling much better all round. Good breakfast helped still more and putting kicker astern we were soon headed southward. Came to drawbridge, but just as it was opening I took bottom and made an inglorious halt. Off again and through that draw and then on and on through marsh and creek as so many days before. Here posts with boards nailed to them are supposed to guide you on your way, but the boards are ripped off and the posts all broken down so you have to rely upon guesswork and what knowledge you have acquired to pick your way. We had luck and only scraped the keel once to Nassau Sound, where we nicked a strong tide under the shore and were able to double a point and square away into the marsh once more. The breeze came fresh easterly and putting the big rag to her, with fair tide we certainly did eat up the miles. Everything went finely. H. killed a duck on the wing with Helen Keller and the St. John’s River was only a mile away when, kerplunk, we took the mud and it was all off. Set two anchors to keep from bilging and employed crew in usual ship’s duties. We must have cleaned up better than 30 miles since morning and it was 4 p.m. and time to stop anyway. I made a crout-au-pot for supper. Good thing for scurvy. Tried to get H. to rub some back of his ears, but he wouldn’t. Obstinate boy.

_January 31st._ Came on and off from midnight until 3 a.m. until ship floated and I hauled out my sleepy crew to pull anchors and work boat into deep water. This done it was quick to bed for some good snooze. Up, breakfast, clean up, and away by 8:30 with launch astern. Made our mark on an oyster bar first thing, but jumped her over. Across St. John’s River where tide was running fiercely. Promptly went ashore twice, trying to make creek on opposite shore. Got off each time with luck and the spinnaker pole. Breeze came dead ahead and tide in same direction so it was slow pushing all the morning and was almost glad when I ran aground good and hard and had time for lunch. Floated and were off again. Today saw old Mississippi-type river steamer with big stern wheels thrashing white water. Stern-to they looked like big, cottontail rabbits. The marsh more attractive today. More color, prettier and longer grasses, and glimpses into the lonely cypress swamps. Still the whole thing is pretty flat and unprofitable. Should stop, spend a month to study and explore. H. has a notion he will cut quite a dash at Ormond Beach, and I have advanced him 25 cents for the purpose, so it is ever on, on, on. Grounded twice more in afternoon, but come off as I came on. If you lay flat on your stomach and waited for a spring tide you might be able to drown about here. Towards night the clouds banked up ugly in west and a sharp little squall swept the river as I dropped hook for the night. By 8 o’clock skies had cleared, but it doesn’t seem as if the wind blew hard enough to sweep the clouds very far away.

_February 1st._ Comes early, say about 1 a.m. when tide turned and with smartish northeaster, we ran plunk onto an oyster bar. Might as well run into the Old Cock of Hen and Chickens. Turned out to find nothing. Black as indigo. Had to get compass to find out whether it was Florida or Chelsea. Messed around and hauled into channel. Turned in with thoughts of steamers, tows, and log booms all on top of me at once. Up and away under whole sail to freshening northeaster. Took bottom almost immediately but crowded off and smothered down stream. Breeze pricked right on and we had our hands full slacking peak, jibing, hoisting again and trying to keep in enough water to wash dishes. Jumped her good and plenty once more but we were boring at it so hard that we just split that mud flat wide open and went on. We boomed into St. Augustine at 10:30 cutting a few fancy steps along the water front and making a North River jibe to our anchor. Took things easy and didn’t go ashore until after lunch. Going ashore at a resort of this kind after leaving the swamps and marshes seems somehow like going into a 10-cent store. Everything looked pretty cheap and nasty. We wandered about for a few hours. Saw old Fort Marion and the Ponce-de-Leon Hotel. The courtyard of the hotel is truly beautiful. The street crowds look a good deal like those at Cottage City and we were glad to get on board and have supper by ourselves. Saw by the paper that another 3 master was dismasted within 20 miles of us in the blow we took the day before reaching Fernandina. Too much of the wreck business going on at my door. At Southport the 4 master went on Frying Pan. Off Georgetown when we layed to in the southwester, the 3 master McFarland was dismasted and we saw the hulk at Charleston. This last dismasted derelict we saw as we crossed St. John’s River, into which a revenue cutter had towed her. Must mind my P’s and Q’s or will be getting my come-gee-come myself. Here we are getting cold, raw weather for most part with fierce gales sweeping the coast every few days and all letters tell me of mildest weather in the north. Trees budding, flowers blooming. It all seems kind of topsy-turvy.

_February 2 to 4._ Just fooling around St. Augustine and waiting for Chinamen to wash up our wash.

We went to the much advertised South Beach where we expected to find quite a bit of life, but instead found the cheapest sort of outfit with not a soul in sight. There was an alligator farm with hundreds of the critters from the biggest and oldest down to teeny, weeny little fellows. They also had lots of rattlers and moccasin snakes caught right about here. I guess the Mascot’s cabin is full as good as tent life in these parts. St. Augustine differs from all the other cities we have seen because it is the oldest one in the United States and has a distinct and most attractive individuality handed down from days of Spanish rule. We should have done a little sightseeing but for us, sufficient for each day is the hustle thereof. One evening long after dark as we were leaving the wharf in putt-putt, a man hailed us and asked us where our lantern was. I replied that it was on board the big boat and asked if they were fussy around here. The voice from the dark said, “You are talking with the inspector.” I didn’t just remember the repartee for the situation, but meekly told H. to row on board. Am awaiting arrest now, and it ain’t so funny as it sounds. Would rather be layed to outside than languish in prison. Wish I knew how to spell “Layed-to.” Never feel sure whether I am a sailor or a hen-yard. Have our shore grub in a sort of “Club,” all dolled up in imitation Moorish fashion. Not badly done and good cook. We have never seen more than three persons besides ourselves eating there. I fancy hotels and all are sort of subsidized by Henry M. Flagler. One night we heard a bully crash and down the stairs came a girl imitating Scotty in a fit. H. and I to the rescue pronto. We picked her up, and undoubtedly saved her life, but got no prize, and she dined with another fellow. That makes me think that Scotty being particularly well got some meat the other day. The fun began in the fore peak, but instantly spread over the whole ship. A tangled mass of claws, teeth, and fur landed first in my lap, and then in the cockpit. While H. jumped on deck to see if it had gone overboard, down through the skylight it came like a rocket stick scattering pens, ink, paper, etc., etc. all about. When I picked my head out of my bunk pillows the cyclone had disappeared in the lazaret, the entrance to which we blocked up promptly. No more meat, Scotty.

[Sidenote: Map E.]

_February 5th._ Were away in an undeniably pretty chance. Single reef and good breeze northeast with clear skies. Much more attractive going with shores edged with timber and with water clear and with some color. Strong head tide, but we bucked it handsomely until 12:30 when we took bottom good and plenty giving us a chance to lunch quietly and write log. With coming tide we floated and were stuck again in 100 yards. Floated and ran ashore some more. Next time we got her going, away we went like a pigeon without his tail, for an oyster shell had somehow wedged itself into the bottom rudder pintle hole and so lifted rudder that wheel wouldn’t go in gear. Merry minutes until we could dig old tiller out from lazaret and ship it. Night was falling and after working her around a particularly bad bend we anchored for the night which was clear and precious near frosty.

_February 6th._ Another peacherino morning with nice working northerly airs. Never had sailboat a better weather chance to work southward. Would like to work it hard but am only just mending up after the previous hard spells and must go easy, so 8:30 before we slipped away. Down river with fair wind and tide abooming. Passed a fine bit of old Spanish ruin. By far and away the best thing of its kind I ever saw over here. It was an old tower built as a southerly defence for St. Augustine. Then we crossed Matanzas Inlet and entered upon some most pernickety navigation. With H. on bowsprit and clear water we managed to get along 4 or 5 miles with repeated draggings, and jumping her over. At last we made a sad miscue and ran her up on an oyster bar with everything standing and at about full of the tide. Had to get mighty busy and mighty quick. Little anchor astern no good. Up hatch and drag out those big 200 lb. sacks of wet sand and put them on rail. No good. Out big anchor, and as last resort, before throwing ballast overboard, I hitched on throat halliards and held her down to her rail. Just as we came two blocks she moved a hair and by lustily pushing and hauling we worked her off and piped crew to dinner. Close call for a 12 hour set and midnight circus. Away after lunch and entered the cuttings of the Florida East Coast Canal Co. Had a bully afternoon. Bright warm sun. Woods open to edge of canal and canal itself interesting with its dredged banks sometimes 20 or more feet high on either hand. Sand mostly of beautiful coloring, siennas, chromes, deep browns and now and then great streaks of gamboge. Sometimes the cuttings had gone for miles through the shell rock called coquina, and here the canal water had cut hundreds of little miniature caves and grottos. Later we passed orange plantations with some trees all in yellow fruit close to the bank. The whole afternoon was fine and the most peaceful and restful we have had for many a day. We saw pelicans and white herons and blue herons, hawks, buzzards, swallows, and big, fat mallard ducks. We skirted close and peered into great, gloomy palmetto forests which somehow had the look of sheltering alligators, and snakes. At nightfall we came to a highway bridge and tooted our horn in vain. Stopped, tied up, and investigated. On a sign we read that if we left the draw open we would have all manner of things done for us. H. was soon playing ring-around-rosey with the iron bar and back the draw was going when down the road from nowhere comes an auto. “Hey, there,” says the pompous one, “Shut that draw and let us over.” “Not much until I’m through,” says I, and we didn’t. The chauffeur came to look at Mascot and said, pointing to her, “Will that go upon the ocean?” “Sure,” says I. “I thought so,” he replied and went to tell the people in the car the remarkable fact. As near as we can find out nobody has ever come down here under sail before. The natives stare with astonishment at the bit of canvas. It is my impression that nobody else will ever come, either. We tied up to the bridge abutment for the night.

_February 7th._ Weather had turned to the bad during the night, and in the pitch black of 5 a.m. I was waked from a bully sleep by a hurry call on deck from H. First time this cruise that H. has had to call _me_. Tumbled out to find a big scow houseboat trying to get through the draw and being swept back and down atop of us. We pushed and pulled awhile and finally he worked through and we turned in again. We entered the broad reaches of the shoal Halifax River where stakes and finger posts guided us along a channel having about 6 feet of water. Often for miles there were no posts and we had to go it blindly with help of lead. It rained bucketsful and I wished I could turn boat bottom up, for there was plenty of water upstairs. Worked down past Ormond Beach and passing through the bridges found ourselves off the wharves of Daytona. In trying to reach the wharves we ran her ashore for keeps so went to town in launch. Met Henry’s uncle who was much troubled to think of the Mascot stuck on the mud. Kind friends at the yacht club at once organized a relief expedition which resulted in the running ashore of the relief launch and the smashing of her rudder. Much pulling and hauling followed, but old Mascot never budged which was quite as it should be for I might have broken my rudder if she had started. Late that evening when a few inches of tide served, H. and I put out our big anchor with all our chain to hold it down and after dumping over a little sand ballast, floated her without trouble and somewhat to the surprise of the natives were lying quietly at yacht club wharf early next morning.

_February 8th to 16th._ Put in quietly and pleasantly at Daytona, which is a mighty attractive place. Mr. Rodman, Henry’s uncle, was most kind in every way. Hired bicycles and rode to Ormond Daytona Beach, which is a wonder. Saw flying machines taking up passengers at $25.00 each, and we envied the rich. H. showed signs of having a brain, for after discussing the rather tedious proposition of pushing, pulling, and hauling old Mascot further south through the mud and sand, he suggested taking the launch and making a dash for the pole. That sounded good to me, so we built a framework of boards along the rail of the launch to carry our dunnage and after sawing off the legs of two chairs bolted them to the thwarts. It made a funny looking ferryboat, but I believe if we strike good camping weather and sprinkle lots of carpet tacks about to keep the alligators and Seminoles away o’nights, we may have a mighty good time with sporting element not lacking, which would certainly be the case in Mascot. Plan to sew spinnaker into some form of tent to be set up with oars and boat hook. Letter from John Bullard says Jack Reynolds is reporting Scotty as dead. What do you make of that? He must be trying to manipulate the market and selling short. Spent all one evening trying to define what I mean by the word “sport” and sifted it down to this:

Sport

The pursuit of pleasurable occupation which requires exposure to weather, exercise of all bodily muscles, judgment, skill of hand, foot and eye; never to be followed without a degree of personal risk. Under such classification I put

Sailing of boats,
Handling of horses
Hunting and Canoeing
Mountain climbing.

I know of no other purely sporting propositions.

Went to Orlando one day and back the next. Saw my old farmer, Erving Reed, and his wife. He is manager of a big orange grove. Gave me the skin of a 5 ft. rattler, with 12 rattles, which he killed on the place a short time ago. Sometimes I wonder a little bit about the camping trip which we propose. If the moccasins get you in the water and the rattlers on the shore, where in H---- do you sleep, anyway? Weather pulled northeast drizzly again. Three days of hard northeast rain, which is probably good for garden truck and such.

_February 16th._ Before turning in last night we saw the clouds split wide open to the westward, and we slept with two blankets and were cold at that. Gave up the idea of going in launch, for this cold northeast rain has made it dangerous for camping on the ground, and I have plenty of rheumatix now. Up with the light and away at 8 o’clock. Launch astern and Mascot light without her ballast. Made good time before smart northerly airs. The water clear and so it was fairly easy to avoid the many sand bars. The channel wound in, out, and around many little wooded islets, and it was quite like sailing on the still waters of some northern lake. Down past New Smyrna and so with many crooks and bends to Mosquito Inlet, where is a fine great light tower. Here we miscued badly, but the clear water saved our bacon and we were able to turn the outfit around and regain the deep water. Then on until we got badly boxed and had to go channel hunting in launch before we could get on. Without ballast old Mascot pushed around as easy as you please and while we got aground many times, we had little trouble in working off. Just before reaching the little settlement of Eldora, we passed the big, Indian shell mound and in a few miles approached Mosquito Lagoon, a good big stretch of water spread out mighty thin. No place for me to be bobbing about in with no ballast and only a dinky little launch, so it was haul to the bank, and fill up some canvas bags with sand and stow them. Then out to entrance of big lagoon, which spread beautifully calm before us. It was late afternoon and the east was all blue and purple mists. Across the water to the west, lay a broad, blood-red pathway to the sun just dropping, a great ball, behind the dark line of palmettos. Flights of pelicans and big, long necked cranes stood out sharply against the crimsoned sky. We tied to the bank of a little island for the night which was filled with the strange calls and cries of strange birds. H. complained of sore throat so he did his gozzle up with cold bandage and red flannel.

_February 17th._ Never a day broke fairer. H. had good night, but turned out with a fearful cold and pretty sore throat, so waited for sun to warm things up well before tripping our hook. Then away into broad Mosquito Lagoon in which we grounded a good many times before reaching the haulover canal or out leading through into Indian River. Passed through the cut and as we entered the river we saw a great, black pig quarter mile from shore quietly rooting away in water 15 in. deep. Now what do you make of that? If swordfish iron hadn’t been washed overboard long ago might have had a little aside at pig-sticking from the launch. Indian River same as Mosquito Lagoon, except there are a few more feet of water and practically no danger of grounding. The river is wide at this point just above Titusville, and as the shores are low, the whole thing is uninteresting even on such a perfect afternoon. Lots of ducks and very tame. I got two with old Bess and might have had many more but didn’t need them. We pushed on and on and it was long after dark when we dropped hook off village of Cocoa. Think we must have done our forty miles or better today. I seldom measure it off. In fact we never look at the charts ahead to see just how far it is to any place, but start in at top of a chart, work through it, and unroll another to be handled in the same way. After doing this several times we finally unroll one that has our stopping place. At starting we had 39 charts in the roll. Tonight we put the keebosh on No. 35 so we must be pretty close to the jumping off place. H. turned in early feeling kind of meechin from effect of his cold, which has gone to his head and taken away his taste to that degree that he no longer finds fault with my cooking.

_February 18th._ Turned out to another bright, warm, calm morning. H. sneezing and coughing at a great rate. Into wharf for gasoline and oil where was also interviewed by newspaper man. Then away southward once more. Set our awning. Most grateful, cooling shade. There we sat in our easy chairs, smoking and reading just like the nasty rich, who passed us in their palatial houseboats. Ducks, ducks, ducks. Acres and acres, thousands and thousands. So tame it seemed we must surely run them down. Fun to see their little feet paddle, paddle so fast to help them rise from the calm water. It was the same story all day. Low, uninteresting shores dotted here and there with houses and little villages and ahead always that great stretch of calm water. Towards end of day we came to some right pernickety navigation and we jumped her again and again, but always were able to push off and on once more. At five o’clock with sky sort of festering up, we snugged into Sebastian’s Creek and over hook in 6 ft. of water which is a handsome depth, here away.

_February 19th._ Turned out before light to find an ugly look to sky and sort of soaking air southeast. Anchorage under these conditions didn’t suit me a bit so was away early with breeze in my eye and pricking on. Six miles and more down to Indian River Narrows and couldn’t put sail on as there was only 5 ft. in channel and nothing on either side the last mile or so. Came pesky hard, but by taking in awning little launch was able to kick us into a snug little cove where we put down hook to await better chances. Made up a new recipe for game and had most successful noonday feed. Here you go for duck a la Mascot.

SAUCE

Boil one tomato and strain for essence. Add little of gravy smothering duck. Thicken with cream, flavor with tablespoon of guava jelly, dash of Worcestershire, pepper, salt, and add one egg beaten. Don’t get in too much duck gravy as it is too greasy.

DUCK

Take the four breast meats of two duck. Smother them 5 to 8 min. in ½″ water skin-side down in covered saucepan. Dip in egg and cracker crumbs _once_ and fry brown in very hot bacon drippings. Serve on toast with sauce poured over.

This is an economical dish, too, for you get all the breast meat and none of the other gets cooked until you put it into pot for a stew or soup. I think a touch of lemon in place of Worcestershire would help that sauce, but it’s a mighty good dream as it is.

Weather grew continually more ugly and finally about sundown it began to blow and rain southeast with good, earnest tropical rain. Well I guess, and more to come. It swept across decks like a flood and dashed into cockpit so hard we had to shut cabin doors. We smoked up our pipes and managed to create quite a cosy atmosphere.

_February 20th._ Turned out before day broke and found things shaping for a pretty morning. Queer what critters we humans be. Last night in the blow and rain I felt like home or die, and this morning it was Miami or bust. Kicked my crew awake and we were soon picking our way among the shoals and islands of Indian River Narrows. All the marshes were in young green. Vivid in the early morning light. H. could hear the birds everywhere and we passed a great flight of swallows winging north. From these Narrows we entered the long stretch of lower Indian River and stopped first thing to lend a man a hand who the evening before had run his little houseboat high and dry and with his wife had spent a most uncomfortable night. It was no use, we couldn’t budge him. Before we left he paddled over with his anchor and a warp big enough for the Fall River boat and asked us to bend it on for him as he frankly confessed he never could learn to tie those knots. We put sail to her and with fresh northwester on our counter began to reel off the miles in great shape. Having only about 500 lbs. of sand aboard the old boat would plow her nose right into it and try to turn and look us in the face, but with launch tied astern with quarter lines we kept her head southerly and let her boil with about 2 ft. of water under her keel. At Fort Pierce, a distressingly barren looking town, we stopped for gas and went on with a reef in the mainsail. The afternoon’s sail was what you read about. Smooth water as blue as blue can be. Green shores not too far away. A smart breeze with balmy warmth to it. Calm at sunset with a great full moon rising into a purple-blue tropic sky. Quietly to anchor under west shore some few miles below Jensen.

_February 21st._ Dawn found me peeking out and boiling coffee, but heavy land fog kept us at anchor and we didn’t point her nose south until 7 o’clock. The fog away, there came a bright hot sun which brought out the awning pretty quick. We crossed St. Lucie Inlet and there watched an Indian fisherman stand on the bow of his motorboat and take her over the shoals and through the surf. The bright sky, blue water breaking over the bar, the boat, the man so unconsciously graceful made a delightful picture. Then on into narrow crooked going, deep into the tangled mass of mangrove swamps. Finger posts guided us for the most part well but sometimes there were none, and we wandered off into blind leads only to have to push back and try again. About noon we passed through Hobe Sound where on left-hand shore which we skirted were lots of ideally beautiful Florida winter homes. The houses unpretentious, well done, and the gardens a mass of bloom and color. Again we plunged into swamp but now much more beautiful. Then we shot out into Jupiter River just above the inlet and making a mighty sharp bend jumped at once into the swamps again. We are in this swamp as I write. So narrow the creek that the palm trees cast shadows on the paper as I write. Color is everywhere now. Green in every shade, yellows, browns and reds. The mangroves with their thousand roots make a green wall along our way. The water flows in and under for Lord knows how far. I want to write to a man who has put up a “For Sale” sign and ask him whether he sells by the acre or gallon. Flowers, too, lots of them. Morning-glories and all sorts and kinds and colors that I don’t know the name of. Passed from the creek out into Lake Worth about 5 p.m. and sailed down towards Palm Beach as the sun was setting and that wonderful blue was growing in the east. Came to anchor at nightfall off the docks and gardens of the Royal Poinciana and watched the big moon rise over the gables of that famed establishment.

For several days now Scotty has given us much anxiety. Even warm malted milk has what you call distressed her, and she has not been particular as to where to be distressed. Tonight after supper we finally found her stiff as a board in bottom of launch. We gathered round to shed a tear when she lifted her head, cried “skizzgah! skizzgah!” and returned to life. She is a mighty sick mimi tonight, however. I am afraid that old broken end of glass medicine dropper is trying to permanently locate in her interior. She does not seem to suffer pain so will just let things go. I hate to think of her leaving us. Trains of cars cross the bridge near by, and the fit may have been caused by fright at their noise.

At 9 p.m. I had a fit of my own and nothing for it but must doll up, go ashore and see the sights. To the hotel, of course, and there instead of finding people out enjoying the glory of the beautiful evening we found them working hard at the dance and at cards. It is all very interesting and to me novel. I have never seen a crowd of Americans of this stamp at play. The women looked tired and fagged and the men not much better. There was no light-heartedness anywhere and the whole thing done as if on the stage. There were several couples who later in the grill-room danced the “trot” for the edification of all hands to the music of a nigger band and singers. I got the impression the girls were professionals and the men working out board and lodging. I learned later that their names appeared in the newspapers as “society leaders.” I saw only one or two aristocratic looking women, the others were not more than one generation from the immigration office. It will be many a year yet before our people learn how to enjoy their leisure time. How easy in this new workshop of ours to make a few dollars, but how hard it seems for people to get any real pleasure in the spending of them when made.

_February 22 to 28th._ Palm Beach. From our anchorage the whole scene is most attractive. The Royal Poinciana is a huge caravansary and with its roof topping the green of the palms has a good bit of grandeur. The color scheme is undeniably good with light yellows of the palm, the blue-green of the palmetto, pure whites and faintest pinks reflected from red piazza roofs, themselves hidden by white balustrades. Launches with merry parties are dashing all about and lend flashes of bright color. Houseboats with bunting fluttering come, anchor, and go again while now and then an army hydroaeroplane jumps in air with roar of motor. On shore the band plays and nice looking people take tea beneath the palms or are wheeled about in chairs. We go ashore and look and stare. Watch the bathers and even venture to take a meal or two in the “winter garden” but take it from me, brown-tail moth is nothing to the sting of poverty and somehow there seems to be a light-heartedness lacking to it all and soon my interest flags and I want to be into the swamp and away. Over it all floods hot sunshine with muggy air which has no freshness even in the early morning.

_February 28th._ We turned out at daylight and took the ship over to West Palm Beach where we put in a mighty hot, weary morning getting provisions, water and ice. The wind was heavy from south, square in our teeth, and rain squalls added to the general soaking wet conditions. H. caught himself just as he was going to say something about not going any farther and smothered it up. We were on fine edge, both of us. I have heard about these tropic conditions and the way they will break a man up and am rather glad to give them a try. We were off at 11 o’clock and made better headway against sea and wind than we expected. At the foot of Lake Worth we entered a long canal cutting with banks beautifully overgrown with all manner of trees, bushes, vines and flowering plants. The breeze came a bit fresher and we gradually relaxed the nerve tension and by evening were able to speak quite civilly to each other. At night we tied up to the canal bank with a great magnolia tree half filling the cockpit. Our first mosquitos appeared in force, but we rigged nettings and kept the cabin free of them and also free of any breath of air. It was pretty stifling hot, and having still a few nerves on hand, my night was not of the best.