PROLOGUE.
The anchor heaves, the ship swings free,
The sails swell full. To sea, to sea!
--Thos. Lovell Beddoes.
OUR Summer vacations "home," to the west coast of Scotland,
where the ancestral families had summer cottages at Rothsay, on Bute,
and at Millport, on the Cumbrae, gave us our first taste of sailing.
Recollections of boating there and of the little stone cottage at
Millport where the millstream empties into the bay; of my grandfather,
enthusiastic fisherman, sitting by the fire in his highbacked
settee-like chair after the happy parties came home from "the" fishing
in the long summer twilights; of a beat up the Kyles of Bute and an
enormous lunch of ham and eggs at Tinabruach; of a morning's fishing
off the Little Cumbrae with scones and milk afterwards at the farm near
the lighthouse; are treasures of memory.
There are few places in the world where sailing is more
enjoyable and varied than on the Firth of Clyde. Over there were sown
the seeds of the vice of sailing that blossomed forth later in our
summers in the village of Stony Creek, near New Haven, Connecticut,
where we spent six long summer vacations sailing and fishing to our
hearts' content. Here we owned our first boats: the Jumping Jennie,
apple
of
our
eyes, but leaky and crank, yet I did not then hesitate, as
I would now, to go out seven miles in her to the reefs off Faulkner's
Island to catch seabass and flounders. My Uncle Alec, of blessed
memory, taught me to use an eight-foot boat rod, light line, and wooden
Nottingham reel, and the sport was increased one hundred per cent over
that of the natives' heavy hand line method.
This uncle, who had been a dandy in his youth, but on
account of his lungs had had to go to sea; first, as supercargo and
then as third officer, had seen a great deal of India and the East; so,
when I knew him, the dandy blood was gone and only the vagabond
wanderer sort flowed instead. He was an insatiable fisherman, and when
he visited us we were out every day, often from before daybreak until
late at night; sometimes we would come back from Faulkner's with as
many as sixty good seabass for two rods. Can that be done today? When
not fishing we sailed, and then he would play his violin or gossip by
the hour about the sea, and ships, and the East, and Africa, for he had
gone in one of the ships of the British Abyssinian expedition of 1867
to Annesley Bay, where they cooled their wine in icy slush made with a
canister, chemicals, and a roll of canvas. His soul was steeped in the
indescribable charm of the sea and in the mystery of the East: I better
appreciated it all when I went there in 1887.
The passion for sailing increased. Irex, an
eighteen-foot clinker-built boat of beautiful model and a witch in
light airs, followed Jumping Jennie; but, alas, she could not be kept
afloat after the second year I had her. So, in 1884, I got Iona,
built
by
Niles
Tooker, of Essex, on the Connecticut River. She was a
big, ablebodied carvel-built boat, less than a year old, eighteen feet
waterline and six feet beam. A boilerplate centerboard and a suit of
sails with sprit topsail, shipped from Philadelphia, made Baldwin, the
boat builder at Branford, open his eyes.
I almost lost myself; and grew quite conceited the
day Genesta, going westward in the Sound in the race around
Long Island, lost a man. There was a dirty southwester blowing when I
came, singlehanded, out of Branford Creek, six miles to the westward,
the Iona having been left there over night. After getting outside I
would have put back if possible, but I had gone too far to leeward
before discretion came to me, so there was nothing for it but to run.
It was so thick that, without a compass, I made an error and almost ran
into the Nigger Heads, a series of boulder-like rocks just awash, on
which the sea was heavily breaking. I luffed and got knocked down and
half swamped, but the little boat managed to claw clear, and I made the
western entrance to the Thimbles standing in water almost to my knees.
No other craft was under sail that day, and, as I ran in, one hand on
tiller and other bailing, I passed close to the Viola, sloop,
NYYC, at her mooring pitching bowsprit under, her owner, John Wayland,
Esq., and his crew cheered me. The conceit became stronger the next
day, when I heard from our neighbor General Frank Pargoud, that Wayland
had said, "that young Barrie is a devil for sailing."
Stony Creek is the shore village at the Thimble Islands, the
prettiest group of islands, outside of Maine, on the Atlantic Coast. In
those days, when yachts ran in smaller sizes, plenty used to come in
there, and the old Palinurus, coast survey service, laid there
all one summer. Among the yachts, the largest was the old cup defender Madeline,
whose
owner,
Mr.
Dickerson, used to stop there Spring and Fall. The
General spent many evenings on her; once he took me along with him.
This gave me my first hours on a big yacht, and it may well be imagined
that I enjoyed myself. It was a cool night, but there was a canvas
windscreen across the deck at the mainmast, and as we sat in the
moonlight, the family and I listened while Mr. Dickerson sang,
alternately, comic yachting songs and tales of the Madeline. One detail
I remember: on the famous race she put her jib-boom end, nineteen feet
above the water, so far under as to almost wash away a couple of hands
who were furling her jib topsail. As we came away the General hung
alongside and lauded her, and claimed they could never build her like
again, and exclaimed: "le moule est cassé! le moule est
cassé!" and almost wept.
The Madeline was very fine, but she did not thrill me as did
a little double-ended Block Island boat, Periwinkle, that a
couple of New Yorkers brought in one Fall. As usual, when a stranger
came into the islands, I rowed out and about, and, to my boyish joy,
was invited on board by one of the happy owners. The little cabin was
enchanting; there were shelves along the sides filled with books,
pipes, fishing gear, mysterious jam jars, etc., etc., and a shippy yet
homelike aroma filled the place. I gloated over it all as long as
politeness would permit, and finally tore myself away resolved to have
something like it.
Iona had a little cuddy forward that I tried to make look
like the cabin of the Periwinkle, and my ambition was to go a cruise
and sleep over night in her, but this was forbidden; so, as I grew more
expert, I increased my day cruising radius by starting at early hours
and coming home late. By this means we were able to make some pretty
good runs; once going across the Sound to Horton's Point and back in
twelve hours; a look at the chart will show that this is sixty land
miles. We were not always so lucky as to speed, but we never had an
accident. Later we were allowed to stay away over night, but we soon
tired of it, as the cuddy was too small to stretch out in, and even
summer nights are cold just before daybreak, and anchor chain and sails
make a miserable bed. We managed to get into nooks in the Sound from
New Haven to Saybrook, and in those days, when the shore was not so
built up, found lots of out-of-the-way places. We kept the Iona for
several years, constantly making changes in her, until finally, after
bringing her on a car to Claymont on the Delaware, and pottering for
several seasons about the river and creeks from the Lazaretto to New
Castle, she ended as a bulb-fin-keel with rounded torpedo deck and a
big balance lug. We had lots of fun in the old boat, but finally, when
the Corinthian Yacht Club was formed in 1892, she became too small for
us, and I looked about for something bigger.
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