A Collection of Stories | Page 9

on most
afternoons in the week blows what the Atlantic Coast yachtsmen would
name a gale. They are always surprised by the small spread of canvas
our yachts carry. Some of them, with schooners they have sailed around
the Horn, have looked proudly at their own lofty sticks and huge
spreads, then patronisingly and even pityingly at ours. Then, perchance,
they have joined in a club cruise from San Francisco to Mare Island.
They found the morning run up the Bay delightful. In the afternoon,
when the brave west wind ramped across San Pablo Bay and they faced
it on the long beat home, things were somewhat different. One by one,
like a flight of swallows, our more meagrely sparred and canvassed
yachts went by, leaving them wallowing and dead and shortening down
in what they called a gale but which we called a dandy sailing breeze.
The next time they came out, we would notice their sticks cut down,
their booms shortened, and their after-leeches nearer the luffs by whole
cloths.
As for excitement, there is all the difference in the world between a
ship in trouble at sea, and a small boat in trouble on land-locked water.
Yet for genuine excitement and thrill, give me the small boat. Things
happen so quickly, and there are always so few to do the work--and
hard work, too, as the small-boat sailor knows. I have toiled all night,
both watches on deck, in a typhoon off the coast of Japan, and been less
exhausted than by two hours' work at reefing down a thirty-foot sloop
and heaving up two anchors on a lee shore in a screaming southeaster.
Hard work and excitement? Let the wind baffle and drop in a heavy
tide- way just as you are sailing your little sloop through a narrow
draw-bridge. Behold your sails, upon which you are depending, flap
with sudden emptiness, and then see the impish wind, with a haul of
eight points, fill your jib aback with a gusty puff. Around she goes, and
sweeps, not through the open draw, but broadside on against the solid
piles. Hear the roar of the tide, sucking through the trestle. And hear
and see your pretty, fresh-painted boat crash against the piles. Feel her
stout little hull give to the impact. See the rail actually pinch in. Hear

your canvas tearing, and see the black, square-ended timbers thrusting
holes through it. Smash! There goes your topmast stay, and the topmast
reels over drunkenly above you. There is a ripping and crunching. If it
continues, your starboard shrouds will be torn out. Grab a rope--any
rope--and take a turn around a pile. But the free end of the rope is too
short. You can't make it fast, and you hold on and wildly yell for your
one companion to get a turn with another and longer rope. Hold on!
You hold on till you are purple in the face, till it seems your arms are
dragging out of their sockets, till the blood bursts from the ends of your
fingers. But you hold, and your partner gets the longer rope and makes
it fast. You straighten up and look at your hands. They are ruined. You
can scarcely relax the crooks of the fingers. The pain is sickening. But
there is no time. The skiff, which is always perverse, is pounding
against the barnacles on the piles which threaten to scrape its gunwale
off. It's drop the peak! Down jib! Then you run lines, and pull and haul
and heave, and exchange unpleasant remarks with the bridge-tender
who is always willing to meet you more than half way in such repartee.
And finally, at the end of an hour, with aching back, sweat-soaked shirt,
and slaughtered hands, you are through and swinging along on the
placid, beneficent tide between narrow banks where the cattle stand
knee-deep and gaze wonderingly at you. Excitement! Work! Can you
beat it in a calm day on the deep sea?
I've tried it both ways. I remember labouring in a fourteen days' gale off
the coast of New Zealand. We were a tramp collier, rusty and battered,
with six thousand tons of coal in our hold. Life lines were stretched
fore and aft; and on our weather side, attached to smokestack guys and
rigging, were huge rope-nettings, hung there for the purpose of
breaking the force of the seas and so saving our mess-room doors. But
the doors were smashed and the mess-rooms washed out just the same.
And yet, out of it all, arose but the one feeling, namely, of monotony.
In contrast with the foregoing, about the liveliest eight days of my life
were spent in a small boat on the west coast of Korea. Never mind why
I was thus voyaging