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.
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.
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.
December 27th. Comes with banging against wharf and slatting of rigging. Northeaster down on us again in all its glory. Down, down slipped the barometer and presto, round flew the wind into southwest and the fun began. We were pretty well up under the weather shore, but there was rake enough with the tide to kick up a lively jump which pounded against our stern and slatted us about promiscuously. The wind screamed, and we could do nothing but lash our helm amidship and get out extra dock lines. With spinnaker pole for fender we were taking no damage. About 2 p.m. the wind hauled a point and rain stopped. With the clearing, things began moving on the dock. From the pilot’s tower signals were seen flying from the Cape Fear Lighthouse which read, “vessel ashore on Frying Pan.” Off went four pilots in their big motorboat. Scree-eech went the whistle of a tug at end of wharf and down from the village tumbled the crew, and it was cast off and away with black smoke rolling from her stack. I could have gone with H. on the tug but why take a chance when there was nothing we could do, and as the captain said nothing he could do either in the sea that must be running. Out from the cove to the south of us shot the big power lifeboat of the Southport station, and we watched her head towards the breakers which we could see jumping in air on the harbor bar. By six o’clock the tug and pilots were back. They reported a big four-master bound east was almost out of water some six miles from shore but that the lifesavers were standing by on north side of shoal. Another fierce gale is springing up from west and northwest as I write, and the sea outside must be truly awful. I hope with all my heart and soul that those poor devils are safe ashore. I believe H. begins to realize more fully what I had on my own mind the night I tried to jump the New Inlet Bar.