The boy, me and the cat

by Henry Merrihew Plummer

Now that was quite a longish night, too. Sitting still, listening to the howl and swish of the gale and speculating on where H. was and where I was going to, for I was out on the open marsh not snugged away up among the woods between high banks. When the wind took a whiffle down the canal the old Mascot would shake all over and lean right to it. Tide kept a-coming and I kept a-crawling out on hands and knees to raise my guy lines until the top of the pole was level with my trunk deck and the stick bending and cracking at every charge of wind until I felt sure it must go. I knew that tide must be ’way above common, but it was too dark to see how high it exactly was. Given another foot rise and I would have been all right for pole was slanting under boat then. It was four o’clock in the morning and tide had been coming about nine hours.

January 3rd. Bet I was pleased when I crawled out at 4:30 and found end of pole at same level. Crawled right below again and mugged up on hot beef tea. Five o’clock came and tide had dropped a foot. Then the westerly shift came with a whoop and I thought Scotty and I were surely bound for the meadows, but that old pole buckled, bent and creaked and held. Great scissors, how it blew. Couldn’t stand on deck nohow. Just had to crawl and cling on.

Day broke with clearing skies and found me with bows pretty well up on bank, but stern still in deep water and I make no doubt I can pull her off if this northwester will only blow out as I expect it will before another high water or somebody comes along who will carry me out an anchor to help hold her off. I have ground tackle enough to handle her all right, but without tender am entirely helpless. Poor little Scotty feels these busy nights dreadfully, and is too sleepy and tired to eat a thing. I feel fine and had a good breakfast off of the last Pt. Judith mackerel. I can’t believe that since last Saturday night, and it is Friday now, I have not had four hours of consecutive sleep. I haven’t ache, pain or nerves. Just as I used to be on the old Raven thirty odd years ago. I had to acknowledge later that I did not stand the care, worry and loss of sleep as well as I thought. Between Beaufort and Charleston I lost seven pounds in weight, and again put my eyes almost completely out of commission. H. showed a gain of fifteen pounds in his weight and I begin to wonder for whose health are we traveling anyway.

The clear, westerly gale has continued all day and barometer has moved up only 2/10. Not an inch of tide has come in during the whole day and like a bat I have lived, clinging literally to the rafters, for the boat is very sharply listed. How such days go it is hard to say. You write log and a few letters. Cook your meals, read, smoke, snooze a bit, knit a bit and presto the day is done. Of course H. did not come down river and I am looking forward to another night alone, but I think a peaceful one, for the wind can’t hurt me as I am, and I don’t believe tide can come unless wind drops. I am not going to write to-morrow’s date heading now, however, for things move quickly round here and we may have another eight hands around by midnight.

January 4th. The night was delightfully peaceful and how I did sleep it out. The wind went down and morning came clear, bright and with a flooding tide that soon put me afloat again. While cooking breakfast I listened to something familiar in the sound of a distant motor and pretty soon, round the point swung H. with the launch going perfectly. You bet flag went to masthead as he stepped over side and we had one big joyful reunion. O, what a good, happy breakfast we did have. What fun it was to swap lies about our several experiences. He had twice tried to reach me, but weather had driven him back. He had spent a night at a southern boarding house where his roommate was drunk and unbuckled a big Colt’s 44 when he went to bed. He had found motor trouble rested entirely in electric coil, of which we had made two soups, so buying another was all O. K. and engine going as well as ever. As a relic and for what it has done, we still think of keeping our coil so carefully preserved in red flannel and sealed in pickle jar, for it helped push us many an anxious, weary mile. The inside route from here is so crooked and so shallow in many places that it seems silly to undertake it when it is only 54 miles with two intervening harbors outside. Even H. with stimulus of warm sun and bright skies agrees to tackle it again and so I shall run down to jetty to-night and get away early to-morrow. The wind still hangs southwest most persistently and I must keep a weather eye open.

January 5th. Had at least one good, quiet night but I was kind of wakeful and didn’t do it justice. Morning came a peach and tucking little helpmeet behind we were off at eight on the first of the ebb. Found a jumble of rolypoly seas outside breakwater, but with fair tide logged our 4 knots without sail as it was flat calm. Queer looking gulls around here, wings in the middle, bodies with great long pointed ends. Look just like some Boston people. Scotty began the day with another of her runabouts and retreated to the lazaret as usual. She came out in about an hour; saw or heard something and went all to the bad again. So much so that we had to shut her below fearing she would jump overboard. Never see no such sight. She has no fit spasm at all, just goes amuck with some kind of fear. We chugged merrily along and at 2 p.m. had Cape Romain with its miles of sand shoals abeam. As the chance looked good with easterly airs, we sent up the rag and let her run for Bull’s Bay some 12 knots farther along. Barometer climbing up to 30-1/10 began to make me think a bit for as soon as it passes 30 things begin to happen with us. The afternoon grew more and more to look like storm. The easter freshened to a smart breeze and we were mighty glad at 5 o’clock to haul into shallow Bull’s Bay through the channel near the lighthouse and drop anchor in the little river which begins the inside route to Charleston. We did 36 knots to-day in 9½ hours and nearly all with little kicker which never went better, and H. is justly proud. After a good supper of corn beef the mate reported fire in the oven and sure thing, my kindlings drying were all ablaze and such a mess and smoke before we got them out. Scotty appeared for supper and made a good meal but seems not entirely over her fright yet. Nine o’clock as I write and wind pricking on northeast. You bet it is good to be in this quiet little hole in the wall and not batting around outside. I figure that by coming outside to-day we saved several days of tedious inland work in very shallow water. From here to-morrow I can go to Charleston outside, weather fitting, or inside if things don’t look right.

January 6th. Bilged during the night and mine the weather bunk as usual. Had wonderful line of dreams and woke H. to ask him if he had pulled eel spear out of the mud and tied the crab net solid. You see we lost our whole bundle of spears, grains and harpoon iron when I bilged so heavily the night of the gale at Georgetown. My keel caught on the top of the bank and I went right on my beam ends. The scupper plugs alone kept me from filling and everything went to leeward. I just managed to keep stove covers on. Sorry they are gone, but so far they have been non-essentials and much in the way.

Turned out to find one of those mornings which first you know all about and then you don’t. Regular gulf weather with warm, damp easterly breeze. Could see nothing but worry and fret outside so on turn of tide, we put kicker behind and headed for the woods and hay fields. Spent a truly delightful morning twisting in and out the narrow waterway leading through the most gigantic piece of salt marsh I have ever seen. Some few little hell-divers gave us both a chance to show the weakness of our sporting eye. I finally nailed one for Scotty who turned out to-day as chipper as ever. We had alternate bright sunlight and dark cloud and the colors were wonderful. The brightest of bright blues and emerald greens, bright yellows and pearl grays. The distance always framed by the dark line of heavy pine and the foreground by café au lait oyster bars. At 12:30 just in time for lunch we ran quietly but decidedly aground and folded tents. As we ate we heard the one o’clock whistles blowing in Charleston. All about us are yellow legs, curlew, duck and plover, but at this low tide they are feeding on the flats and I only see them afar off. Henry hears them calling but being a bit deaf, I get no sound of it. A little tedious that. We floated and were away by 3:30 and on and on through the marsh as before. Passed the mouth of inlets and I tried in vain to get H. to enthuse on running outside for rest of the way. By 5:30 and as it was growing dark we hit a middle ground and stopped just in time for supper. Fine oyster stew we had from the little native oysters; H. picked up a basketful in a few minutes at noon. They are small, very sweet and delicate, and grow six or eight together in a cluster with edges as sharp as knives. We saw the darkies as we came along gathering them in their bare feet. I mean the darkies, not the oysters, had bare feet.