The boy, me and the cat

by Henry Merrihew Plummer

One morning the fog burned away to as pretty a bit of blue sky and southerly wind as you ever saw. We were off to cross St. Helena’s Sound at once. What do you think? In an hour a black, vicious looking squall made up in the west and struck just as we had tied in two reefs. A short smother of rain and wind and then cloudy skies and light airs with strong tide and lumpy seas. That Sound is no Massachusetts Bay. All about are 1 ft. and 2 ft. spots. I did the best I could, but one spot that should break didn’t and everything else did and what with the tide sweeping us about we had a mighty anxious hour or two with the lead giving us from 9 to 10 feet of water on a falling tide. Finally got into our creek and of all dreary surroundings these certainly won out over any we have yet seen. For miles and miles the dark brown oyster bars stretched endlessly and the creek with many branches wound about like a maze. It was near night when we took bottom and learnt from some nigger oyster gatherers that we were way out of the main creek and bound for the sticks. So it was snug down for the night. At high tide these oyster bars will be covered and we will be anchored in a great shallow lake through which it would be most dangerous to try to navigate for these bars are simply covered with sharp pointed oyster clusters which differ in my opinion mighty little from rocks. Hundreds of big plover all over and about this afternoon. Big as pigeons, tame as pigeons, too. Went in launch to get some for supper. Missed them sitting, also flying, and came back without one. I am in that delightful stage when I pull the trigger three or four times before I shoot. Flinching? Well, I guess so. H. ain’t no better than I am. We have a standing bet of five glasses of Coca-Cola to one that the other fellow don’t kill. So far we stand even and nobody has hit a thing. Dreary, cold, cloudy, northeast weather. Put launch ashore and repacked stuffing box, but that didn’t stop leak which now threatens to almost sink her overnight.

The clouds all rolled away and a morning broke as bright as a new dollar with a waspish northeaster whisking across the marshes. It was off and away “pronto.” With single reef we cut things wide open. Slack sheet, down peak and away we rushed the reaches. In sheet, up peak and we beat her up the bends and then repeat with our wake swashing from bank to bank. We kept at it all day and it was one of the sporting sails of my life. Through narrow creeks, down broad rivers, across big sounds we drove and hustled. Just a little slip-up in jibing or tacking and we would have been in the meadows, but we made none. When we shot out of the creek into Port Royal Sound we made just three jumps and landed with a swash in the river on other shore. Old Mascot only wet her garboards twice in crossing, and the launch never touched water at all. So it was all day and we anchored for the night with Savannah, Ga., but a few miles away. The night came pretty as a picture, but snappy cold and with the highest glass we have yet seen, 30.2. Think must have change soon. When glass is persistently high down here I promptly suspicion trouble. By 4 a.m. I felt sure we were in for another duster for glass began to drop, heavy clouds rolled up from northeast and wind piped on. I lay awake hoping that I wouldn’t have to get out anchors until daylight for it was pesky dark and cold. Suddenly all the breeze let go to a dead calm and then came out of the northwest smartly but not troublesome and I got in some handsome winks until seven o’clock when I turned out to an undeniably pretty day and good breakfast. Then it was away under sail once more, and passing for a mile or so through a little winding creek, we entered the Savannah River and by noon were sailing along the water front of one of the busiest of southern ports.

January 16th. Comes deliciously fair, bright and warm. We have worked mighty hard for some sunlight like this and a little “dolce fa niente” served with some prawns creamed on toast won’t hurt either of us. To town where I was quite the centre of effort when they learnt at the bank that I had brought a 24 ft. catboat down under sail in midwinter. I felt just like Dr. Cook. Sorry H. wasn’t along. In p.m. we took up hook, put launch behind and twisted our way for 10 miles through marsh to Thunderbolt. It looks very attractive here and if we can find a decent beach to haul out on, we’ll stay a day or two and complete repairs. We caught many flies for Bill to-day, but Bill is a dope and won’t eat a thing. You look out, Bill, or you’ll come off the way you come on.

January 17th to 21st. Found a boatbuilder and turned the launch over to him. Hauled Mascot on beach. Covered patch on her side and found rudder-hanger iron all torn off. Would have looked pretty bobbing about the Atlantic without any rudder. Air soft and mild, feels awful good and we were contented to take things slowly. Found Senator Cameron on houseboat Alamida. He asked us to luncheon and we went you bet. Bully lunch and decided change from my cooking. He must be a lonely man for he asked us to come again next day. Accepted, of course. He offered to tow us way to Jacksonville. I refused as it didn’t seem sporting to welsh on the last leg. Looked on at public dance at electric road’s casino. Everything as well ordered and conducted as at a private party. No rowdies, no splurge, but just a bully good time. There is no foreign or mill population to contend with, and no cheap sports throwing their coin. At the little roadhouses and inns on the way to town everything is well handled and we saw many little parties of two or three ladies together having supper without escort. Savannah is out and out the most attractive place we have yet seen.

Turned out one morning at 3 a.m. to twist Mascot around on beach for rudder repairs. These beaches, so-called, are not real beaches at all but huge mud banks covered several feet deep with oyster shells through which the brown clay mud oozes at every step. Into this stuff we had to shovel a pit deep enough to crawl into and get under rudder. H. did it you bet and such a mess as he was. In fact by time we got Mascot into deep water once more everything was plastered with slippery clay. Found and calked a little leak around rudder port and think I may have turned a neat trick. Put more canvas and copper tacks on old launch and finally one afternoon settled ourselves in cabin for a quiet hour or two with feeling that things were pretty well taken care of. The weather continued gloriously bright and warm. A beautiful moon made each night as light almost as day and so feel we have cheated winter of two victims if nothing more. It would be hard to explain why, since leaving home we have never used an eel spear, fish grain, net or even dropped over a line. The daily strife against wind and tide has been far too engrossing. The constant repairs to sail, rigging gear and engine have occupied every moment and every bit of our energy so that with each hour of leisure we have wanted to stretch out and rest. I still have the remains of two 10 ft. bamboo poles. Every other bit of fishing gear has been either broken or swept overboard. I am clinging to these two broken and twisted bits of bamboo with the idea that I will yet catch a fish on them before throwing them away just as matter of sentiment. We began breaking them in Hell Gate and foot by foot they have shortened up ever since. Will make good walking sticks pretty soon.

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.