March 26th. Undeniably fair morning with freshening breeze at southard. Away under two reefs. Saw lots of shipping at anchor, loaded and ready for sea. Couldn’t understand why they didn’t get away but found out later. Stormed across Cumberland Sound and we must have waked up the Laird of Skibo in his castle on Cumberland Is., for we roared by like the bull of Basham. Crossed St. Andrew’s Sound with the water all a tawny, yellow red, and so thick with mud that the quarter wave sounded “swush” instead of “swish.” On into Jekyl Creek tearing and bruising the water dreadfully, twisting, turning, jibing and wearing her around. Here as we made a jibe our chart blew out of cockpit and overboard. There was no room to turn so H. jumped into launch and went back while I scudded on. H. caught the chart but couldn’t catch me and away we went as tight as we both could lick it until I shot out of the creek into St. Simon’s Sound, dropped anchor and smothered my canvas. It was now blowing harder than I ever saw it out of a clear and cloudless sky; but it was fair and we were homeward bound, so we tucked in the third reef and let her whittle. Crossed the Sound and dropped hook for the night well up into the next creek. Barometer slowly working down and a good fresh gale of wind blowing. Guess those schooner captains knew a few things.
March 27th. Turned out to find things looking mighty different from day before. Wind a point more to westward and blowing viciously. Heavy squall clouds all about. Mistrusted trouble but thought might poke along a little way, so got our two anchors and square away under our three reefs; caught a regular tartar soon after. Rain in sheets and blowing so hard I doused sail to save chance of splitting it. An hour more and the sky lifted in northwest and down she came a screamer. We were at Altamaha Sound, but it seemed no use to put sail and rigging to such strain when it would have been impossible to beat her any distance up the creek beyond the sound if we crossed it, so finding a good weather shore we dropped hook to await events. Now you fellows just think a minute. We anchored last night about 400 miles from Miami which we left just two weeks ago and have had ten sailing days. That’s driving a little boat through pernickety country some. My, but this cold norther feels good and the air is fit to breathe. We were not sorry to bid good-bye to Florida yesterday morning. It is a queer puzzle of a country and I understand it not at all. A land filled with hope, enthusiasm and speculative boom on one side; with poverty, want and failure just around the corner. A land of sweltering, enervating days and nights. A country full of dark, silent, mysterious places and fringed with bright, sparkling beaches. A land of creeping, crawling things and of big birds with broad wings. In two hundred years I will come again and see how it turns out. In meantime it will do its part as the winter playground for half a nation. The venom kind of blew out of the norther, so about four o’clock we gave her the three-reefed canvas and beat her across Altamaha Sound putting another milestone behind. Anchored short ways up creek beyond where night came mighty cold and we slept long and well, snug and warm under two blankets.
March 28th. Comes bright with waspish air at northeast and cold as blazes. Would have given most anything for a breath of this stuff in Miami. Tucked on all our winter clothes and sweaters and topped off with oilers. Feel now as if I had caught up that foolish month of December wasted along the Carolina shore. Away to the northard under two reefs and kicker to help us tack for tack. Crossed Doboy Sound a great stretch of brick-red water. What a country for the impressionist where nature has spread the color in great sweeps of her widest brush. Here is your red sea, your long lines of vivid green where red meets the new springing marsh grass crowned with the dark brown and golden yellow of the old. Above, a sky as blue as blue flecked with tumbling clouds as white as snow. Can you beat it? We drove her along all day, bruising it across the sounds sometimes with head, sometimes with fair tide. In Sapello Sound we had an especially long, hard thrash to windward during which the schooner houseboat Agnes slowly beat us out under her power. When we drew out into the broad reaches, however, and got the full force of sea and wind, Miss Agnes bounced at it a little while and then ran away up into a creek for comfort. Old Mascot faced it like a horse and we soon popped into our river and were away again. It was all in all a very sporting day and we anchored her for a quiet night just before going out into St. Catherine’s Sound. The air fresh and cool and filled now and then with the sweet scent of magnolia blossom which we can see budding on the big trees ashore.
March 29th. Comes fair with wind still hanging doggedly to eastward and viciously puffy. Away under single reef, for we must drive her a bit to make Thunderbolt tonight. Across St. Catherine’s Sound where we kicked up a good bit of dust and then creek and river winding and twisting through the marsh and giving the quartermaster all he wants at the wheel. We are bidding good-bye to our old friends the pelicans which sometimes have made us feel as if we were sailing on a pond in some big “zoo.” Bully old birds they are. The “dodo” of Alice in Wonderland. We never failed to laugh at their clumsy effort to get started, or to admire their glorious sweeping flight when under way. We carried sail hard and H. about filled the standing room in one wicked puff. Good fun to see the attention we get from ashore. All hands stop work to see us go a-roaring by. People in launches waved their hats and even a sawmill gave us the compliment of three whistles. At four o’clock we rounded to our anchor in Thunderbolt. Nineteen days out of Miami; fifteen sailing days, four hundred and fifty miles, and that’s going some for a twenty-four foot boat. Don’t know where I would have carried her if I could have seen out of both eyes.
March 30th. First thing to do here is to set the clock one hour ahead for eastern time. Crew occupied all morning in ship’s duties. H. at launch engine, I cleaning cabin. Swarms of midges, worse than Maine black flies, drove us below behind nettings and made us grease up with dope. The day shifting back and forth between northeast and south winds and hourly downpours. Looking the northeaster three days in the face put my eyes out of commission once more and they are in bad shape today.
March 31st. Will fit out here for northward run, for we are far enough up for the season and this is a much better place than Charleston. Am figuring on the April moon for the outside run. Have had two rainy moons in succession and hope for a good spell on next one. The weather has broken undeniably fair today and spring is in the air. Every darky cabin is abloom with roses, and flowers are everywhere in wood and field. I guess the birds are singing, for I see their bills and throats wriggle. Wish I could hear them, but I can’t do everything and I can play “The Devil’s Dream” and “Root Hog or Die” on my fiddle which is more than any pesky spring bird can do. Sent H. to masthead to scrape the spar down. He shows no enthusiasm for the job and I will apprentice him to some tailor with middle class trade in small town. Told him spars were like us human critters, the best had some weather cracks and the smooth ones were to be mistrusted. My eyes mending up nicely now and can see with both of them open at same time.
April 1st. For three days we have been very busy at ship’s duties. H. has spent the time in the boatswain’s chair using scraper and varnish brush a little and swearing much. He has the mast and hoops scraped, shellacked and varnished and has a definite idea as to what I have been doing on my holidays for past ten years. I have made a set of screen doors and hatch screens all varnished and quite shipshape. It has all been rather slow work as we have to do three miles to Savannah for each little thing needed. The sand flies have been fierce. They are a little bigger than a black fly but have venom in their bite and literally drive us out of cockpit when it is calm. They are equally bad on shore where the darkies build little smudges of leaves in the gutters and huddle for protection in the smoke. We saw people dining at a shore restaurant where smudges had been built all around the house and were ourselves driven from a meal at the casino and fled aboard to protection of our screened cabin and greasy dope. I am in hopes weather will be ugly in a few days and then when it breaks fair again I want to be in Charleston and do up the outside business on a good moon.
April 8-15. We left Savannah with some regret for it is a most attractive city. Our last afternoon ashore we passed in looking over the ruins of an old rice plantation. Fine old southern mansion, beautiful avenues of great, wide-spreading live oaks shading rows of little brick slave cabins. In the long shadows of late afternoon it was easy to people it in mind as of 70 years ago. A cold northeaster whistled across the Savannah River as we again poked our bows to the northard. Suspicioned trouble and lashed oil stove and stew pot with extra care. We caught it good and plenty in Calibogue Sound with the dust flying and we smashing into it under double reefs. That afternoon found us in Port Royal Sound with pretty savage conditions for little boats. To double the end of a middle ground before the turn of tide we tucked launch astern in spite of a vicious sea and started at it. We drove her hard and those nasty, curling red waves came kerswish, kerswish across decks so fast there was no time to spit between. Launch filled, went out of business and nearly sank. Had to do the last of the way under sail alone. We just made our mark at the turn of tide and easing sheets a hair we boiled up the Beaufort (N.C.) River. The crew of a Gloucester fishing schooner riding out the blow at anchor had evidently been watching our little circus, for, as we stormed by they all jumped on the rail and gave us a swing of their caps. Fishermen don’t do that often, but I fancy we made quite a little picture with the yellow light of a low-hung sun flashing on our bit of white canvas, our wet decks with cockpit rail level to the red suds and we in yellow oilers, one braced to the wheel, the other perched on weather quarter holding a turn of the sheet. The next day found us floundering about in Coosaw River where the breeze put us entirely out of business and forced me to lay to until, swept along by the tide, I noticed a little creek making into the land and taking a chance, I popped in to quiet water like a Jack-in-the-Box.