For the past few days we have seen the swallows in their flight. Thousands and thousands of them. The air filled with the little devils. A merry, joyous flight it is. Whirling about, up and down, hoppity skipping along and hobnobbing with each other as if it was the greatest fun going. I saw two bound for Potomska and the Pascamanset. I knew them for the two happiest little cusses of the whole bunch.
Coosaw River took us into St. Helena’s Sound and with strong southerly breezes we ate up the miles to the northard under double reefs and all we could stagger to. Passed the point where on way down H. went on shore and was nearly bogged. He now confessed that it was about his first experience of real fright. Good thing to get scared up now and then. Sort of gets you used to the feeling and helps you to keep yourself in hand. Wouldn’t give much for a man who says he was never scared as it simply means he is either a fool or has never been properly tried out. So on and away before the gale. Sometimes beating up the bends and again stretching down the reaches with that old main boom jibing across decks as if it would tear the whole stern out of us. H. wouldn’t let me go ashore and catch the very nicest little razorback shoat I saw running on the beach with a lot of brothers and sisters. Could have made ice chest into a nice little pen and put butter and other stuff in the coal box. Would have made him handy as a lady’s maid in no time. Funny how little some people care for pets. And so our twisting winding way to Charleston where we gave our spars and rigging a good looking over and rove a peak down haul to gaff end as an added precaution.
April 15th. At 3:30 a.m. the whistle blew and the game was on. The weather map of yesterday gave me every confidence, but my glass hangs lower than we have ever seen it in fair weather. Yesterday a schooner captain said, “Yes, it looks like a chance, but I wouldn’t bet a chew of terbaccer against a suit of clothes at this season.” We were away a little after five, for it takes two hours after turning out to cook and eat a good breakfast, wash up, have a quiet smoke, and tend and fill lights, hoist sail and away. An ebb tide and a fresh southwest breeze swung us quickly down the harbor and a big, red sun bursting above the heavy cloud banks which seem always to hang over the gulf, lighted up the little fluttering flag that flies so bravely night and day over the pile of brick and mortar called Sumpter. My hat came off to it this morning. What other flag have we got flying more worthy of a bow at the break of day? We turned the jetty and headed northward in the heaving ocean swell which we have not felt for over three months. Gosh! but the place seemed to have grown vaster and more endless since we left it. It was cold and raw. We put on everything we had and topped off with oilskins and rubber boots. We were still shivering and cold and finally in a burst of confidence admitted that we were both badly in need of some of those dress shield things that women folks wear, for we were gosh dinged nervous and no mistake. What on earth calls me to tackle this kind of thing I don’t know. We were under single reef and made noble time straight for Cape Romain and the shoals outside. You may get some little idea of this country and famous Cape when you read in government reports that a vessel drawing 22 ft. touched bottom 16 miles at sea. The day quickly clouded over and squalls gathered to the westward. This seems, at this season with wind at southwest, to be the regular order of things, but it is not pretty to look at. One-half the worry and care of this outside work would be avoided by putting on a yawl rig, standing out 50 or 75 miles and jogging quietly along ready to ride out in deep water what came your way. This constant fear of heavy breaking seas on shoal ground is what gets to your nerves and we have seen and know something about it. We were off the Cape by noon, nearly out of sight of land. The squalls were making up so heavily to westward that a shift of wind off shore seemed certain, so I flattened my sheets and stood in for the beach or rather the breakers, for you can’t get very near the beach here. I was well up under the land when we took a sharp puff with rain out of west and was able to ease my sheets and still keep my course for Georgetown jetties. During the afternoon we took squall after squall, but none of them hard enough to pull us down to double reef, but all looking as if they intended blowing us right out of water. It was a villainous sky to look at when we rounded the jetty, hauled our sheets and beat up into the bay below Georgetown and dropped our hook in calm waters. It is no use; I am getting too old and good looking for night work along shore. I intend getting in every night on this run if I can. I thought on my way down I was as good as ever for a knockdown, dragdown proposition, but I found I couldn’t come back after it. I lay the whole trouble with my eyes to that month of sleepless nights and anxious days. I have never gotten back the measly little nine pounds I lost in weight and if I lost another nine there would be mighty little besides shoes and stockings left.
April 16th. Through the night the clouds all went off and morning came as pretty as a picture. It was turn out again at 3:30. H. is alive to the game and needed no second call. Off and away under single reef to smart breeze at west-southwest. Not so much worry to it today, for we could haul the beach close aboard and drive her along handsomely in smooth water. It was a repetition of yesterday. To the eastward, the sea; to the west, the low, desolate coast fringed with the white of the beach and breaking seas. The thickening sky and then the black squalls which came so heavily we had to tuck in our double reef. At five o’clock we were off Little River inlet, one of the best on the coast, with buoys to help the stranger. It didn’t seem possible for such an ugly-looking sky to clear away, or I should have kept going for Southport 30 miles away, so I ran into the hole in the wall and found such smooth water inside that I was mighty glad I came. When this inlet business works it works finely, but you have it always in mind that once inside you stay inside for a week or longer if the ground swell picks up on the bar. This inlet would be a grand one to come to for a bit of shooting. We saw lots of big sickle-bill curlew and the marsh was loud with the whistle of birds. I suggested to H. he better take the gun and get a mess, but sufficient of one of these days is the worry thereof, and he couldn’t be driven three feet away from his bunk and blankets. The night came very ugly and I thought we were surely in for trouble, although glass still remained low and steady.
April 17th. Clouds did all clear away, but how they did it is a mystery to me. The morning came bright, cool and fair with rising glass and light airs drifting from southeast. We were away at 6:30 and with Southport only 20 miles ahead were able to drop care and worry and enjoy as perfect a bit of sailing as we have had for many a day. Have been figuring on this chance of the April moon for a long time and drove up the coast to be on hand. This outside run should always be made by little boats on the full of the moon. Not so much because of the light as for the high tide in late afternoon which makes inlet running so much easier. The sea, except for a heaving bit of ground swell, was smooth and good to look at. The sky without a cloud, the sun warm. I am already suspecting it for a breeder and making my guesses as to how long the chance will last. To run an inlet tonight or push her through with hope of Beaufort at noon tomorrow? At this writing, 2 p.m., and just after running the Cape Fear slew, I have a notion that my old fondness for getting little boats along will keep me pegging at it tonight. I wouldn’t mind seeing a few clouds. Don’t much like a cloudless sky, scalding sun and rising glass in April. Still, the land don’t loom and there is a breeze. If it was dead calm I would run Wrightsville Inlet sure. Who said I was old? Am no older than you are, and of course when I reached Wrightsville Inlet and saw the pretty night ahead and thought of the alternatives if I stopped, I just sort of naturally kept a-going. As pretty a night as ever seen. We were some bothered on account of launch stuffing box springing a leak which necessitated bailing every half hour and would have caused no end of trouble in case of a breeze of wind. Beyond this, there was little worry except when about midnight wind hauled northeast and it was for several hours a question whether it would pipe on hard or not. It remained very light and with the sea smooth, stopped us little. A big moon in a cloudless sky made things almost as bright as day and we jogged on without incident until the light broke in the east. On making the beach, we found our dead reckoning all O.K., and about ten o’clock pushed our way against a strong ebb tide into Beaufort. In catching and accepting this chance we completed the run of 250 miles in the running time of 50 hours and total time of 77 hours. It took us one month to cover it going down. It is a wonderfully interesting stretch of country and seacoast. If the right fellow was here right now, in spite of the fact that I have had but one hour’s sleep in the last 30 hours, I would gladly go over it again. I feel I am only just beginning to learn how to do it properly. It is the most tremendously lonesome thing you can think of. Not a sail or a boat do you see unless it be some motor yacht streaking it for harbor. We saw just two of them. Now and then little local trading boats with motors sneak quickly from one inlet to another like a mouse from hole to hole, and sometimes a fisherman launches his skiff from the beach, but for the most part you are alone, entirely alone. To the east, the big Atlantic lies with its constant heaving swell; to the west the low beach broken only by the inlets marked by the white breakers on the bar sometimes a mile or more to sea. Turtles, great, big, seagoing ones, we did see four of, and one so close we might have noosed it if we had been ready. I wish the right man would come along and say, “Here, take me with you, build any kind of outfit you want, all expenses will be paid and it will be worth your while, too. Just show me how to get pleasure out of this kind of thing.” If he was game I bet I could give him a run for his dollar.
April 19th. Turned out feeling as bright as a button, all sewed on. Thought a week ago that when I reached Beaufort I would stay, perhaps a week, for with its big fishing fleet coming and going daily, it is a lively, busy cup of tea. Now that we are here, however, we both find the constant noise of motors so damnable that we want to get straightaway back to the sticks where with the coons and wildcats a man can get his rest. We may go to Stumpy Point again, but I have a notion that the people of Stumpy are like some Boston folks who eternally spend their vacations at the same summer hotel. Very estimable, industrious and sober. Of great worth to the community, but la, la, la, Oh! la, la, la.
April 20th. Breeze came cold northeast with the sun and we congratulated ourselves on making good the chance of getting here. We know at least four boats that must be trying to get up from Charleston. I have no worry unless broken down. We were away by nine o’clock but the breeze and tide were so strong dead ahead, that in the narrow dredged cutting leading across the big shallow bay which forms Beaufort’s back yard, we were helpless and had to anchor for turn of tide. We were under way once more about two p.m. and had no difficulty in picking our way by the different ranges which in the clear air we easily found. Passed the point where we grounded in the fog on way down and entered canal leading northward towards Pamlico. Here we saw the last of our palmetto scrub which last December we hailed with glee as a sure sign we were getting to the southland. Pesky little did we then know where we were going. Beyond the canal a pretty river beginning to take on the appearance of approaching Christianity with its banks heavily wooded with pine. The strong northeaster grew mighty cold as the sun dropped low in the sky, the color of the bloom on a Concord grape, and we were both of a shiver as we dropped hook in a little branch, down which the big moon flooded its silver light between the darkly wooded shores.
April 21st. Gloriously fine but with singing breeze still at northeast. No use poking my nose out into Pamlico. Get it blown off sure. It is great to be able to just loaf and take it easy, for we have caught up our time and can afford to. The wind softened in afternoon and taking the launch we wandered far up into the creek and found the piney woods folks who were raising stock on what they called the “reedy lands” which offered forage the year round. Here once more was the peace and content writ upon the faces; plain for those to see who will but come and look. I wonder if such peace comes to those who live where the tide ebbs and flows as comes to mountain folk. Where has been the nursery of our biggest minds?