We started off in a blaze of glory, and all went well until we shot a coot. For those of you who are not acquainted with coot, let me say they were never made to be eaten. But notwithstanding this, father would and did make a coot stew. How I kept it down I don’t know, but I did, though I do not remember asking for seconds.
From here on, both down and back, it was push, push, push, to get where we wanted to go. There were many beautiful days to be sure, but as I recall, it was mostly just plain hard work.
In those days the channel of the inland waterway was marked by boards nailed to posts. If the top corner of the board was cut off it meant the deep water was close to the post. If the bottom corner was cut off, deep water was farther off. All of this was fine in theory, but in practice you just couldn’t depend on them. Continually we ran hard aground. With only three or four inches of tide, getting off meant an endless shifting of ballast and heeling of the boat over to raise her keel. After doing this four or five times a day, it became more than just monotonous.
Of course there was a great difference between the way we went South and the way the average motor cruiser goes South. We did most of it under sail, or at least as much as we could. It was slow, tedious work and I do not recommend it to anyone. But if you want excitement, you can certainly get it on such a cruise. Try riding a 15-foot dory with a three horsepower engine towing a 24-foot catboat through Hell Gate and the East River of New York. Try shipwreck on the great outer beaches of the Carolinas 30 miles from the nearest settlement. Try riding out a hurricane in a 15-foot dory, or sinking to your waist in the mud of a salt marsh, miles from help or chance of rescue. Such were the chances we took, and with each new experience we learned more about ourselves and each other. In the end we worked as a team and not as individuals, which was as it had to be for the successful completion of the trip.
In looking back over the years, I sometimes wonder how my father put up with me. I must have been a terrible strain on him at times, but I cannot remember him ever losing his temper or being anything but the gentleman he was. He was patient, considerate and helpful at all times, and yet always master of the situation.
The “Cat” we both came to love and, in the end, to grieve for her death. It is strange how one becomes so attached to a little ball of fur.
My father had sailed boats from early childhood and had learned cruising firsthand with his own boats. He had owned several, none of them large, all under 20 feet. With the Mascot he was able to do what he had dreamed about—plan a small boat cruise such as had never been undertaken before. As he had just retired from the insurance business, time was not too important. He had always been very good with his hands so that the work we did was far from new to him, even if brand new to me. Under father’s direction we created a boat which was most comfortable for cruising.
The old Mascot wasn’t a very long boat, and she was wide of beam, but she held on no matter how bad the going. For eight months she was home to me. For eight months I learned from both the boat and father. I like to think that some of this education is passed along through the brief entries of her log.
With these few words I pass along The Boy, Me and the Cat to the present publishers with my best wishes for their success in this venture.
Henry M. Plummer, Jr.
THE BOY