“THE ‘GAZELLE’ RACED WITH THE FLYING SPRAY INTO PORT.”
When morning came, there was not a sign of the storm; the sky blue and clear, a few fleecy clouds floating serenely about in it, the Lake below gently undulating and reflecting in a deeper tone the azure of the heavens.
With the sunshine came new confidence, and the boys laughed at their fears of the night before.
“Let’s get under way and hurry home, for we’re only a little way off now.” The mate was in a very jubilant frame of mind.
For several days the yacht sailed along the coast of the Lake Huron side of the great Peninsula of Michigan—close enough to see its beautiful shores, its rugged rocks, and dark, almost black, evergreens.
At Presque Isle they put in for provisions. They found a beautiful harbor, but not a sign of a settlement, and no place to buy food. The need of provender drove them forth in spite of a storm, which an unusually low barometer indicated was soon due. It was planned to make harbor at Cheboygan, some sixty-five miles away, but while passing Rogers City the yawl ran into a calm and floated idly. Great clouds were banked up to the northeast, which spread rapidly till the whole heavens were overcast. The water had the oily, smoky, treacherous look that precedes a storm. Kenneth ordered in the jib and jigger, and tied three reefs in the mainsail. No sooner had the last knot been tied, when, with a howl that was deafening, the squall struck them. It was a terrible blast. The “Gazelle,” being without headway, careened before it; farther and farther she went; she sank till her rail was on a level with the water, and it came bubbling through the scuppers; still the pressure continued. She dipped to leeward till her deck was covered and the waves lapped the deck house.
“Look out, boys! Be ready to jump. She’s going over, sure!” For the first time, Kenneth lost confidence in his boat; no craft, he thought, could stand such a test. All hands climbed to windward, ready to jump away from entangling rigging.
Farther and farther she listed under the fearful blast; the water was on a line with the cabin roof now, and began to ooze through the oval port lights into the cabin.
With muscles tense, ready to spring away, Kenneth still stood at his post, the tiller in one hand the other clasping the cockpit rail, to keep from sliding off into the waves.