“Let’s see,” said Frank, counting on his fingers; “eighty miles a day for thirty days would be 2,400 miles; at that rate we have only got about two months’ more cruising, including stops.”
“I hate to obstruct this beautiful two months’ trip, but think of yesterday and add a couple of months.” Kenneth, in his usual matter-of-fact manner, was throwing cold water upon these extravagant dreamers.
St. Joseph’s Bay, a deep indentation in the coast, afforded the young sailors a splendid anchorage, sheltered and easy of access. The rollers beat steadily on the beach outside, the roaring proclaiming the majesty of the sea; but within all was calm and still—gentle rollers rocked the yacht just enough to soothe—and the three youngsters slept like hibernating bears.
The soft breeze hummed gently through the rigging, the little waves lapped caressingly against the boat’s sides, fishes bumped their noses inquiringly against her bottom. “His Nibs,” made fast by a long painter, went on little excursions of its own as far as the line would reach, like an inquisitive dog; but the boys slept through it, perfectly unconscious of all the interesting nocturnal goings on. It was not until the warm sun came shining through the port lights, and upon the open hatch, that they finally waked up.
“Six bells, boys; up, all hands—rise and shine—shake a leg!” Kenneth shouted, rubbing his own eyes to pry them open. It was seven o’clock, and a long day’s sail to Appalachicola was before them. Each boy, as he rolled out of his bunk, shook off the few clothes he had on and flopped overboard. In a minute, the sleepy dust was washed out of their eyes, and the boys sported about like seals in the clear, warm salt water.
Frank climbed on deck and dove off, making a clear arching leap like a hunted fish; but his feet had hardly disappeared before his head showed above the surface again.
“Why, you couldn’t sink in this water if a mill-stone were hung round your neck,” he spluttered, shaking the water out of his eyes.
Through St. George’s Sound—a piece of water something like the Santa Rosa, separated as it is from the Gulf by a narrow strip of sand—they sailed to Appalachicola, then on along the harborless coast to Cedar Keys. It was a piece of sailing that Kenneth dreaded. That long, curving strip of coast without one adequate shelter along its entire length, was not pleasant to think of in connection with an on-shore gale. Kenneth examined the charts as the yawl sailed along, and noticed that the water was very shoal far from shore.
“How deep do you suppose it is off here?” he called up to Frank, who was steering.
“I don’t know; it must be pretty deep, for we are five or six miles from shore,” Frank answered. “But I can see bottom just the same; look at that seaweed waving as if the breeze was blowing on it. How deep is it, any way?”