“Don’t you see the wind’s dead ahead? We’ll have a dead beat of it down to Marblehead, and if it comes on to blow I guess we’ll get caught out and have to run for a lee, and the fog on the coast just as thick as mud.”
“Oh, I guess not. At any rate, there’s a breeze, and we’ll try it! We’ve got a chart and compass, and if it don’t blow harder than this we’re sure to fetch up inside of Marblehead Light before dark.”
Reaching down to Apple Island, through the main channel, the Frolic fetched a tack up to Shirley Gut, a tortuous channel between Deer Island and Point Shirley, which is impassable except for small vessels. The tide was running out, while the long swell was rolling in. The two meeting on the bar made a mass of boiling foam that looked a great deal more savage than it was in reality, if met with a steady eye and a firm hand at the helm. The tacks here were short, and the Frolic, carrying a stiff weather helm, and buoyant as a duck, rapidly and gracefully shivered her sails. and fell off on the other tack every time, flinging the spray aft in sheets. But we were soon clear of this and riding on a green swell enveloped by a mizzling fog. Now and again a coaster suddenly loomed out of the mist and hailed the yacht to learn the bearings of the land. The bold red cliffs of Nahant and Egg Rock were successively passed. Ram Island, off Swampscott, and Roaring Bull, off Marblehead Neck, were gradually seen, or rather the cold white foam that beat against their faint coast line; then the cruel ledge called Tom Moore’s Reef, which the sloop passed with a rush, glad to be clear of such a dread foe under the lee beam. Soon after, Marblehead lighthouse was hailed with satisfaction, for the rising sea and strong gusts coming with growing frequency, made it desirable to reach a safe anchorage before nightfall, now rapidly approaching with the settled foreboding gloom of a gathering storm. Moll Pitcher, the presiding witch of those shores, was evidently brewing foul weather.
Rounding the Light, and easing off the mainsheet, the Frolic flew down the little port and took a snug berth near the quarters of the Eastern Yacht Club. That night it blew great guns, and rained in torrents; but with both anchors down and plenty of scope, in one of the snuggest harbors in the world, we realized that there is nothing more cozy under such circumstances than the cuddy of a trim yacht, with a warm supper and a jolly game of whist.
The Frolic was not much to boast of in the way of size or splendor, but she was comfortable, and that is the chief thing. She was thirty-two feet long over all, and twelve feet beam, and, of course, a keel boat. A centerboard box so reduces the space in the cabin of a small cruising yacht that it should be avoided. A small stove was placed in the forepeak, leaving a narrow transom for the sleeping quarters of the crew. The skipper and friends entirely occupied the main cabin, as it was called with a certain grim humor, where we had just five feet of head-room.
The day broke pleasantly, contrary to expectation, the blow being merely a summer storm. It was Sunday morning, and all hands except Brown went ashore to buy beans and bread for breakfast. That meal over, we turned out for a quiet smoke, when Brown followed instead of remaining below to wash the dishes, a homely but necessary duty which falls on the crew in small yachts. If there be no crew, strictly speaking, the passengers are naturally expected to contribute their labors toward the domestic duties of running a sloop down the coast. It was evident from the look and manner of the aforesaid Brown that trouble was brewing in the forecastle.
“It looks like good weather for running down to Gloucester, Mr. Brown,” said Skipper Benton; “how soon do you think you’ll be cleared up below?”
“I guess you’ll have to go without me,” replied Brown, gruffly.
“How so? What’s up now?”
“Wall, you see, this ’ere job ain’t what I calkilated on. ’Tain’t for me, who’ve been mate of a brig, to be washing of dishes and cooking of food. ’Twan’t so understood when I agreed to go in this ’ere sloop. I’m willin’ for to steer my trick and bear a hand in making sail and the like o’ that; but I understood I was to be skipper aboard, and not steward. I ain’t goin’ on no such job as you are givin’ me; you’ll have to find somebody else in my place.”