We were awakened by the low of cattle, apparently not a dozen yards from the sloop, and the rumble of a wagon over a bridge. But on putting our heads above the companionway we could see nothing, the fog was so dense, excepting here and there the faint ghostlike form of a tree. There was nothing until the dripping mist thinned out for a moment and enabled us to discover that we had run up the Parker River, and were anchored within a stone’s-throw of Oldtown Bridge, a venerable stone structure erected in 1718. If we had continued 100 yards farther than we did in the dark, the Frolic would have carried away her mast against the bridge.
The tide left us this time flat on the ooze of the river bed; there was nothing to be done but go on a foraging expedition after milk, eggs, fresh bread and meat, all of which provisions were now scant in our lockers. The village seemed to number about a dozen houses and as many barns, and the people appeared to have been born and brought up in a fog, to judge from the obfuscation of their faculties. They acted as if they had been asleep since the days when pirates made descents on the coasts, robbed henroosts, cast sheep’s-eyes at the women folks and hid treasure in caves. The good people glared at us as if they had never seen respectable men in sea-boots, blue-flannel shirts and sea-caps. The young girls peeked at us through cracks behind the doors, giggling in a most entertaining manner. We little thought when we set sail that we were destined to give as much pleasure to these simple-minded rustics of Newbury Oldtown as an Italian with a barrel-organ and monkey, nor that we should be the cause of such breaking of the tenth commandment on their part. The barnyards were well stocked with cows, and healthy brahmas were cackling before every door; but at every house we were told in the most emphatic manner that milk and eggs were not to be found in Oldtown at that particular time. One man plucked up courage to answer a few of our questions, but like the rest, his cows were short of milk and his fowls did not lay enough eggs to pay for their keeping. To take these people at their word, Oldtown was the most godforsaken spot on the globe. One dried-up specimen of womanhood was hanging out her clothes on the line when we appeared at her gate: hearing the latch click, she looked around sharply and received a shock that must have shortened her days. Exclaiming, “Sakes alive!” she dropped the garment from her hand, rushed into the house and slammed and bolted the door in our faces. It was useless to apply for provisions there.
Finally, at the very last house in the village we found a family who actually asked us to walk in, offered us seats and a drink of milk, and supplied us with fresh eggs, milk and buns for a reasonable price. Their hospitality was thoroughly appreciated and is not forgotten.
When the fog rose the wind rose also, a regular stiffener out of the northeast. The little Frolic beat up the exceedingly narrow and winding channel under a press of sail, working beautifully in the short tacks with her lee rail buried half the time. When we reached Newburyport the drawbridge flew up, and dashing through we anchored in the Merrimac, near the railroad-bridge, at three P. M., just as it began to screech out of the northeast; and howl it did for two days, while the rain fell in torrents. The Frolic hung on, with both anchors down, and a long scope of cable. But when the wind backed into the nor’west the second night for an hour or two, and blew down the swollen river, which ran like a mill-race, it looked as if the yacht would drag her anchors and be blown on Plum Island or out to sea. Luckily everything held, and the wind was soon back in the old quarter. We had a fine period of leisure during the gale for sleeping, reading up all the old novels on board, and living like fighting-cocks on shore, where we found a fine old negro, whose thrifty wife has no superior on that coast for roasting chickens and cooking coffee.
It came out fine after the gale, the wind soft and bland and the sea as enchanting as if it had not been doing its level best to shift the sands of Newburyport bar and strew the coast with wrecks. We hung out all the muslin and stood over to the Isles of Shoals. After dining at the Appledore, we started for Portsmouth. The glow of a superb sunset suffused land and sea and sky as we slid past the Whaleback Light and anchored in the Piscataqua, off Newcastle.
The following morning, when the flood-tide set in, we ran up past Pull-and-be-dam Point, and the other intricacies which render the approach to Portsmouth a matter of care and patience, and anchored in a creek opposite the Navy Yard. Here we were detained for nearly four days by a dense fog, sometimes accompanied by rain, which made it inexpedient to run along the coast. While lying at Portsmouth we repeatedly availed ourselves of the hospitalities of the Rockingham House, a small but admirable hotel. Finally the fog cleared away, and, in company with several other yachts detained like the Frolic, we were able to put to sea. Our long detention at the last two ports made it necessary to head for home. We passed the first night of our return voyage at Pigeon Cove. The entrance is only wide enough to admit the passage of one ship. The following day we towed the Frolic out in a calm, and took a breeze off Straitmouth Channel. The tide being well up, we concluded to try this hazardous passage, which is only reasonably safe at high tide with a leading wind. We were bowling along quietly and comfortably, when in a most unexpected manner the Frolic landed on the top of a rock scarce four feet below the surface. She was caught only by the stern-post and the bow lay loose. The rock was evidently steep and pointed, for the yacht rocked dangerously from side to side and threatened to capsize. We all ran forward to the bow, and our weight depressed the bow and caused the stern to float. Our escape was such a relief that we felt it essential to offer a libation to Bacchus.
Once through the channel, we took a staving nor’west breeze, which swept us down to Point Shirley by four o’clock. By careful manœuvring we succeeded in bringing the Frolic safely back to her berth opposite Long Wharf in time to go on shore and take a bath, followed by a jolly dinner at one of the excellent restaurants with which Boston is better supplied now than it was only a few years ago.
Thus ended a cruise which was attended by no remarkable adventures nor extended over much time, but was none the less attended by much pleasure as well as decided advantages to the health of all concerned. We earnestly recommend a similar experience to the reader, simply adding that cruising on that coast requires experience in things nautical, and is sufficiently hazardous not to be trifled with by those who are ignorant of seamanship and boat-sailing. Before closing, the writer would suggest that for cruising and dodging from port to port, I find the schooner rig preferable to that of the sloop, and should not again select a sloop for such a purpose. Small schooners of the size of the Frolic are much more common in New England than New York. But such are the advantages of this rig that it is singular it is not more the fashion for cruising in an inexpensive manner.
