OFF CHATHAM BARS 
189 
extricate ourselves, I could not see. I supposed they knew; 
but even experts miscalculate. We had run alDOut midwav 
into the entrance when I saw coming a wave that fairlv ap¬ 
palled me. The hshermen exchanged anxious glances, and 
the helmsman swung the yacht to meet it, bowsprit on, while 
I hurriedly closed the hatchway. 1 can never forget the 
ominous look of that wall of water towering above me, before 
it struck. It was green and sinister, with a curling crest that 
rose high above our heads, like the flowing mane of a war- 
horse. Its onward rush seemed like the charge of a troop of 
cavalry. All we could do was to cling to something and take 
it. Then it fairly buried us. The yacht lurched violently, but 
did not capsize. The next thing I knew, the standing-room 
was full of water, the deck swept of all movable articles, which 
were floating or sinking out beyond us, and the seine-boat 
had broken away. Fortunately the strong tide was racing in, 
which carried us to safety before the next comber could reach 
us. Had the tide been the other way, it might have been 
much more serious for us. So, to this day, when I am tempted 
to be rash to secure a coveted opportunity with sea-birds, 
a vision of that white-crested, green coml^er rises to forbid. 
It was two years after the unsuccessful attempt mentioned 
on the preceding page before I was able to try again. Another 
September day found me at Chatham. The next two days 
the bars moaned and thundered, but on the third came the 
realization of the great event. The Chatham cat-rig plunged 
and tossed considerably, but, fortunately for my water-fowl 
studies, my equilibrium is not easily upset. Once through the 
line of breakers, we took the long, even swell, and soon hove 
to to catch some dog-fish for livers with which to bait up birds. 
Of late years the cod and haddock have mostly disappeared 
from the coast, and it was necessary to resort to this degen¬ 
erate sort of fishing to secure bait. But no one who knows 
