A TRIP TO THE FARALLONES 



with only now and then a puff of air to make the sails flap. 

 TTius we spent the rest of the day, the great glassy undulating 

 surface of the sea rocking us about upon the very threshold of 

 our journey, with the bleak coast line visible far behind us — 

 bold, bare and black in hue, save for some yellow patches of 

 dead grass — and the Farallones lost in the mist at sea. The 

 sun went down behind them and out of the west came the 

 cold, pervasive fog, folding us in its mantle of utter darkness. 

 Ships were near, becalmed in like manner. At intervals their 

 fog-horns blew, and our captain responded upon a dismal tin 

 horn. One ship drew so close that we could hear the cries 

 of the men as they tugged at the ropes, the voice of the mate 

 calling orders, and the noise of the flapping sails. 



We went supperless to bed, our stomachs not admitting of 

 experiments with the coarse fare of the fishermen, and lay in 

 our close, damp quarters in an uneasy sleep. At daybreak 

 next morning the dark, lead-colored water and foggy air 

 looked cheerless enough, but we were consoled by the infor- 

 mation that we were sailing under a good breeze directly 

 toward our destination. Soon the North Farallones loomed 

 up through the fog — little bare rocks visible only as we rose 

 on the crest of a wave, with the surf dashing against their sides. 

 Presently Midway Rock was passed and at last we were in 

 sight of South Farallon. Almost before we knew it the 

 mainsail had been lowered. As we rounded a projecting rock 

 the jib was taken in and we slipped by Sugar Loaf Rock into 

 Fisherman's Bay, where the anchor was dropped and the fog- 

 horn blowai to summon the eggers on shore to send us a skiff 

 in which to land. Drawing near the island we found our- 

 selves in a new and strange wonderland. There was but a 



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