With Gun 5# Rod in Canada 



above the breaking crest. It was almost dark when we 

 made the lee of a tiny wooded island, one mile from the 

 Shelburne River. The canoe which we had in tow was 

 half full of water. As Pat described it: 



"The wind just picked up the water in great chunks 

 a foot thick and dumped it right down into that little 

 kwedun !" (" kwedun " is Micmac for " canoe "). 



We hove over the anchor on the lee of the island and 

 pulled the canoe up alongside, dumped the water out of 

 her, and swung her aboard. It was here that we held a 

 consultation, and finally decided not to attempt to go 

 out through the reefs in the gathering dusk, but, if possible, 

 to take the seas quartering in a south-easterly direction 

 and make for Smart's Island, half a mile away, where 

 there was a sporting-camp and presumably food, although 

 the owner was away. I do not think that any of us will 

 forget that half-mile of black-and-white water. The 

 wind was blowing like a blast straight out of the Borean 

 Polar factory. The white foam was flying through the 

 air like snow. It was raining torrents, not down but 

 straight across our bows. It was impossible to keep the 

 boat's head quartering to the sea. In spite of all that we 

 could do with steering-oar and rudder, she went across 

 the intervening water between the two islands with her 

 head pointed a little away from the gale, practically in 

 the trough, with the waves slightly quartering aft. The 

 wind was blowing so hard that instead of making our 

 island, we made another far to leeward. Once in the lee 

 of this, I swung the boat's head hard to port, rounded 

 the meagre shelter, caught the big seas square ahead, and 

 struck a reef. It was now pitch dark. The next sea 

 lifted us clear. The engine did not stop and the pro- 

 tected propeller kept spinning. Three times we came 

 down on the reef, and three times the waves lifted us 

 clear. But each time the boat gained and finally shot 



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