FISHING "DOWN OUTSIDE" 167 



eastward. Little wayward winds, too lazy to 

 make a ripple on the glassy surface of the water 

 or stir the sail, play strange tricks with this morn- 

 ing fog. They carve chasms in it and open tun- 

 nels down which you see far for a moment, then 

 they wind it like a wet sheet about you and you 

 may not see the bobstay from your post at the 

 tiller. 



They bring you sounds and scents from afar. 

 You know you are abreast Grape Island now for 

 you scent the wild roses on the point. Another 

 breeze brings faint odors of the charnel house 

 from Bradley's. A stronger chases it away and 

 you have a whiff of an early breakfast, brown 

 toast, fried fish and coffee, at Rose Cliff. The 

 chuckle of oars in rowlocks tells you that the old 

 fisherman is astir at Fort Point and the man 

 with the new motor boat over at Hough's Neck 

 is giving it a little run before breakfast, with the 

 muffler off, as usual. A gull goes over, flying 

 low. You do not see but you hear the soft swish 

 of the wings. By and by the sun shows through 

 a rift in the fog and you begin to move before a 

 faint air from the southwest. A half hour more 

 and the shreds of fog are melting upward into the 



