172 A MEDLEY OF SPORT 



we proceeded to haul in the painter, at the end of which 

 remained but little beyond the stem and ring-bolt of the 

 shattered tender. 



" Don't cut it adrift, sir, it will do for firewood," 

 said Gilson, as his master was about to sever the painter 

 with a big clasp-knife. The skipper's advice was taken, 

 and, getting the wreckage aboard, our little ship was once 

 more racing havenwards through the heavy seas. 



For at least an hour after the unpleasant incident 

 mentioned above did we hug the Essex coast as closely 

 as the rising spring-tide allowed, to try and find the buoy 

 marking the entrance to the Crouch river. Our search 

 proved futile, however, for the blizzard still raged, ob- 

 scuring everything from view and chilling us to the very 

 bone. 



" Never a sight of either the Swin lightship or the 

 Buxey buoy. Danged if I know where we be, gen'lemen ! 

 We'd best drop the anchor till this cussed snow-tempest 

 do give a bit," at length exclaimed old Gilson, as with 

 purple hands he cast the lead-line for the hundredth 

 time. 



The wind was now blowing off-shore, having veered 

 round from north-east to due north, and the tide running 

 over the treacherous and almost unbroken expanse of 

 sands stretching between Sales Point and Wakering 

 Stairs was therefore comparatively smooth. The cable 

 rattled out as the anchor was dropped, and I for one 

 began to wonder how long we might have to remain 

 stationary ; for at any moment the wind might again 



