CHAPTER I 

 MY FIRST WHALE HUNT 



GREAT lumbering swells of gray water rolling 

 out of the fog from the wide sweep of the 

 open Pacific were the picture I saw through 

 the round, brass-bound frame of the porthole on the 

 5\ 5. Tecs. It was the last of May, but the cold of 

 winter still hung in the sea air, and even when we 

 drew in toward the foot of the mountains which poked 

 their fir-clad summits far up into the mist clouds, I 

 shivered in my heavy coat and tramped about on deck 

 to keep warm. Finally when we were right under 

 the towering mountain's walls, we swung abruptly 

 into smooth water, the long roll and pitch of the ship 

 slackened and died, and we were quietly plowing 

 our way up river-like Barclay Sound, which, from 

 the west coast, cuts into the very heart of Vancouver 

 Island. 



It was hardly six o'clock in the morning when the 

 wail of the ship's siren whistle shot into the deep 

 mountain valley where the station of the (former) 

 Pacific Whaling Company is located at the one-time 

 Indian village of Sechart. With a great deal of curi- 

 osity I strained my eyes through the fog to study the 

 group of white frame buildings \vhich straggled up 

 from the water's edge back into the valley. 



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