THE LOG OF THE KINGFISHER. 



E. T. L. 



A run down the rapids of the St. Law- 

 rence, the Coteau rapid, the Cedars, Split 

 Rock, and Cascade, in the little 20-foot sail 

 yacht Kingfisher, in company with her 

 genial captain, Joseph Genier, neighbor C. 

 and friend H., of New York City, was the 

 event of a lifetime. 



Captain Joe, though he has been on the 

 river all his life, and is prince of guides, 

 had never run the rapids in a small boat, 

 and so, to make safety doubly safe, we 

 stopped at San Zotigue to get a certain fa- 

 mous lumber raft pilot, William Furniss 

 by name, to take us down. Having se- 

 cured him, we made our start for a trip 

 probably not duplicated by a dozen men in 

 the United States. 



With a stiff West wind, we made a 

 quick run down current to the railroad 

 drawbridge 'at Coteau, just above the first 

 rapid, and there held off and on while we 

 signalled, as the big craft do, for the draw 

 to open. The bridge keeper evidently was 

 not used to seeing such small craft pass 

 that way. He did not seem to realize as a 

 possibility that we could want to go down 

 stream, and so did not open. Little by lit- 

 tle, as we lost headway, the swift current 

 sucked us down toward the bridge, our pi- 

 lot frantically gesticulating and parlezvous- 

 ing at the man on the bridge. Finally he 

 saw we were bound to go anyway, and 

 sprang to his lever. Inch by inch the huge 

 structure swung slowly open, just as we 

 lost all control of our boat, and she swept 

 helplessly down the swift current, stern 

 foremost. 



Those were anxious seconds. We were 

 in imminent danger of striking the bridge 

 aloft, before it should swing clear, and of 

 having all our top hamper carried away. 

 By good fortune rather than good manage- 

 ment, hugging the pier and dodging the 

 bridge end, open barely 20 feet, we swung 

 safely below and caught our breath again. 



Hoisting all sail we went down the cur- 

 rent at racing speed to the head of Coteau 

 rapid. Then it was reef all and stand by 

 with the oars to keep her head to the roll- 

 ers. A moment of troubled waters, vexed 

 by cross currents and fretted into foam, 

 and then we were safely out of that, the 

 first and least of our troubles. 



Again we hoisted sail and dropped cpiiet- 

 ly down a long, smooth reach to the next 



" Mad passion of waters Letween 

 Two luntj levels of tranquil repose," 



the Cedars. There we reefed sail as be- 

 fore, and caught the current for another 



aqueous toboggan slide. There was quite 

 a sea on ; things got lively and we shipped 

 a few pails of water ; but before we real- 

 ized it we were well out into the quiet 

 water below. 



Then we braced ourselves for something 

 worth while. We were approaching that 

 bugbear of all rivermen, the famous Split 

 Rock rapid, where the ill fated troop ship 

 from Toronto went to pieces so many years 

 ago. As we came in sight of it we thanked 

 our lucky stars that, whereas we were to 

 hug the leit bank, all the big spouters, 5 

 in a row, were throwing the water into 

 huge columns, 20 feet high, away over on 

 the right shore. But when we were well 

 into the demon clutches of the rapid, be- 

 yond all human power to turn back, a 

 curious phenomenon in the equilibrium of 

 unstable bodies took place, best illustrated 

 by tilting a half filled milk pail to one 

 side and then suddenly righting it. All 

 those huge waterspouts suddenly left the 

 right shore and swept across the channel, 

 like a squadron of giant cavalry, into our 

 very path. 



A right hearty welcome they gave us ! 

 Imagine sliding off a big barn roof into 

 a deep cellar ; then climbing up over the 

 house and down the other side and treating 

 the whole neighborhood impartially in the 

 same fashion, at the rate of 25 miles an 

 hour. Realize, if you can, that these 

 houses and barns, roofs and cellars, are 

 angry green water, churned into whitest 

 foam at every crest; that you are in a tiny 

 cockle shell which is alternately standing 

 on its head, aiming straight at the bottom 

 of the river, then sitting on its stern with 

 its bowsprit pointing at the zenith, and 

 you get a bare hint of the sensation. 



I am not ashamed to say we held our 

 breath every time we went down into the 

 trough; but we found it again in a savage 

 war whoop every time we mounted a crest, 

 for very joy of living, and thrilled by the 

 exhilaration of it all. 



In my outings in many places, afield and 

 afloat, I have enjoyed some exciting 

 experiences, but never one a circumstance 

 to this. Spite of the burly rivermen, tug- 

 ging at the oars and working hard to keep 

 us headed right, we took in a few pails of 

 water — it seemed, once or twice, as though 

 we were going to take in the whole St. 

 Lawrence — and incidentally got ourselves 

 drenched with spray. 



It gives one a strange sensation to look 

 lip at the clear blue sky and then out on 

 the seething waters. The one belied the 



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