THE REFERENDUM 



38i 



ney. It is not an uncommon experience to 

 have the wind drop out with the going down 

 of the sun and the boat spend the large part 

 of the night drifting about on the oily seas. 

 With a fair wind it is but a few hours' travel 

 and with all sails set it gives one a taste of 

 the exhilarating and inspiring seamanship 

 associated with the famed racers of Glouces- 

 ter and Provincetown. The entire coast in- 

 land from Monhegan is broken up into a per- 

 fect maze of narrow channels, rocky islands, 

 and bold headlands, and requires the utmost 

 vigilance in navigation as well as a long 

 familiarity with local waters. 



On a clear day Monhegan looms up far 

 ahead, trembling in the brilliant sunlight and 

 reflections from the water. Within hailing 

 distance you get a fine view of the rocky 

 heights of Manana — a smaller sister isle sep- 

 arated from Monhegan by a pretty little bay 

 — and the outlying ledges of the southern 

 end of Monhegan itself. On the high shoul- 

 der of Manana is the queer-looking big steam 

 horn whose hoarse bass note bleats out at 

 regular intervals in foggy weather to warn 

 mariners from a too near approach. 



The shores of the small harbor are bor- 

 dered with weather-stained and ramshackle 

 old fish houses, many of them festooned with 

 brown nets drying in the sun, and all about 

 are the evidences of the only occupation pos- 

 sible on the island, the pursuit of the festive 

 lobster and fish. Back a little way from the 

 shores, on the hillside, lies the settlement, 

 houses set at haphazard along the winding 

 stony roads, most of them trim and neat in 

 white paint and green blinds. Among them, 

 conspicuous by their size, are several big, 

 square boxes divided into many compart- 

 ments for the accommodation of the visiting 

 summer folks. 



The spiles of the picturesque little wharf 

 where the boats land are covered with bar- 

 nacles and winkles, and the rocks beneath 

 are festooned and cushioned with a most 

 wonderful growth of seaweed. Floating here 

 and there in the water at the will of the tide 

 are a number of great sea-weeds with daintily 

 fluted edges, the texture of which resembles 

 nothing so much as a fine quality of oiled 

 silk. The stems of some of these lie on the 

 surface, now and then in a series of curves 

 that suggest the wriggling motion of a much- 

 attenuated sea serpent. These stems are hol- 

 low, and by the natives may be put to curious 

 practical uses in an emergency. An ingenious 

 skipper of a small boat propelled by a gaso- 

 line "kicker," a most appropriate name, by 

 the way, used a section of one of these stems 

 as a feed-pipe for his engine ! 



Life at Monhegan is mostly made up of 

 fishing. Right on the ground they have only 

 to go off shore a little way in their staunch 

 dories to capture the supply of lobsters, cod, 

 haddock, and hake. All are off for the catch 

 in the dim hours before dawn, when the sea 



is usually at peace, and to the uninitiated op- 

 pressive in its vast loneliness. 



From the number of lobster traps on the 

 shore in all stages of decay and picturesque 

 confusion you naturally get the impression 

 that here must be the land of plenty, where 

 the lover of the flesh of the queer crustacean 

 might eat his fill. The lobster business has 

 been overdone, however, all along the Maine 

 coast, and the wise fishers of Monhegan have 

 declared by mutual agreement a closed sea- 

 son for the summers. When one considers 

 that some 75,000 lobsters turned from the 

 color of the starboard light to that of the 

 port light in one season the wonder is that 

 there are any left to navigate the waters at 

 all. 



The northern and eastern shores of Mon- 

 hegan fairly thrill you with their rugged 

 heights of sheer rock. Rising in great head- 

 lands as high as 150 feet, with no footing at 

 their base, going down without a break into 

 the deeps of the water that laps their feet, 

 they stand in silent grandeur. Woe to the 

 ship that runs ashore here. Near the south- 

 ern end is the huge outlying mass of Gull 

 Rock, seamed and shattered by the beating 

 of the seas and beyond that the famous 

 Washerwomen and accompanying ledges. 



It was on the extreme southern end of the 

 island that the recent wreck of the schooner 

 E. M. Sawyer occurred. I heard the story 

 from the skipper only a day or two after 

 he went ashore. He had been drifting about 

 in the fog for eighteen hours, laying his 

 course for the harbor of Rockland. His first 

 warning was the sound of the surf on the 

 rocks dead ahead, and before he could swing 

 about he was driven high up on the rocks. 

 Fortunately there was hardly any wind and 

 little sea. The men simply climbed out on 

 the bowsprit and jumped ashore. A curious 

 part of the captain's story was that he could 

 not hear the sound of the horn on Manana, 

 only a few hundred yards away. This is said 

 to be a common experience of the fishermen, 

 and was thought to be due to the fact of the 

 high position of the horn that sent the sound 

 over the heads of vessels when near 

 shore. The Sawyer was a complete loss, the 

 whole bottom being stove in and her masts, 

 anchors, chains, and iron were sold at auc- 

 tion. Her timbers will supply fuel for the 

 fires of the Monhegan fisher folk. The cap- 

 tain had sailed these waters for thirty years, 

 but fog is an enemy that no human judgment 

 can cope with. 



After a storm is when you realize to the 

 full the power and cruelty of the sea and the 

 majesty of the resistance offered to its rav- 

 ages by these iron shores. The waves hurl 

 themselves with terrific force against the 

 walls, only to be lashed into foam and spray 

 that the wind carries even over the highest 

 points. It is an impressive and never to be 

 forgotten experience to listen to the impact 



