1 4 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
4, 1902. 
the Mitchell house at the end of the row where there is 
a break in the sea wall allowing entrance to the beach 
with carriages in fair weather. Now there was no beach, 
but a swirling, thundering mass of foam, extending to 
the mists which shut off the horizon an eierhth of a mile 
out. A group of bath-houses nestled here far above the 
ordinary water-mark. Already the foam of the breaker 
swirled around them, but, large and strongly built, they 
stood firm. 
"Guess they'll ride it out," I shouted in the ear of my 
companion. But he shook his head. 
"Summer people haven't any idea of what it is like 
down here in the winter," he said; "them's Miss T miner's 
bath houses, and North's and Sumner's. They built 'em 
big and strong and put 'em way back, but it ain't no use. 
The next high tide will get 'em any way with this gale on, 
but it looks as if they wern't going to wait for that." 
A sweep of his arm showed me a great can buoy torn 
from its mooring on some shoal, riding in from the sea. 
Eight feet by four, built of heavy-riveted boiler iron, with 
a 500-pound shot hung to its foot and dragging a chain 
of 10-inch links, it bobbed and danced like a cork in the 
foam. Then a mighty roller caught it and sent it hand- 
springing up the beach. Its dragging chain swung like 
a whip and ripped the foundation posts from beneath the 
bath houses with a single blow. The receding surge of 
the great roller lifted them and they sailed majestically 
out to meet the next great wave, exploded under its 
lifting rush, and were flung in shattered fragments at our 
feet. 
A mile further on the Glades' rocks shoulder back the 
sea and rise twenty to fifty feet above its level. On the 
summit of these the gale hooted and roared to the diapa- 
son of the surf that made the solid ledges tremble 
and sent the white water whirling around where we stood 
leaning desperately against the tempest. Dick grasped 
my arm here and pointed seaward. I looked, expecting 
to see the form of a vessel in the gloom, but it was bet- 
ter than that. A slant of wind seemed to have lifted the 
smothering mists far out. 
There may have been a brief break in the western 
clouds, for a glow of sunset light shone through and 
lighted up a scene of tumultuous glory. At our feet lay 
the inner Osher rocks, beyond them the outer Oshers, 
then Chest ledge, the Willies, and Minot's beyond all, 
with the lighthouse looming gray in the gloom. From 
our feet to the light, three miles away, the foam 
spread a writhing, surging surface that showed no 
sign of dark water, no color but white. Now and again 
the white tumult leaped about Minot's light as a dog 
jumps about his master, clear to the lantern and sent 
masses of white spray wreathing the tip of the dome 
above, 105 feet above tide water. What of the light- 
keepers in this quivering tower? With the storm shak- 
ing their home like a reed in the wind, with the granite 
beneath them fairly leaping under the blind crash of seas, 
could men still pursue the even round of routine duty? 
A white flash shot from the tower and winked a wide 
white wink at me. then with its eye glowing dull red 
meantime Minot's flashed an answer in its number, one, 
four, three. Twice I got the signel, then mists shut down 
again for the night, a gust smote us with spray, and we 
took refuge behind the summit to leeward for a brief 
space. 
Here I left Dick to go the balance of his way over the 
storm-beaten ledges to the key post a mile beyond at 
the tip of the Glades, crawling in spots on hands and 
knees, peering and listening ever seaward, watching with 
devout care that no ship might be in peril, and he passed 
by the coast guard, while I fought my way back to the 
station alone. It is only thus that one realizes the ter- 
rors that beset the patrolman's path. 
Big Jack Murphy, the No. 1 patrolman who has been 
with Capt. Brown since the station was established fifteen 
years ago, was the man to take me with him on the 8 to 
12 watch to Scituate harbor, the worst beat on the 
Atlantic coast. It lies most of the way along a pebbly 
ridge thrown high by the surf, with low, flooded marshes 
between it and the highland a quarter-mile inland. The 
patrolman must make his way along this ridge. On the 
sea side the surf jumps at him. If he turns shoreward 
drowning awaits him on the marsh. Jack took his patent 
torch in his inside pocket, his lantern in his hand, his 
watch swung over his shoulder by a strap, and we sallied 
forth. There was a half mile of beach cottages set on 
the pebbly ridge. The rising waves hammered at their 
piazzas; from house to house we dodged and then made 
the open ridge beyond which whirling streamers of kelp 
tangled our feet. Every now and then the lantern went 
out and Jack lighted it again with much care. There were 
times when we had to go without its light and did not 
do badly, for though the clouds were dense there was a 
full moon behind them. Jack watched the sea with care 
and scanned the surf continually. It was enough for me 
to do to watch Jack and keep the path that he found safe. 
A wild and eerie place was that ridge; ghosts seemed to 
spring up from the sea and flutter across to drown in the 
marsh; once things blew by me in the gale, brushing my 
shoulder with goblin-like cries, and I clutched the big 
surfman's arm, but he leaned his face to my ear and 
yelled in it the single word, "Brant," and I knew. A 
half-mile further and a single cottage stood alone. No 
words can picture the desolation of this cottage in that 
winter gale. The road that led to it across the marsh 
was a fathom deep under water. The wind sobbed and 
screamed about its eaves and the surf sent tons of pebbles 
slamming against its front and rending its walls. Behind 
it we rested a bit. 
"Unless we get a slant of wind by midnight," shouted 
Jack to me, "this house will go. So will those others up 
the beach. They can't stand this hammering. You want 
to watch out sharp on this next half mile. It's the stony 
path, and it's no good place to be in daylight, let alone 
a night like this." 
The stony path is strewn with boulders the size of a 
cask. It lies low and is swept by the sea, while the 
flooded marsh waits behind it to drown you. It was a 
case of scramble, wade and dodge here. Scramble over 
the boulders, wade the smaller waves, dodge the big opes; ■ 
and in the middle of it the patrolman stopped short. 
"What in God's name are you stopping here for?" 1 
tried to yell to him, but the wind, ^pped my paouth like 
£ gag. •« 
i He peered seawarc] intently, theft drew his torch from 
pmm <h# itnrcfc tto fossae •fowi%, ^4 ^ 
ENDYMION. 
Photo by James Burton, New York. 
it up. A red flame sprang from it, burned in spite of wind 
and deluge of rain, and lighted up a little space with its 
glare. I did not know what Jack saw, but what I saw 
was a most enormous white wave rolling majestically 
landward straight for us. High over its fellows it reared, 
and it bore on its front a dark line. Jack saw it soon 
after I did, and holding his torch high with one hand 
he seized me by the collar with the other and dragged me 
back far enough, but none too far. for the great wave 
surged nearly to our waists as it frothed by, and only 
by bracing against the boulders could we prevent going 
back into the undertow. Then I saw what the dark line 
in front of the wave had been, for it struck the highest 
boulder on the stony patch with a ranting crash and 
rolled over into the marsh a floating log riven from stem 
to stern by its impact with the beach. 
When the stony path was trodden and we had reached 
shelter again. Jack spoke. "I think it was a fisherman, 
bound in," he said. "They don't show very good lights, 
but whatever it was she was too near shore. She tacked 
out all riirht when I showed the flare. Tin, log? Oh, 
they come once in a while that way. You can't look out 
for them very well. We wouldn't have seen it at all if 
the flare hadn't been burning. If they miss us it is all 
right, we've nothing to say. If they hit us we can't say 
anything. Come on." 
We reached Scituate harbor after a while, passed the 
wrecked pilot boat Columbia, thrown high upon a beach 
cottage three years before that very night with all on 
board drowned, and dodged through the surf to the dis- 
used lighthouse at the foot of the breakwater. Here 
Jack watched the sea long and earnestly. "Since the big 
storm three years ago," he said, "the Fourth Cliff men 
can't get up here. The sea washed out the beach so 
they can't get north of their station. Tt isn't our beat, 
but I always watch here as long as I can for fear some- 
thing might go in just below the harbor and I'd miss it." 
Nothing could show the simple, earnest faithfulness 
of the life-saving service men better than this. This was 
not in his district, No watch was required of him be- 
low the harbor. Yet he put in what time lie could spare, 
here in the tempest and desolation lest some ship be in 
distress and escape his vigilance. 
While we watched, the surf cast something up at our 
feet, then snatched it away and played with it. Jack 
gave a great start at sight of this great object. He 
watched it in the dim light narrowly, then with a sudden 
agile rush into the breakers, a gripping of his feet on the 
beach against a whelming swell, and a surge back to 
safety again, brought it in. Then he laid it at my feet, 
lifted up his head and swore. The thing was limp and 
draggled. It had legs and arms and hair. But it was 
only the simulacrum of a man, an image that the sea had 
deftly rolled of seaweed, a kelp kelpie, cunningly fashioned 
to tempt the surfrnan within reach of the surf. 
"That sort of thing makes you mad," said Jack. "You 
can't pass it, for it might be a man. You would hate to 
find "it one, yet when you take chances on your life to 
bring it in and find it's only a bunch of seaweed, it makes 
you swear because it isn't. Come on, we'll be late back 
at the station." 
Endymion. 
The- splendid -photograph of Endymion that appears in 
this issue was taken as she came up Lower New York Bay 
op the day of the second race' between Shamrock II. and. 
Columbia. She was greatly admired by the thousands 
of • spectators on the excursion boats that were going down 
to file race as she swept along with all her light canvas 
drawing. This famous schooner now has a world-wide 
feputetjoa a§ 3 eraser, ?M m f? cor 4 froip Sandy. 
Hook to the Needles was thirteen days fifteen hours and 
forty minutes. A complete description, together with 
her cabin and sail plans, appeared in our issue of March 
9, 1900. 
50-Foot Cruising: Schooner. 
The extreme type of lightly built racing yacht has 
caused considerable reaction in the designing and build- 
ing of yachts during the past few years, and yachtsmen 
are to-day looking for more wholesome and substantial 
craft in which to do their racing and cruising. The ac- 
companying plans of a soft, over all cruising schooner are 
of a very interesting little craft. She was designed by 
Mr. Charles G. Davis, of Bayonne City, N. J., for Mr. D. 
McLewis. 
The design shows a boat of great power and stability, 
but still she should be driven at good speed by the small 
sail plan. The schooner rig was chosen for its.handiness 
and snugness in bad weather. The fore topmast has been 
dispensed with — a very sensible move. 
Every pound of ballast will be stowed inside under the 
floor. This is done as the designer has found that inside 
ballast is more beneficial in wide, shallow boats, and gives 
the advantage of being able to remove it when laying up 
for the winter or jettison in case of getting aground. 
The owner had the interior laid out to meet his own 
views. There is 5ft. 8in. headroom under carlins. Mr. 
McLewis, the owner, having cruised for several consecu- 
tive years on the Gulf of Mexico, and knowing full well 
the peculiarities of that sheet of water, where the neigh- 
boring rivers are shallow and the seas off shore are short 
and steep, the boat's draft was limited to 2ft. 6in., and 
she was given considerable freeboard. It was very essen- 
tial that the boat should be able to claw to windward in 
good shape to make her of material use in navigating the 
narrow channels of the rivers, where only short tacks 
could be made. Her centerboard has been arranged by 
her designer to lower 2ft. at the forward end, as well as 
dropping at the after end like the ordinary board. 
The yacht is now being built by the Tampa Steam 
Ways, of Tampa, Fla., and every effort is being made to 
complete her in time for her owner to get some winter 
sailing, Her dimensions are as follows : 
Length — ■ 
Overhang — 
Forwa 
Aft ., 
Breadth — 
Freeboard to Top of Rail — 
Forward 
Aft 
Least 
Draft- 
Extreme 
To rabbet 
The plans and the specifications which follow are so 
complete that little description is necessary, and when 
the boat is finished she will be a very solidly built and 
perfectly fitted little ship. The sail and spar plans, as 
well as a detail of the centerboard, will follow in the next 
issue. 
Hull Construction. 
Keel — to be a clear, sound timber of rqaderia 8 x.i6in. 
moulded as shown on plans with rabbet cut_ in it for gar- 
boards and dovetail notches mortised into it for heels of 
frames mi feers at Jw.§t lHw> deep. To be fgasslisd 
50ft. 
iin. 
33ft. 
oin. 
8ft. 
iin. 
gft. 
oin. 
15ft 
oin. 
14ft. 
'sin. 
5ft. 
oin. 
2ft. 
1 oin. 
2 ft. 
6in. 
2ft. 
6in. 
2ft. 
2in. 
