Oct. 15, i904-j 
FOREST ♦ AND STREAM. 
a si 
was the most profane silence I had listened to for a long 
time. . , 
Naturally we rose rather late on Tuesday morning and 
it was 9 o'clock ere we slipped out past the range light 
into the channel to the open lake. A brisk W. wind took 
us out through the well-buoyed channel, past the long 
shoal off Presqu'ile light. Then hauling by the wind on 
the starboard tack, we settled down for 25 miles of wind- 
ward work, for the breeze was almost dead ahead. The 
day was bright and warm, the lake a sparkling green-blue, 
ridged with a moderate roll from the W._ Everything 
seemed favorable save the direction of the wind. But the 
singing of the rigging takes a higher key, the waves take 
on a sharper, hungrier look, and the boat, heeling an- 
other plank, plunges into the green ridges with a fiercer 
thud. A reef in the main eases her, and Watty settles 
down once more beside the Skipper. But the wind god 
is out for sport to-day, and keener and yet keener come 
his blasts. ■ The mizzen and jib must come in. Watty lets 
go the jib halliard, and then spread-eagles on the strug- 
gling canvas, striving to lash it to the bowsprit. As he 
lies there clawing with his toes for a grip of something 
solid, Lorna throws herself half out of a wave top, 
plunges down its back and meets another with a crash ere 
she has time to rise. A cloud of spray spouts up from 
the bow, and a bucket or two of clear water is picked up 
and rolled aft to go pouring out of the scuppers. "Sail 
her easy, Skipper!" Watty shouts back, and easy it is 
till the jib is securely lashed, and a baby jib set with its 
tack lashed half way out on the bowsprit. 
Once more, then, we fill away, making grand weather 
of it considering the sea. A windward bout of 25 miles 
in a gale of wind is no joke, however, for a little boat, 
and Watty's inquiries as to the possibility of getting shel- 
ter nearer than Cobourg were renewed every time a thun- 
dering smash threw a rattle of spray about our ears. 
Then it occurs to us that this is a bad sea for a dinghy, 
and a glance astern shows that our poor little tender is 
nearly full. This is disgusting, and in no very good tem- 
per we heave to, get the dinghy alongside, haul her oyer 
the lee rail althwart ships, and dump her out. The job 
is an awkward one, but not very hard work, though as 
half the contents of the dinghy surged over Watty's legs, 
he was not very anxious for a repetition. 
Once more away with wind and sea still increasing. 
The Skipper's eye travels only from the luff of the main- 
sail to the waves ahead, but Watty, with his back to the 
cabin house, commands a view astern. Suddenly he calls 
out, "The dinghy's adrift!" The Skipper glances astern. 
The dinghy had disappeared! There, a hundred yards or 
more astern, a wave heaves her up to view, riding as 
buoyantly as a cork. "Up with the helm — pay out the 
mainsheet!" and away we race dead to leeward, shooting 
forward on a wave front in a giddy rush, till the vfave, 
slipping under us, leaves us staggering with our bowsprit 
skyward and land, sea and dinghy wiped from our gaze 
by rolling ridges of water. There she is again, lifting- 
over a wave top. Now she drops out of sight again in the 
trough. We reach her, pass to leeward, and shoot up to 
her with canvas shaking. "Too much way on," and she is 
torn from our clutching fingers. Once again the headlong 
rush, the quick headfeach. This time we meet her with 
too little way on, and a wave takes her away just as we 
feel she is ours. "This won't do. The wind and sea are 
too heavy for us to do the job with so much canvas on," 
so the mainsail comes down, and under storm jib alone 
we once more sail down on the truant. This time we 
catch her as we sail slowly by and with strenuous stretch- 
ing and straining make the tow line fast to her once 
more. 
This was the last straw. It was one o'clock. We had 
lost a mile of hard-won vantage. Cobourg was 19 miles 
to windward, Presqu'ile 5 miles to leeward; ten hours or 
more of hard work to go on — an hour of rushing, thrilling 
play to go back. We went back. 
The mizzen and jib seemed about all the canvas we 
wanted, and under this we logged 6 miles per hour. The 
waters are shallow near Presqu'ile, and the waves became 
steeper and loftier. That dinghy seemed possessed of a 
demon, for, as the Skipper glanced back to note the wild 
running of the great white horses, a weltering wall of 
water picked up the little green imp on its crest, and 
hurled it madly at us. Straight as a die it came, but a 
quick turn of the tiller swung our stern to one side, and 
the dinghy swept by us till checked with a chug by the 
tow line. Then she paused till, sweeping by her, we 
tightened up the tow line with a tug that jarred us to 
the very keel, and threatened to capsize the dinghy. An- 
other 50 feet of rope is quickly bent on to the tow line 
(50 feet), and then she rides well, with always sufficient 
room for a wave crest between her and the yacht. 
Despite the short high sea, we ride very easy and ship 
no water, thanks to good freeboard and a sharp stern. 
Close now to port the breakers are rolling in a smother of 
white over Presqu'ile Point shoal, so we haul by the wind 
on the port tack and stand in for the channel. Suddenly 
a violent flapping aft and a falling off of the yacht's head 
tells of something gone wrong. A glance reveals the 
trouble. The lashing of the block on the boom for the 
mizzen sheet has parted and the shoals are close under 
our lee. Watty looked aft for orders. "Get the reefed 
mainsail on her and then get down that jib." Over we 
go as Lorna feels the weight of wind in the added canvas. 
Down, down, till the deck is awash and everything loose 
down below is piled in the lee bilge. 
But the canvas we must carry, and there is no time for 
another reef, so the Skipper keeps her at it. We do not 
trouble with the storm jib, for a little bit of the head of 
the big jib, hauled up as far as its lashings permit, 
answers every purpose, and so, half crippled, we stagger 
back to the quiet of our old anchorage, to gather breath 
for a fresh effort. 
The rest of the afternoon we spent quietly ashore ex- 
ploring. At the south end of the cove a little schooner 
lay high and dry on the beach. 
Wednesday morning the wind was still strong, but by 
mid-day it had shifted sufficiently to give a long leg along 
shore and a short leg in, so about one o'clock we hoisted 
canvas and cleared our port. The sea was still heavy, 
and under reefed mainsail and storm jib we smashed into 
it till dark. Then the wind fell away, and under all sail 
we continued the monotonous task. Slow work, indeed, 
bucking a bad sea with little wind, and Cobourg lights 
seemed as though they moved as we did. Till 4 A. M. the 
Skipper remained on watch, though truth to tell there 
might have been one-half hour about which he could tell 
but little. Then Watty turned out, and about 6 o clock 
steered in between Cobourg piers with the remains of a 
light land breeze. Cobourg was now only of use to us 
as a depot of supplies, so we put to sea again about 
8:45 A. M. „ . , , 
This proved to be another clay of unfavorable wind, but 
moderate in strength, falling to light and coming abso- 
lutely dead ahead as the day advanced. By night we were 
only a few miles west of Port Hope, and the morrow 
(Friday) was the day Watty should be in Toronto. Only 
one course was open to get him there, and that was to 
send him home by train from the nearest port, while the 
Skipper continued alone. 
Newcastle was nearest at hand, but so light was the 
breeze all night that we could only crawl within a mile of 
the harbor by 7:30 Friday morning. Afraid of missing 
the train, Watty dressed himself in his best and rowed 
into port in the dinghy. Thus I parted with the best all- 
round crew and the j oiliest companion I had shipped on 
Lorna. The man who can stand the test of two weeks' 
close companionship in a small boat deserves to have his 
epitaph written before he dies. 
Forty minutes later Lorna worked in and became re- 
united to the dinghy. The dinghy, by the way, enjoys the 
distinction of being the smallest on Toronto Bay. She is 
8ft. 6in. by 3ft., fiat bottomed, but with a good rocker fore 
and aft, so that when towing she just squats a trifle and 
tows as true as a die. 
Now commenced a new chapter in the experiences of 
the cruise. The Skipper was thrown on his own resources, 
and so uncommon was it to see a lone mariner on Lake 
Ontario that all the waterside populace crowded to the 
dock end to see Lorna put out. A friendly hand took a 
tow line to the end of the dock, and then Lorna filled 
away under mizzen and jib. I noted the time, I P. M., 
then ran forward and hoisted the mainsail, while the boat 
jogged along unattended save for an occasional pull on 
the jib. 
Now, then, what shall be our port to-day? A good 
sleep is a prime necessity to-night. The wind is light 
and W. Let it be Darlington, then onlv 5 miles away. 
But the wind makes it easier to strike right across toward 
Raby Head and Oshawa, and Darlington seems so near, 
so "whispering hope" says "Try Oshawa." 
I tried it, and miserably failed, for the wind fell so light 
and came so dead from the S.W., that by 7 P. M. Lorna 
was just a little west of Raby Head, and only about 8 
miles from Newcastle. No port — no chance of a port. 
Sleep I must have. The sky is clear, the barometer high 
and steady, so we will even anchor along shore and trust 
in Providence. 
The cliffs loomed higher and higher as I crawled in to- 
ward them. The water was crystal clear, and the bottom 
seemed almost to touch the keel. Such a bottom, too ! 
Boulders of all sizes from mere pebbles to huge hump- 
' backs as big as the boat herself — a bottom to make a 
sailor shudder. No help for it, however, and picking a 
fairly clear spot, I dropped the anchor in about 12 or 15 
feet of water, then went below for some supper, and 
turned in all standing at 8 P. M. 
At 11 I woke and went on deck. The silence was pro- 
found, the sea asleep. No light along the shore.' Above 
the stars around me, the blackness of the waters lit with 
the trembling reflections of the sky. 
Saturday morning I awoke at 5 :2s o'clock and looked 
out of the hatch. A nice land breeze was blowing, and I 
jumped for the halliards one after the other. Then came 
the anchor, and by 5 :30 I was under way. The coast 
slipped by like a dream panorama, for the offshore breeze 
scarcely ruffled the lake. Oshawa's pier and gay summer 
cottages were abeam by 8 A. M., and then the land breeze 
petered out and left me scarce moving. Very shortly, 
however, a nice S.E. breeze sprung up and carried me 
into Frenchman's Bay by 1 P. M., when it, too, dropped 
to the merest air and shifted to the S.W. The lighthouse 
at Frenchman's Bay is on the E. pier, and shows a small 
green fixed light at night. Inside the piers the channel 
turns sharp to the right and then to the left in front of 
the ice houses on the E. shore. I ran in and dropped 
anchor close to the W. side of the channel, well inside 
the bay. 
Sunday morning I was roused to consciousness by the 
departure of a huge ice barge. A fine, clear day it was, 
with a light sou'easter raising dancing corruscations in 
the wake of the sun. A plunge overboard washes the 
sleep from the eyes and breakfast puts vigor into the 
frame. 
"Now for home!" I shout, and for the last time weigh 
the anchor and fill away for the last day's run. As I 
neared the piers I noticed a somewhat familiar looking 
glass-sided cabin showing over the dock. "Can it be?" 
I cried, and then, "Yes, it is," as a familiar figure climbed 
out onto the pier. It was the gasoline launch Vida, with 
her owner, his wife and three children on board, bound 
whence I had come. Hearty greetings passed as I tacked 
out past them. "All alone?" "Yes." "Well, good luck 
and good-by." "Good luck and a pleasant voyage." Then 
I swung away W. and saw them no more. 
Slowly, oh, so slowly ! the miles went by. Off the Dutch 
Churches the wind failed altogether, and left me help- 
lessly turning circles. The gray lake gulls swooped by 
shrieking derisively; a train ashore flashed past a gap in 
the trees with a boastful, defiant, long-drawn whistle. 
Both man and nature seemed to taunt me with my 
impotence. Again, however, the E. air, not strong enough 
to feel, in some strange manner started Lorna once more 
on her westward way. 
The afternoon wore away, the sun disappeared behind 
the smoke of Toronto, flooding the W. with tawny or- 
ange; the dusk gave place to darkness; the stars im- 
perceptibly grew into their accustomed places, and still 
the seemingly endless stretch of the Scarborough bluffs 
lay to starboard. Victoria and Munro Park electric lights 
flash out off the starboard bow, and ere long a belt of 
sparkling diamonds stretches from abeam to dead ahead. 
Inshore boats put out from the parks and beaches, and the 
sound of singing floats out to me. As I sit aloof from it 
all, straining my ears to the sweet sounds of human 
presence, and searching restlessly the while for the red 
light at the E. gap, an exquisite soprano took up the 
strains of Newman's "Lead Kindly Light," and I realized 
as seldom before the mood of the writer when penning 
the pregnant lines. Only a sailor seeking his home port 
in the darkness of night can appreciate the full beauty of 
that hymn. 
One by one the singers turn back home ; one by one the 
lights ashore disappear from the cottage windows; and 
still the E. gap is miles ahead. As I sit patiently awaiting 
the wind's will, I note a ruffling of the swimming reflec- 
tions inshore, and hail with joy the coming of that good 
old friend, the night wind offshore. The breeze coquettes 
with us for awhile, and then comes true and fresh. 
Now the inshore lights begin a merry dance, shifting, 
changing, disappearing and reappearing as we speed gaily 
on. The inner red range light of the gap modestly retires 
further and yet further from its revolving principal, lhe 
touch of the wind banished drowsiness and languor; the 
quick dance of the yacht thrilled the pulses, and the con- 
sciousness of assured achievement added the crowning 
glory to the pleasures of that sail. 
The gap lights grow brighter and draw nearer and 
nearer into range. The small one disappears behind the 
greater, and we swing sharp to starboard up the channel. 
I look in at my watch as the big red eye goes by — 12, 
midnight, and safe home at last. C. D. H. 
Gas Engines and Launches. 
(Continued from page 289J 
BY F. K. GRAIN. 
Spark Coils. 
Of course it is necessary to employ a spark coil in 
order to obtain the resistance necessary to produce the 
proper spark. When the gas engines electrically ignited 
first came into use, it was customary to employ the 
ordinary coils used for gas lighting. Although these 
coils produced a very satisfactory spark, they did not 
offer sufficient resistance, consequently they were very 
hard on the battery, and nowadays we have coils 
especially wound for gas engine ignition, commonly 
called quick acting coils. The modern high speed en- 
gine would not operate with the old coils as they did 
not work sufficiently fast; but with the modern coil we 
easily obtain speeds of from 12 to 1,500 of positive igni- 
tion. A coil properly made should allow of the full 
amperage, but should have sufficient resistance to keep 
the voltage down to about 5 to 6; this prevents the 
ignition points of the electrodes from burning. For 
marine work we advise the placing of the coil in a box 
and, pouring it full of paraffine wax; this prevents all 
moisture getting at the coil. 
A word as to the construction of the coils will ex- 
plain to you more clearly their weak points in reference 
to moisture. They all consist alike of a core consisting 
of a bunch of straight annealed iron wire. Around this 
is wound several layers of insulated copper wire. Now 
should these iron wires, which, of course, are not pro- 
tected by any insulation, become rusty through damp- 
ness, it destroys the coil, and, although the copper 
wire is not affected so much by dampness, the salt air 
will very soon rust the iron core if not protected. 
Once it is rusted, there is nothing to do but throw away 
the coil. 
Lubricating Oils. 
Lubricating oils receive but scant attention. While 
of course, the oil used on the outside of the engine 
may not make any difference in the working of the 
engine, it is imperatively necessary that the cylinder 
and crank case oil should be uniformly alike — of the 
very best firertest cylinder oil. If an ordinary steam 
engine oil or an oil of poor quality containing animal 
or vegetable oils is used, it will produce a carbon de- 
posit, which will fill up the ports and produce a cutting 
of the cylinder, and also, by burning, interfere with the 
perfect combustion of the gases and cause trouble all 
around. The best grades, of cyli»cUjr oil cannot be 
obtained for less than about tlnrQ^^ix to forty cents 
in barrel lots, retailing at about double that figure. 
Therefore, if you are offered any oil at less than these 
figures, beware. 
British Letter. 
The Scotch regattas were brought to a close with the 
fixtures of the Royal Highland and Lorn Corinthian 
Yacht Clubs on Sept. 15 and 16, respectively, at Oban. 
Considering the lateness of the season, and the fact that 
most of the yachts racing there came from the Clyde, 
it speaks volumes for the enthusiasm of northern yachts- 
men that these autumn fixtures are usually so successful. 
This year was no exception to the general rule, for, en- 
couraged by the continued fine weather, there was a good 
muster of racing boats, and more than the usual number 
of fine steam and sailing yachts brought up in the beauti- 
ful bay. With the successful carrying out of these be- 
lated items the yachting season may be said to be closed, 
as, with the exception of a few up-river sailing clubs and 
a small club here and there on the coast, there will be no 
more races till next season, and yachts are fast finding 
their way into winter quarters. 
While it is refreshing to< note how yacht owners north 
of the Tweed keep up their enthusiasm to the very end 
of the season, and give practical proof of this by keep- 
ing their boats out till racing is really over, it is quite 
depressing to find in the south of England how owners 
cool down after Cowes and Ryde weeks, and what a 
thinning out there is annually in the ranks when the boats 
leave the Solent to begin the round of races commencing 
at Weymouth and ending at Plymouth, commonly known 
as the West of England regattas. Ten years ago, when a 
good many of our boats used to take part in the Riviera 
regattas, it was quite conceivable that people would have 
enough of it before the bitter end came, but in those days 
such yachts as visited the Mediterranean had a season 
