March, 1921 
FOREST AND STREAM 
105 
BAGGING A SEAL FOR A MUSEUM 
NARRATING AN ADVENTURE IN AND OUT OF A CANOE OFF THE COAST OF 
SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA WHEREIN SOME LIVELY MOMENTS ARE EXPERIENCED 
I N man the hunting passion expresses 
itself variously. Some stalk the 
wary moose in Northern wilds, 
others prefer shooting the spry spar- 
row in the wilderness of back yards; 
many make war on the evasive mos- 
quito in Jersey jungles, while a few 
choose Africa for the big thrill. 
For me the supreme hour came dur- 
ing an adventure in and out of a canoe 
off the coast of Southern Caifornia in 
June of the year 1912. I had been sent 
on rather a unique errand. My job 
was to bag a seal. Nor had any advice 
been given me, for I was known to be 
a lone and eccentric hunter not over 
fond of the beaten track. 
I spread the letter and the yellow 
printed slip which it had contained, 
upon the table before me and gazed at 
them. I scratched my head and thought 
deeply. Some days previous I had 
noticed a troup of seals fishing in the 
shallows two miles off Salinas Point. 
I had never yet added a seal to my 
string of game but a plan of action 
soon presented itself. The idea seemed 
good and promised excitement. That 
night I cleaned up my .256 rifle, set Big 
Ben for the following dawn and rolled 
in early. 
T HE sun had barely peeped over the 
Coast Range when I slipped into my 
bathing suit. My Spanish friend, 
Ramon de la Guerra, wouldn’t mind my 
borrowing his canoe, and I could ex- 
plain afterwards. Drawing the little 
craft from its roost in tne shed I 
heaved it on my shoulders and marched 
with it down to the sand-dunes. The 
cool sand trickled between my spreading 
toes. A flock of curlew arose on curv- 
ing wings and skimmed out across the 
blue water with piping cries. 
The surf was low and easy to ride. 
Placing the rifle in the stern, I waded 
out waist deep beyond the breakers; 
then straddled the stern and sliding into 
place, I adjusted myself to the cranky 
craft and started on my adventure over 
the dark green water. 
T here 
i s a 
buoyant 
ecstasy i n 
swing i n g 
out over the 
heaving sea 
in a frail 
barque, not 
experience d 
by those si- 
lent hunts- 
men who go 
by the lakes 
and rivers 
of the 
N o rthland. 
S h oreward 
s t r e t ched 
By LOR1NG ANDREWS 
the yellow line of sand-dunes backed by 
the soft, cypress-green mountains with 
their lower stretches of lemon and wal- 
nut orchards. Out across the channel, 
dim in the beckoning west, lay the 
Santa Rosa Islands. 
It took some hours of good paddling 
to reach Salinas Point. As I neared 
it, the 1 eaving masses of brown kelp 
rose and fell over the shallows where 
flourished fairy gardens of swinging 
ferns and where is carried on the battle 
for existence of many a wierd form of 
marine life. Not far away I noticed 
three small black objects now disap- 
pearing, now bobbing up cork-fashion. 
Placing the rifle between my knees, I 
paddled slowly and noiselessly nearer 
the shore. One of the round, black ob- 
jects reappeared on my right within 
twenty-five yards, blinked tearful eyes, 
chortled through dilating nostrils, then 
suddenly vanished. I understood how 
the superstitious mariners of old came 
to believe in old man Neptune and all 
his numerous kith and kin. 
Swerving the sickle-shaped prow 
westward, I then paddled cautiously out 
towards the kelp. Another round ob- 
ject moved through the water at about 
a hundred yards. Allowing the canoe 
to drift, I raised the rifle to my shoulder 
and tried to draw a bead. My urban 
brothers of shooting-gallery tactics may 
form an idea of my line of vision — of 
my dilemma in trying to connect the 
curve of trajectory with a moving tar- 
get from a dancing firing-point — if they 
will but recall that exasperating little 
ball performing terpsichorean antics on 
top of a small fountain. As I was thus 
painfully concentrating I descried a 
sailing-bark coming up the channel. 
There was about $500 fine for shooting 
a seal in that locality and I had left my 
permit in the boat-shed five miles up the 
coast. So I deemed it expedient to con- 
ceal my weapon in the bottom of the 
canoe. I amused myself for a few min- 
utes watching the lobsters hunting for 
squids in the nether-world down over 
the starboard rim. When I looked up 
the sail-boat was perched on the horizon 
like an Arab’s tent — and the seal was 
gone. 
I WAS about to wax despondent when 
my eye caught something unusual out 
in the last patch of kelp about half 
a mile distant. A row of straight knob- 
by objects were bobbing up and down 
like the pickets of a lobster-trap. I 
paddled slowly towards them. The near- 
er I came the larger and stranger they 
appeared. Paddling more cautiously 
and bending low, I wondered what they 
could be. They moved. They seemed to 
be animated. My curiosity was fully 
aroused. At about a hundred yards I 
suddenly recognized them as seals — a 
whole family of them, apparently cele- 
brating some momentous event. There 
were mother and father seal, a few 
uncles and maiden-aunts and a troup 
of frolicsome youngsters — all swishing 
about and making an all-blissful fuss 
over each other. I wish some kind zo- 
ologist of Forest and Stream would 
tell me what their big idea was? May- 
be they were celebrating father and 
mother’s golden anniversary. 
For a few moments I was an en- 
tranced spectator over the shining bar- 
rel of my .256. Then I took a chance 
aim at the base of father’s skull, and 
squeezed the trigger. A chance shot it 
assuredly was — with chance very much 
on my side. A fraction of a second be- 
fore the explosion of the primer father 
seal suddenly heaved his bulk out of the 
waters and swelled his chest proudly as 
if in approbation of the carnival spirit 
of the occasion, all of which coincided 
exactly with my trigger-squeeze and the 
motion of the canoe. As the slim, high- 
velocity bullet sped squarely to its mark 
there was a loud resounding w-h-a-c-k! 
Instantly the scene became quiet and 
deserted as though calmed by a magic 
hand. Then, just as suddenly, the sea 
was churned into a wild and frothing 
pandemonium as every member of that 
gala party went plum locoed. 
They dashed here and they cavorted 
there, beat- 
i n g the 
brine into 
f o a m i n g 
waves while 
the younger 
members 
leapt 
s t r a i g ht 
into the air 
like huge 
trout, I be- 
i n g the 
much 
amazed on- 
looker in the 
middle o f 
(CONTINUED 
ON PAGE 
130) 
A troup of Pacific seals on dry land. 
