Vol. XCI 
DECEMBER, 1921 
No. 12 
ICE BOUND ON GREAT SOUTH BAY 
THE LOG OF THE SHARPIE NOAH ON HER PERILOUS CRUISE O’ER 
LAND AND SEA TO THE DUCKING GROUNDS OF LONG ISLAND 
H AD our plans all worked out as 
prearranged I might have en- 
titled this narrative “Reminis- 
cences of a Duck Shooter” — or 
“A Market Gunner on Great South Bay.” 
As it is, however, either title would prove 
misleading. I must honestly confess at 
the very outset that, from a commercial 
standpoint at least, the expedition was 
not a success. Our business — for there 
were two of us involved in the under- 
taking — was the killing of ducks — many 
ducks — and in failing to accomplish said 
slaughter our original purpose remained 
unfulfilled. We were forced to expend 
our energies in the doing of other things. 
The very conditions which made it im- 
possible for us to glut the country’s mar- 
kets with wild-fowl afforded us this op- 
portunity. First and last we did many 
other things. We began by amending 
the laws of nautics. In the end we 
shanghaied an ancient tar. We made 
friends; we made enemies. We starved, 
feasted, froze — and stole, proving there- 
by the truth of the adage that “necessity 
knows no law.” It is with these varied 
activities and tribulations that my 
narrative has mainly to do. I will /, 
merely say of the ducking end 
that when we bagged an occa- 
sional duck or goose it promptly went 
in the galley pot. There were not 
enough for ourselves and the public, so 
we passed the public up. 
Our plan took shape one winter night 
some twenty years or more ago. We sat 
around the bunk house fire, loading shells 
for the morrow’s “line,” and holding 
lengthy post mortems over each and 
every old squaw that had fallen to our 
guns that day. A bunch of defunct 
“squaws” and coots hung outside the 
cabin door — plebeian cousins, poor rela- 
tions of that much prized family to which 
Tom and I had always aspired. “What’s 
the use in shootin’ a coot, anyway ?” 
Tom growled. “What good are they 
after you kill ’em?” — Pause. And 
straightway the Big Idea ! “Look-a- 
here ! — ” Tom’s indifference had sud- 
denly vanished. “Why can’t we get a 
By ROLAND CLARK 
Illustrations by the Author 
little real shooting? Hook up the old 
Noah; good sails and rigging; put a coal 
stove aboard — plenty of grub — and take 
a whack at Great South Bay ! Ducks ! 
Why, they tell me there are more black 
duck and brant on Cedar Island — ” then 
and there we threshed it out to a finish. 
flC? 
Cap’n Joe 
From merely a sporting proposition our 
scheme quickly grew in magnitude. New 
possibilities presented themselves as we 
talked the matter over. What would we 
do with all those ducks? Eat ’em? We 
couldn’t. Ship ’em ! Send a crate every 
day to market ! Easiest thing in the 
world ! 
We were neither of us on the line next 
morning when the coots came down past 
Scotch Caps. I hiked for home at an 
early hour, wondering if I could induce 
a lenient parent to countenance our 
splendid plan. Somehow I managed it. 
The wherewithal to finance my end of 
the partnership was duly promised and 
preparations began that very day toward 
outfitting the good ship Noah. There 
were new leg o’ mutton sails to be made ; 
a sink box built; decoys overhauled and 
repainted — a stove set up, and countless 
minor details attended to before finally 
loading the stores aboard and getting our 
supply of coal. I distinctly recall a trip 
to New York when we secured a large 
bundle of shipping tags and arranged 
for the sale of our game. 
I T was the middle of January, I think, 
before our affairs were fully in shape 
and the sharpie ready for sea. The 
weather had been turning colder from 
day to day, ice fringing the creek banks 
each morning and threatening to lock 
our craft fast at her moor- 
ings. It was high time we 
were getting away. Then 
— with the very hour for 
our departure set, and the last of our 
traps aboard Tom found that he 
couldn’t leave home ! I was first hot, 
then cold ! What ? — the world of my 
dreams unreachable? Was this then 
the end of all our fine plans? 
“There’s the ice, too.” Tom offered 
by way of consolation. “South Bay 
is sure to be frozen tight ; we could 
never get through the Inlet.” I guess 
I was desperate; I know I was “sot” 
on taking that South Bay trip. Any- 
way, by the next day I had rustled 
about and found a substitute to take 
my friend’s place. Investigation in 
the meanwhile had born out Tom’s 
gloomy prophecy. Ice had formed 
pretty generally throughout the Great 
South Bay. “Pete !” I said to my new 
recruit, “we can’t give it up without 
a try. Tumble your duffle over the rail. 
This hooker goes to Great South Bay 
if she has to go on wheels.” This was 
