June 21, 1913 
FOREST AND STREAM 
785 
Around Manhattan Island in a Canoe 
By CHARLES J. SODERBERY 
{Concluded from last week.) 
I T was now 12 o’clock. I concluded to wait 
until I o’clock to make the start up the East 
River. I realized I had the hardest part of 
the trip before me. But the weather was ideal. 
Never could there be a much more perfect 
October day; the air clear and cool, the sun just 
warm enough to make it enjoyable, and a gentle 
northwest wind blowing. If the journey could 
not be made to-day, it never could. In nearly 
every venture we make in life there is a point 
where we are permitted to stand and look ahead 
and look back; a point where we must decide 
whether we shall retrace our steps in safety or 
go on with the venture; a point beyond which 
there can be no turning back. We leave com¬ 
fort and happiness for gain and adventure. Up 
to a certain point in our quest we are our own 
masters; but one step beyond and conditions 
close in upon us. Either we go down to de¬ 
struction or we hew our way out ahead. I had 
reached such a point in my trip. I could go 
back up the Hudson with the new tide and in 
two hours be home, or I could go on, trusting 
to find a way out ahead. Here all doubts and 
indecisions must be settled. I concluded to 
go on. With this I got out my luncheon and 
ate while I bobbed up and down with the swells 
between the two piers. 
At 12:45 I said good-bye to the chef (police¬ 
man wasn’t in sight) and paddled out in front 
of the Battery. Here it was almost like a mill 
pond. Usually the water is choppy; but to-day 
I might have imagined I was at the other end 
of the island, so unruffled was the water’s sur¬ 
face. Was this a good omen, or was fate giving 
me an extra chance to double back on my 
course and take the certain way home? But I 
went on. The Battery sea wall was lined with 
people. From the expression on the faces of 
many they seemed to expect a turning in their 
lives to come with the turning of the tide. 
Rounding into the East River three ferry boats 
this time charged me at once, as if to give me 
a last warning to go back home. But I only 
swung around in a circle and the next minute 
shot across their wake. Now I was in the East 
River and the tide had turned. 
Up to the Brooklyn Bridge all went well. 
Here the water roughened, and it seemed im¬ 
possible to keep near shore. It felt as if an 
invisible something wanted to pull me out to 
the middle of the river. Just north of the 
Manhattan Bridge conditions closed in on me. 
Waves came in all directions. For a few 
minutes I was paddling in all directions. Wave 
after wave broke over my boat, and had it not 
been for my canvas cover, this letter, Mr. 
Editor, would have ended right here, or, more 
likely, would never have begun. There was no 
turning back. I had forfeited my last chance. 
This tide was even stronger than that which 
brought me down the Hudson. Finally I got 
out of the clutches of this bad spot, but all 
along up under the Williamsburg Bridge and 
for two or three miles beyond the East River 
lived up to its reputation for ugly water. 
“Oh, you Robinson Crusoe!” some called. 
“What makes you do so?” Glancing back over 
my shoulder I saw a man on a scow. I felt 
like answering, “Because I am a blame fool, I 
guess.” But he no doubt thought he read the 
right answer and understood it all, as he noted 
I was headed directly for Blackwell’s Island— 
or is it on Ward’s Island that the insane are 
confined? 
Shortly I swung under the stern of a friend¬ 
ly barge to rest a bit. Coming up the river the 
rough water gave me little chance for observa¬ 
tion of much beyond the pier line. Comparison 
strongly favors the Hudson water front. Of 
stately ocean-going steamships there was none. 
The best the East River could boast of were 
barges, scows and freight boats. The lower 
river had showed splendid sailing ships which 
are strangers to the Hudson. One thing that 
impressed me was the absence of life on the 
docks. Where in the morning on the Hudson 
every street end held a group of men and boys, 
they were absent from the East River water 
front in the afternoon. Perhaps Dr. Finley can 
explain. 
Before I picked up my paddles again I tried 
to anticipate the rest to my trip, or at least the 
next three miles, the only stretch about which 
I felt any concern as to successfully making 
my way out. Ahead I could see the narrow 
strip of water between Blackwell’s Island and 
the New York shore. I figured that this could 
not be much worse than that I had put behind 
me. Beyond the narrow strip of water was 
Hell Gate. What that held in store for me I 
could not tell, but as I let the tide grip me 
again, I was not reassured by the hail of a tug 
boat man, “Tow you through the Gate for $3.” 
Along the shore opposite Blackwell’s 
Island I found the water good; it was less 
rough than any from the Battery, though here 
I noticed a “boiling” motion. In places the 
water seemed to come up from the river bot¬ 
tom in perpendicular columns, spreading in all 
directions on reaching the surface, causing my 
boat to slacken when striking such spots, with 
a tendency to swing around. Almost under the 
Queensborough Bridge I happened to look to¬ 
ward my right, and in the center of the river I 
saw the nastiest water yet. From no apparent 
cause the water seemed to leap ijito the air. 
Instinctively I tried to hug the shore a little 
closer, and turning there toward the left I saw 
a life saving station, the crew waiting as if 
ready to haul out the unfortunate who should 
be caught in that swirling tide. 
This was a good place to leave behind me, 
so I bent to my paddles and at times I must 
have gone at the rate of ten miles per hour. 
Glancing across the narrow water to Black¬ 
well’s Island, I noticed that it apeared about 
as well populated as I had found the North 
River piers to be in the morning. I made a 
quick inference that this accounted fof the ab¬ 
sence of life on the East River piers recently 
passed. But I guess that is not the right ex¬ 
planation. I don’t imagine so many have 
moved across the river. Now I was approach¬ 
ing Hell Gate. Ahead I could see 'the 
“Harlem” of the Astoria Ferry Line crossing. 
Evidently, this kind of craft had given up the 
attack on me. She was churning up the water 
mightily, and I wondered if I was to get 
through. Now I was at East River Park. A 
line of people looked out over the angry waters. 
What the expression on their faces was, or 
whether they, too, were waiting for their tide 
to turn, I did not try to see, and I did not care. 
I knew I had only about 500 feet more to go to 
know I had won my way out ahead; that m my 
struggle with conditions I had come out on top. 
These 500 feet of jumping water were covered 
somehow, and I found myself floating on the 
calm Harlem River, in front of another well 
placed life-saving station. It was just 2:30 
o’clock. Looking around during a few minutes’ 
rest, I noted what I took to be one of the Maine 
Steamship Company’s vessels about to enter 
Hell Gate going south. I speculated on what 
would have hapened if she had been five minutes 
earlier—what would have happened if we had 
both tried to make the narrow passage at the 
same time. 
I had counted on a comparatively easy 
paddle in the Harlem, but I at once saw there 
was work ahead. Sometimes we paddle with 
nerves and muscle; sometimes with our muscle 
alone. Before me was a task requiring only the 
one factor—just a simple back-breaking job. I 
knew that somewhere in the Harlem I would 
meet the tide coming from the north and would 
have to “buck” it; but I had supposed that that 
point was some distance ahead of me. One 
might imagine that the flood tide coming up 
the East River would continue up the Harlem 
out through Spuyten Duyvil and join with the 
flood tide going up the Hudson. But not so. 
The flood tide comes up the Hudson, turns into 
Spuyten Duyvil and down the Harlem. Thus 
we have water flowing north in the Hudson and 
less than a mile to the east the same water 
running south in the Harlem. I knew of this, 
but did not know just where the south flow in 
the Harlem was to be met. Now I had found 
out. It runs all the way to Hell Gate before 
meeting the flood tide coming up the East 
River. It seems that the waters of the Hudson 
via the Harlem join with the East River to 
flow into the Sound. This meant a long, hard 
pull before me. “Oh, you Times Square!” I felt 
like saying. “A paddle up Broadway is a heap 
sight easier than this.” But I bent to it. 
Foot by foot I made my way. Now the 
water front began to show life again. Men and 
boys were taking advantage of the bright after¬ 
noon. Here I came again to the zone of the 
motor boat; and gradually the shore was giving 
up business for pleasure. Rowing clubs were 
numerous and many crews were out. I asked 
a lad on shore what street I was at, and he re¬ 
plied 149th street. I confess to a desire to go 
cross lots home. Or I might lay up the canoe 
on a float of one of the rowing clubs and call 
it a day’s work. I resisted the temptation. 
I pulled over under the Speedway wall to 
escape the tide as much as possible. Here again 
a line of people looking out over the water. 
At these faces I took time to look carefully. 
There was no mistaking it; for one and all the 
tide seemed to have had a favorable turning. 
