Ocx. 19, 1912 
FOREST AND STREAM 
497 
The river at Delaware City is somewhat 
sheltered from a southwest wind, but the curve 
of the great circular bay, swept on a four-mile 
radius, soon brought us, as we sailed, to where 
we were becoming more and more exposed to 
the full sweep of wind and wave from a con¬ 
stantly increasing distance. The further we 
would go, the worse it would become, f knew 
this coast and about what to expect from old- 
time strenuous experience, but this time rough¬ 
ness was worse than I had bargained for. Twice 
we anchored, for the sea ahead looked to be quite 
too viciously much for our size. There was no 
place to stay in for the night — not the thread of 
a creek, and the ebbing tide would leave us in 
the breakers, unless we anchored far out, but 
anyone would be far out if they thought we 
would lie in or about such a diabolical assort¬ 
ment of high-heaving curling water as that stuff 
off to starboard. 
“Heave her out, Gus,” Like when we were 
small boys at baseball, and one of our tribe had 
fatted a weak one, and leaving his bat to sail 
through the air behind him regardless of direc¬ 
tion or chances of busted heads, he streams 
away, working every muscle to reach first base 
CARO AND SCHOONER AS THEY LAY UNDER THE BANK. STARTING AN OVERLAND HAUL. 
The Following Sea 
By LIPPINCOTT FOSTER 
I 
f’LL bet that schooner is going sixteen miles 
an hour.” 
“The Vigilant could do no better.” The 
mate’s remark and my reply were apropos of the 
sight of one of our three schooners on her sky- 
hoot up the river under close-reefed foresail and 
reefed fore-staysail, but for my part, although 
pleased at the picture she made, when I regarded 
the blizzard-sized snow drift she was carrying 
in front to pillow her head on, I would wish to 
knock a quarter-mile off that. 
But our own plunge-o’-time soon came — that 
wild, flying-cloud October morning, with south¬ 
west gale, after the night-before rage of the 
hull and rigging every rope was in place and 
neatly coiled down, and the glare from her brass 
work was fit to burn holes in their faces when 
the sun would throw his fire back from it as he 
showed occasionally through rents in the. flying 
clouds. 
“What a little jib!” shrilly voiced the small 
boy that has to have his say. Everyone expects 
it, and no one pays any attention whatever, but 
one thing can be bet on as a surety—all young¬ 
sters in these river front towns know the jib 
from the rudder post, and why? As our tiny 
ship starts on the fly, the call of shore class was 
instantly acknowledged on our part by the salute 
hurricane, and now the mate and skipper and 
little 18-foot yawl-rigged yacht Caro (alike in 
Carry) coming home from a cruise on the Chesa¬ 
peake, are following a big schooner into the lock 
at Delaware City. We had room to spare astern 
of her when the lock closed, and after it was 
emptied, and we caught a glimpse of Jersey day¬ 
light as the river gates parted, we hoisted our 
small storm jib and the schooner her reefed fore- 
stavsail within its walls, and as the gates were 
folded in it gave her a start. As soon as the 
fore boom cleared the lock gateway, the close- 
reefed foresail went up fast. Then a wave of 
her skipper’s hand signaled that she was on her 
way up the wild stream toward the great city. 
A gallery of the towns folk lined the edge 
of the pier to see these goings off and make free 
comments — from knowledge mostly — and our 
slick craft with streaming colors got its share 
and more, but only by reason of its size; not for 
her style. She looked as if she had only been 
launched that morning. In the freshness of her 
of our caps ascending upward as at the same 
time our hinges allowed our backs to bend down 
until our noses near rubbed the coaming. The 
deepness of this bow simultaneously was not too 
much gyration for the cause that brought it 
forth. A high stylish, alright kind of a lady 
all in white was smiling and courtesying to us 
from the pier, and with a wave of white from 
her hand. At the same moment the tall well- 
groomed quiet self-contained-appearing man with 
her had raised his cap and was making us a 
deep bow. As we slid quickly away and jumped 
into the big watery chunks around the pier end, 
our last memory of Delaware City was most 
pleasant. The smile never blew away for a mile 
or more that day. 
“Throw me up my boots,” was the appeal of 
the stocking-footed mate standing on the pier at 
Newcastle after he had climbed with our line. 
Never was he seen by me to make the first 
motion toward getting his feet out while he was 
aboard. 
ahead of the ball, and the loudest yell of all 
among the chorus of shrieks behind him to 
accelerate him on his way is, “Yer got to go.” 
It was just so with the Caro when that 
anchor came aboard; she had to make it good 
this time. 
The end of Newcastle pier would be almost 
completely hidden in the thundering whiteness 
of the crumbling mass of water as a wave would 
strike, while from the granite ice piers that out¬ 
lie, the spray would fly to great heights from 
their sloping sides, but the sea butting the long 
solid sides of the pier would back-wash and 
made the worst looking steep cross sea to go 
through that I could ever remember to have 
seen. It curled both ways and our yacht was 
only 14 feet load waterline by 5 by 1 with an 
open cockpit. 
Who loveth not to meet exciting adventure 
when lie cruiseth, it were better far for him he 
shippeth not aboard our craft. She was not like 
great ones with a fringe of three or four or 
