A Night in a Storm. 
It was what the natives called a “slick cam” 
when we headed for Shackleford Banks from 
Harbor Island about noon on a pretty Decem¬ 
ber day. Not a ripple disturbed the placid 
waters of Pamlico Sound to the north and Core 
Sound to the south of us, and distant objects 
assumed the most grotesque proportions in a 
mirage-like atmosphere. Ironheads and dip¬ 
pers were scattered here and there on the glassy 
bosom of the bay, while the roar from a raft 
of redheads feeding half a mile to the westward, 
and the occasional weird screech of a gull or 
loon, were the only sounds which broke upon 
the uncanny stillness. 
Our guide was a typical North Carolina fish¬ 
erman, known among the boys as Joe Tink, 
also styled Captain Joe Willis by the cult less 
familiarly known to him. His apparently inex¬ 
haustible stock of original droll expressions, 
uttered with never the semblance of a smile, in 
characteristic patois, and remarkable stories of 
adventure with terrapin, shark and stingarees, 
wherein he told of many a hairbreadth escape, 
made his personality quite as enjoyable to the 
social side of our expedition as his services 
were indispensable in “huntin’ ” ducks. If he 
did but know it, Joe could easily have been a 
headliner at any first-class vaudeville house on 
amateur night, without the least danger of “get¬ 
ting the hook.” He quit us rather mysteriously 
one night after supper, and the next morning 
was nowhere to be seen. He had taken the 
sharpie, which was the only available craft at 
our command for fitting out, except a seven- 
teen-foot open skiff, without a skag and a 
boat of questionable seaworthiness which, how¬ 
ever, we pressed into service for a little trip 
on our own hook in the unlooked for absence 
of Captain Joe. 
With three men, one hundred and fifty decoys 
and other hunting paraphernalia, our little craft 
was taxed to her utmost carrying capacity. We 
had put up the sail, however, in anticipation of 
a breeze, although it sagged lazily to and fro 
with each lunge of the poles, used exclusively 
by the natives in these waters instead of oars, 
ir the absence of wind. The shallow waters 
and hard sandy bottom are admirably adapted 
for this mode of propulsion. 
Even had there been any indication of rough 
weather, the extensive experience of our genial 
companion and host, Mr. B., familiar as he was 
with the handling of a boat in all kinds of 
weather, every nook and corner of the sound 
and the whims of tide and fickle winds, amply 
justified a feeling of absolute security in his 
ability to see us safely through. Although a 
New Y ork business man, he had always taken 
a keen interest in wildfowl shooting and given 
up much time in the pursuit of his favorite 
sport, and woe to the duck or goose that ven¬ 
tured within range of his gun. It was natural, 
therefore, that we looked to him as leader of 
the party, but the mild conditions prevalent at 
the outset of this eventful trip failed in the 
slightest degree to suggest the necessity of an 
expert boatman in our midst, and it looked like 
pie for even a lubber to pole her to Core Banks 
and back. Old Joe Tink might have shifted 
his quid, and, with a careful survey of the hori¬ 
zon, said: “Mought be a squall, boys; better 
not resk it; looks like a weather breeder to 
me,” and indeed we had not reckoned with the 
caprices of Hatteras weather. 
It was quite 2 o’clock when we had thrown 
out the last of the decoys to the leeward of 
the southwest blind, about three miles from 
camp, on Harbor Island, and about a mile off 
the marsh, and our friend Mr. P. had nicely 
ensconced himself in the box. A light breeze 
had sprung up ftom the northwest, which gave 
promise of good shooting, and we broke up 
several rafts of redheads on our way into the 
marsh to hunt ior pond ducks such as mallard, 
, teal and black ducks. Thoroughly absorbed in 
a fine afternoon’s sport, we took little note of 
the fleeting moments, nor observed the sullen 
gray clouds gathering in the northwest, and 
the fact that a piping breeze was now blowing. 
By the time we had picked up the ducks which 
Mr. P. had killed, gathered in the decoys, and 
taken him aboard, it was almost dark, and with 
the wind freshening every moment, dead ahead, 
it was apparent we should have trouble getting 
back. 
It was plainly evident from Mr. B.’s troubled 
brow that he did not like the looks of things. 
The old boat was a poor sailer on the wind, 
and made so much leeway on each tack that 
our progress was distressingly slow. The tem¬ 
perature was falling rapidly and the wind had 
increased to an alarming degree; great white- 
caps studded the vast expanse of waters in 
marked contrast to the leaden sky, which looked 
ominous and forbidding. The roar of wind and 
wave now made it difficult to hear each others’ 
voices, and it was necessary to shout to be 
heard a boat’s length. Mr. B.’s efforts to get 
anywhere by sailing proved futile; he brought 
her up in the wind and yelled an order to take 
the mast and sail out of her. This was by no 
means an easy task, with the boat tossing like 
a cockleshell and threatening momentarily to 
capsize. Once unstepped, down came the mast, 
around which the sail was furled, with a crash, 
barely missing the others in its descent; Her¬ 
cules himself could not have held it poised in 
that gale. Each man took a pole and made 
frantic efforts to keep her headed toward a 
fishing schooner about a mile to windward, all 
to no purpose, however, and we found our¬ 
selves at the mercy of a terrific northwest gale. 
We tried to summon help from the schooner 
by firing the guns in rapid succession, but if 
the crew heard us they failed to respond. We 
redoubled our efforts to pole her, and Mr. B. 
yelled that we must get her to the schooner. 
She had worked out in the main channel, where 
we could not reach bottom with the poles, and 
were drifting aimlessly about with three badly 
scared men, for it was evident that if she went 
over it would be the last of all of us, for no 
human being could live in the seas tumbling 
about us like a seething caldron, swim or no 
swim. Occasionally as she would get broad¬ 
side to the wind, a great sea would pound her 
with a resounding thump, standing her almost 
on beam ends; in this position we would ship 
it took the last ounce of ginger from every 
man in turn to keep her free from water. To 
lighten her up, we jettisoned all the decoys, 
which relieved her of several hundred pounds 
and gave us more room to work. 
With almost superhuman efforts our crew 
once more attempted to force her through the 
turbulent waters to the schooner, but with 
hands benumbed and blistered, and well nigh 
exhausted from our efforts, we abandoned the 
task and let her drift before the tempest. As 
we passed out of deep water on the shoals, 
hissing seas tossed and tumbled about us in a 
manner to strike terror to the heart of any 
salt. Going squarely before the wind, each 
man steadying her with a pole, we scudded for 
the dreary, desolate marsh and sand dunes con¬ 
stituting the long strip of land from Hatteras 
to Lookout, with the cheerless prospect of 
sleeping on the beach in a snowstorm. With 
feverish anxiety we strained our eyes through 
the blackness of the night for a glimpse of a 
welcome light on shore, but the sparkling phos¬ 
phorescence on the waves was all that could 
be seen. 
Suddenly we felt the swishing grass of the 
marsh in contact with the sides of the skiff, by 
which we knew that we were somewhere near 
land, and the next thing she stopped short on a 
bunch of grass; this very marsh on which we 
had hunted dry shod during the afternoon, was 
now submerged under three feet or more of 
water > piled up by a stiff northwester. Momen¬ 
tarily lost to the treacherous nature of the 
marsh, with its creeks, mires and bog holes, 
we secured the boat as best we could where she 
brought up, and started with our guns to wade 
across to the hard sand. W^e had not gone 
twenty paces when each man was lost to the 
other, and quite out of range of the loudest 
yell against the roaring w'ind, with no idea ot 
which was east, west, north or south, and his 
objective point a matter of pure guesswork. 
Signaling one another by firing shells from the 
guns brought the party together in half an 
hour, after the most hazardous and thrilling 
phase of our experience. Lured into this quag¬ 
mire through over-anxiety to get upon terra 
firma, we had unwittingly left our real haven 
of safety, the boat, and it was with the great¬ 
est difficulty that we managed to find it again, 
although we knew she could not be more than 
one hundred feet away. 
Each man had gone up to his neck in water 
in this mad attempt to cross the marsh. Wet 
and bedraggled, we groped our way along the 
irregular edge of the marsh, holding the gun¬ 
wale of the boat for support, pushing her along 
with us, the object being to find a little creek 
or bay running up to a place of firmer footing 
