May 28, 1910.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
863 
were strapped securely on deck, one on each 
side, and these two, with her tanks below, gave 
here a capacity of 1.000 gallons or sufficient to 
make the 1,138 nautical miles to Havana with¬ 
out having to stop at any port on the way for 
an extra supply. Other owners had arranged 
to stop at some port on the way and take on 
more fuel, but when these owners learned that 
Caroline had a full supply they stored gasolene 
in the cabins and on deck in five-gallon cans. 
Loantaka had 125 of these cans, and those on 
deck were secured by a thin piece of rope 
stretched across the deck in front of the cans. 
The cans in which gasolene is put are very 
flimsy and often leak when lifted, and to have 
more than 100 on board to be slammed about 
whenever the vessel rolled seemed to be tempt¬ 
ing Providence. The committee’s attention was 
called to the state of affairs, and when it de¬ 
clined to take any action, Walter M. Biding, 
who is acting as captain of Caroline, and Fred 
B. Thurber, who is acting as mate, sent the fol¬ 
lowing letter to the committee: 
“We beg to call your attention to the rule re¬ 
garding ‘tanks,’ and particularly to the fact that 
Loantaka, Caliph, Uys and Berneyo are carry¬ 
ing gasolene in cans on deck. This is not only 
a violation of the rules, but seriously jeopard¬ 
izes the safety of those boats and the lives of 
the men on board.” 
Bieling and Thurber were on board Kitcinque 
when she burned in the race to Marblehead last 
summer. They were in the water a long time 
before being rescued, and they appreciate the 
danger that handling gasolene carelessly can 
cause. Mr. Bieling said he did not wish to pro¬ 
test nor to win a prize on a technicality, but he 
did wish the committee to realize the import¬ 
ance of enforcing the rules. The Committee, 
however, declined to take any action, and these 
four yachts went to sea with their cans of gaso¬ 
lene in view on their decks. 
The dimensions and measurements of the 
racers and the allowances figure on 1,138 miles 
follow: 
Area 
Midship 
L.W.L. Section. Area No.of 
Ft. In. Sq.Ft. Piston. Cyl. IT. P. Rating. 
Caroline .59 25.66 28.27 '4 37.69 40.37 
Caliph .58 3% 24.27 23.76 6 47.52 44.34 
Uys .48 7 20 23.76 4 31.68 40.68 
Loantaka ...65 10 y 2 34 78.54 3 78.54 47.82 
Berneyo .56 10 21.16 28.27 4 37.69 42.78 
The engines used were as follows: Caroline, Standard; 
Caliph. Hall; Ilys, Hall; Loantaka, Reeves-Graef; Ber¬ 
neyo, Standard. 
Length, 
Ft. In. 
Loantaka. -H. S. Peters 73 
Caliph, M. E. Brigham 60 
Berneyo, S. W. Granbery.59 10 
Caroline. M. F. Dennis....65 
Ilys, J. C. N. Whitaker.. .50 
Beam, Draft, Allow- 
Ft. In. Ft. In. ance. 
14 4 6 allows 
11 36 7 50 03 
10 4 11 35 07 
13 8 4 3 18 12 40 
10 6 3 19 03 07 
Navigating Smoke. 
“Fast, eh !” I said, as I pulled on the anchor 
rope until my hafids smarted and a miniature 
electric display started up in the back of my 
head. It is nice to know you have good hold¬ 
ing ground, anyway. “And I can pull you loose, 
you bet,” I added, over my shoulder as I climbed 
back over the cabin roof to the cockpit. The 
low humming of the hydro carbon lamps made 
a pianissimo to the thump, thump, of the air 
pump as my father “fired up” the kerosene 
motor. 
“She’s had seven minutes,” he said, slipping 
his watch back in his vest pocket. 
“Then she won’t need seven turns,” I replied, 
and twitched the flywheel. There was a sound 
in the exhaust pipes like someone clearing his 
throat, then a hesitating purr of the engine 
which in a second settled down to a determined, 
joyous hum. I threw the reverse in for a 
moment, then hard ahead, tearing the anchor 
from its bed and coming about in a foaming, 
mud-streaked circle. “A good way to pull out 
your anchor but don’t do as the man did who 
tried it in such shallow water that he turned the 
fluke right up through the bottom of his boat.” 
The anchor stowed, we rounded Croton Point 
and bore away to the southward. Under the 
smoke from the forest fires the water was as 
smooth as glass. Stakes would rise suddenly 
out of the smoke with such distinctness that we 
wondered why we had not seen them before. 
For a while we could see the wooded shore 
dimly through the smoke, but that soon disap¬ 
peared, and we were lost on Tappan Zee. The 
ebb was running freely and cutting across the 
current. I soon made out the hills above and 
below Ossining. The children soon appeared 
from the cabin, breakfast of eggs, cereal, bacon, 
cocoa and bananas was served on aluminum 
plates on the poop deck, while I ate mine from 
a shelf over the steering wheel. At Yonkers 
the Hendrick Hudson or “ol-’bite-the-dust” as 
the children called the steamboat, was just start¬ 
ing out against the ebb, but what was the ebb 
to her three thousand horsepower! 
Men and boys were fishing for lafayettes from 
the rocks of the ship canal, other motor boats 
were rushing up and down the Harlem, tugs, 
barges and great steel freight car ferries kept 
me alert until we had passed Third avenue, when 
I soon turned into Little Hell Gate, the flood tide 
running angrily over the rocks. “Hell” and 
“Kills” justly appear often in the names of 
places about here, and in the old days of sail¬ 
ing vessels it must have been a terror of a place. 
In the East River there was nothing but smoke, 
a tug or steamer looming out of the obscurity 
with fearsome suddenness. I headed for the 
place where I imagined the opening between 
North and South Brother Island must be. 
“Do you know where you are going?” my 
father asked in alarm. We soon saw the islands 
and were scooting past the big black buoy. Since 
we had the tide with us continuously from Croton 
I failed utterly to convince my father that we 
were now on the flood tide, moving out to meet 
the tide that comes in through the Race off 
Sands Point.* He called to a passing boat, ask¬ 
ing whether it was flood or ebb tide, determined 
to show me the error of my reasoning. “Fair 
tide,” the steersman on the other boat called 
back. 
“Flood tide?” repeated my father incredulously. 
“Fair tide,” again replied the stranger, and the 
controversy remained unsettled. Nevertheless it 
was flood tide. 
We ate dinner, enjoying the little sunlight that 
came through the smoke, arid soon finding our¬ 
selves out on the sound, City Island and Hart’s 
Island astern. From out of the dimness came 
the bellowing of a bull, awsome and uncanny, 
the sound being the siren on Execution Rocks 
Light. Now and again we could see the shore, 
but for the most part only the green water 
swirling about the boat was visible. The com¬ 
pass was brought out since we might need it 
any moment and the chart also. Used to the 
deep, rock-free water of the upper Hudson, I 
allowed myself a moment of carelessness that 
came near piling the Wawee up on a rock and 
sending myself and family ashore in the tender. 
Being half a mile from shore and seeing two 
three-masted ocean-going yachts directly in front 
of me, I stopped studying the chart and steered 
for the yachts, determined on a close inspection. 
Suddenly glancing down into the clear water I 
saw “as plain as day” a rock like the back of 
a horse and the next moment the Wawee went 
*When the ship canal connecting the Hudson and 
Harlem rivers via Spuyten Duyvil Creek had been 
opened, the tidal currents around that end of Manhattan 
Island underwent a change. When the tide is flowing 
northward up the Hudson, it flows through the canal 
and the Harlem River in an opposite or generally 
southern direction to a point near Little Hell Gate and 
the East River. With the ebb the current sets north¬ 
ward in the Harlem and the canal, turning south again 
in the Hudson. The peculiarity of these currents puz¬ 
zles amateur navigators, whose calculations are fre¬ 
quently upset by them. Cruising around New York 
city with the tide is possible, and has often been done 
by canoeists. The method is as follows: Starting at a 
point near, the upper end of the island and descending 
the Hudson with the last of the ebb tide; meeting the 
first of the flood tide at the Battery; ascending the 
East River with the flood; slack water at or bevond 
Hell Gate and Little Hell Gate; taking advantage of the 
new ebb tide setting northward up the Harlem River 
and into the Hudson, thence down the Hudson to the 
starting point. Variable winds affect the course at 
times, and nice calculation is necessary in order to 
time one’s arrival at different points, but the thing lias 
been done frequently in canoes, paddling leisurely and 
devoting most of a day to the trip. It is an exceedingly 
interesting one, withal, but the start is generally made 
verv earlv on a Sunday morning, when the harbor 
traffic is light— Editor. 
over it with a bang that brought my father rush¬ 
ing out of the cabin where he had been enjoy¬ 
ing a nap. Looking ahead I saw rocks showing 
purple-brown in the green, dotting the water 
everywhere. After that I left yachts alone, but 
kept my eyes on the chart. 
Always the smoke and breathless air, always 
the mighty bells bellowing at intervals along the 
way, one being scarce left behind before another 
was heard. At 5 o’clock I felt my way up into 
Stamford, Conn., not caring to go further be¬ 
cause I knew that when night came it would be 
blacker than any hat. 
How good a snug, inviting harbor looks after 
a long day’s run ! This is especially true when 
the weather is fine and you get in in good season 
and are not driven in by a storm. “Any port in 
a storm” has more meaning than is at first ap¬ 
parent. The hours spent serenely at anchor in 
new harbors are always to me the most pleasant 
and restful of a cruise. Especially is this true 
of sylvan, wild harbors like Saugatuck or quaint 
“fishy” places like Clinton. A night among the 
oyster fleet in Bridgeport even has a charm. 
The next day there was no break in the smoke. 
Six-thirty found us out on the sound, rounding 
the Cows, marked by an onion-shaped buoy. The 
far end of the sound everything is a hog, ram 
or gut; this end of the sound it is a cow, calf 
or hen and chickens. I must say I prefer the 
former. 
Off Bridgeport a boat that looked like a Gov¬ 
ernment oyster police boat was anchored. It 
mounted the largest searchlight I ever saw. Off 
the mouth of the Hoosatonic about a dozen 
small craft were fishing. Among them no doubt 
was the party that were all drowned in the 
squall that came up just at dark and which 
caught us off Hammondhasset Point. More of 
that later. It was a dreadful tragedy, a man, 
his wife and ten children all drowned. Someone 
must have lost self possession. Passing the spot 
where it happened, a lonely, boulder-strewn point 
with the long, rocky, breakwaters between which 
the Hoosatonic wound up into the low Con¬ 
necticut hills but a few hours before the squall, 
and their party being the same in number as 
mine, all helped to make it very real to us. 
Constantly studying the chart and raising one 
buoy—whether it was bell, gas, spar, spindle or 
what not—after another, we slowly fought the 
flood tide that was pouring up the sound. Off 
the Thimble Islands I became for a moment be¬ 
wildered and could not make chart and compass 
agree, going in every direction in a panic lest 
I should run on one of the rocks that arc awash 
nearly ten miles off shore at this point. I rose 
in my wrath and cussed the smoke and all things 
of a like nature. The buoys mocked me. Soon 
I got straightened out and heard the doleful 
ringing of the bell buoy on Goose Reef. If there 
is a sound calculated to drive a man to suicide 
or prayer, it is the ringing of a bell buoy in a 
fog. I was glad when it grew too faint to hear, 
and Goose and Faulkner’s Island suddenly ap¬ 
peared to starboard. Faulkner’s Island looks to 
be everything an offshore island should be—tree¬ 
less, grassy, beaches and low cliffs, its lighthouse 
dominating its highest point and adding the 
human element of interest. The island as a 
whole, would make a good illustration to go with 
a poem of the sea or the lighthouse keeper’s 
daughter or the song of the lobster pot. Some 
time I hope to visit it and see if there are any 
hlackfish or sea bass there and if the lighthouse 
keeper’s wife- takes boarders. 
We had passed now from the land of the 
oyster to the land of the lobster. The forest of 
spruce poles with their fluttering pennants that 
marked oyster beds all along the sound from 
Captain’s Island to New Haven had disappeared 
and lobster pot buoys had taken their places. 
Since both these creatures see fit to live on the 
bottom, I am correct in speaking of their vicinity 
as land. If ever again I go down the sound in 
a fog or smoke I am going to have an oyster 
dredge—and lots of fresh oysters at all times. 
Since people think it is a joke to steal mv 
grapes that I grow for a living. I will pass it 
along to the fellow who grows oysters. 
Passing Faulkner’s Island I determined to 
