minutes an absolute dead calm prevailed, and then, with the suddenness of a thunderclap, the wind snorted out of the southwest—­a shift of eight points and a boisterous gale.  Another night of it was too much for us, and we hove up by hand in a cross head-sea.  It was not stiff work.  It was heart-breaking.  And I know we were both near to crying from the hurt and the exhaustion.  And when we did get the first anchor up-and-down we couldn’t break it out.  Between seas we snubbed her nose down to it, took plenty of turns, and stood clear as she jumped.  Almost everything smashed and parted except the anchor-hold.  The chocks were jerked out, the rail torn off, and the very covering-board splintered, and still the anchor held.  At last, hoisting the reefed mainsail and slacking off a few of the hard-won feet of the chain, we sailed the anchor out.  It was nip and tuck, though, and there were times when the boat was knocked down flat.  We repeated the manoeuvre with the remaining anchor, and in the gathering darkness fled into the shelter of the river’s mouth.

I was born so long ago that I grew up before the era of gasolene.  As a result, I am old-fashioned.  I prefer a sail-boat to a motor-boat, and it is my belief that boat-sailing is a finer, more difficult, and sturdier art than running a motor.  Gasolene engines are becoming fool-proof, and while it is unfair to say that any fool can run an engine, it is fair to say that almost any one can.  Not so, when it comes to sailing a boat.  More skill, more intelligence, and a vast deal more training are necessary.  It is the finest training in the world for boy and youth and man.  If the boy is very small, equip him with a small, comfortable skiff.  He will do the rest.  He won’t need to be taught.  Shortly he will be setting a tiny leg-of-mutton and steering with an oar.  Then he will begin to talk keels and centreboards and want to take his blankets out and stop aboard all night.

But don’t be afraid for him.  He is bound to run risks and encounter accidents.  Remember, there are accidents in the nursery as well as out on the water.  More boys have died from hot-house culture than have died on boats large and small; and more boys have been made into strong and reliant men by boat-sailing than by lawn-croquet and dancing-school.

And once a sailor, always a sailor.  The savour of the salt never stales.  The sailor never grows so old that he does not care to go back for one more wrestling bout with wind and wave.  I know it of myself.  I have turned rancher, and live beyond sight of the sea.  Yet I can stay away from it only so long.  After several months have passed, I begin to grow restless.  I find myself day-dreaming over incidents of the last cruise, or wondering if the striped bass are running on Wingo Slough, or eagerly reading the newspapers for reports of the first northern flights of ducks.  And then, suddenly, there is a hurried pack of suit-cases and overhauling of gear, and we are off for Vallejo where the little Roamer lies, waiting, always waiting, for the skiff to come alongside, for the lighting of the fire in the galley-stove, for the pulling off of gaskets, the swinging up of the mainsail, and the rat-tat-tat of the reef-points, for the heaving short and the breaking out, and for the twirling of the wheel as she fills away and heads up Bay or down.