The record-union., 1894-03-03
The Cruise Of the "Happy Thought. !"

Copyright, 1894. All rights reserved.1
Travelling perforce by sea in winter
along the farthest Maine coast, the eye
constantly rests upon wild and dreary
line of shore. For scores of miles not a
hamlet, and scarcely lonely habitation,
can be discerned. Here and there at long
intervals a ghostly lighthouse, percned
upon some, drear, storm-beaten, sea-
girdled rock or grewsome promontory,
may be seen, but this only serves to hint
of ever present danger or to intensity the
shuddering consciousness of unusual
0esolation.
The havoc and terror along these WIN
ter shores almost reach malignancy.
Once driven in behind these foam-man-
tied, granite headlands for shelter, qui-
eter waters may be reached, backed by
beetling mountainous crags, but few
friendly folk, cabins or hamletS are found
to succor or welcome the mariner in dis
tress. From the sea ali seems as if the
spirit of desolation had retired here.
impatient of it's own maddening power.
for winters fury, and, wild and dis
traught, had challenged the sea to mortal
combat.
Awful are these struggles between
ocean and shore. There is scarcely ces-
sation of battle. Mountain waves, as if
led by fierce and plume-tossed hosts,
charge and charge thunderously through
bitter day and wilder night upon black
faced ledge and headland, t1ayed by cut
ting winds and swathed in ghostly fog,
while the hoarse mutterings of battle are
n tho 81 hriQ G
OF storm-be beaten sea-fowl, whirling and
skirling above, as if mad in sympathy
with the tremendous elemental conflicts.
But when the winters rlgors have passed
and the fury of the tempests is spent,
what magical change has come!
MurmurouS sea pulses on welcoming
shore. Savagery has given place to gen.
tlest peace. Kelp and sea-urchins grow
and nestle at the foot of every ledge. In
Vulnerable islands, bathed in balmy, sea-
spent airs, bloom with shrub and fern
and flower. Countless coves rest be-
tween islets and crags, mirroring only
radiant skies, inviting to most venture
some quest, and safe for shallop, dory,
sloop or even lightest canoe.
In far hooks, behind emerald-croWned
crags, lovingly nestle lowbuilt homes,
and here and there, circling landward,
in-shore and on outlying beaches, groups
OF fishers huts picturesquely touch the
very waters edge. Barefoot women are
drying and mending the selnes, and
thousand brown weirs line the shores like
hosts of russet spears.
Steamer and sail and balmy winds
everywhere at sea; beauty, interest and
delight everywhere toward the mighty
land of pines, and for scores and scores
OF miles along shore to Acadian land
where flies the red cross of st. George,
CLINT of fishers sail, sound of fishers
song, voices of fishers wife and little
ones, mingled with glad calls of land
and waterfowl, homing in the headland
hooks or island crags, with sunny days,
starlit nights and the ceaseleSs whisper
ings of favoring gales and songs of the
joyous sea.
At the furthermost reach of this shore,
inside the American boundary, lies
the ancient city of Eastport, girdled by
the noble PasSamaquoddy Bay. Beside it,
10 the west, long arm of the sea, the
Cobscook Bay, cuts through crags and
islets for nearly a score OF miles to the
north, breaking at last into two tiny est
uarieS, fed by murmurous rivulets from
the pine-clad hills beyond.
On one side of these streams, beneath
centuries-old elms and native pines,
StraggleS a long, winding, half-country
road and village street, one side of which,
where the sea-arm stops, breaking away
to the waters edge IN grassy curves, in
little out-jutting riffs of mottled black
and gray stone, or again in shingly,
shelving beach.
Seines and fishing gear hang from outer
cottage walls, or are stretched like drying
SeamosS upon the fences and the rocks.
Dismantled 'Quoddy boats lie half-drawn
upon the shore. A crumbling and ghost
ly old mill stands at one stream mouth,
and tumbledown rookery, where the
cleaning Sardines are sometimes packed
leans against the friendly bank of the
other. The upturned hull of an ancient
schooner, graylng and blistering in storm
and shine, Is dark silhouette between.
tbs now a boat-mender's hut, where the
children come and play, and the ancient
mariners OF the place baSk IN the sun
and spin their yarns while looking out
upon the waters of the seldom sail tIecked,
silent bay.
The hamlet is sleepy old Pembroke
town. The head of the tide" it is called
by sea-wise Pembroke folk: a folk Sa-
vored and favored less by the lives and
ways of the old-iashioned farm folk
among the hills behind, than by all the
lore and witchery of the sea, filtered
through generations into their lives and
thought and speech, from the dozens of
sea captains retired here; sailing skip
pers bold, who have cruised in all known
and unknown waters, who still prefer
salt beef and Gods tongues TO the most
sayory of shore viands; who have taught
their Brazilian parrots in husky voices
TO call their garden-making neighbors
'land lubbers," who now and then yell
to their mumbling old wives, Bake me
a pan o. biscuits thatu crack an snap
like gaff topsaI sheet blocks" who keep
their old ship chronometers beside their
hunks, and never suddenly awaken from
an afternoon doZe without believing,
'Mate, how's she headin'?" and who,
providing you can demonstrate becom-
ing reverence. though they are always
suspicious of your decorum, will spin
such yarns as Will make you know that
the ocean of to-day is but mean mill
pond beside the majestic ocean of their
day and time, while you long for the
amazing fertility Of their genius.
Rare old shippers and brave are they,
sailing over and over with the log of men,
ory the old courses, querulous and rheu-
matte raspy-voiced and childish in likes
and breads, yet ever snug and tidy in
their home harbor at the head of the tide,
in olden Pembroke town, though trifie
Gssitant and unsteady in their reckoning
toward the sailors snug harbor OF the in
finite Beyond.
on this early September day, of not so
many years ago. three little, griZzled, old
sea captains were closeted in the boat
members hut on the shore in front of
Pembroke hamlet. a rakish little single
masted schooner, Happy Thought"
rocked saucily in the otfing above the in