The Republican journal. [volume] (Belfast, Me.) 1829-current, 1911-07-20
Pilots of Boston.
A Life That Still Keeps Some Sea Romance.

"A Lie That StNl NeePS SOIHe sea Romance.
The sailing ships have vanished, save
the few which load lumber for South
America; the fishing fleet we have, but
falling into possession Of the Portuguese
captains; and still stubborn policy OF
government denies a steam merchant
marine. The Yankee navigator, once
the pride of the nation, looks doomed to
walk the plank into oblivion. He has
one respite. The Old Guard can still
make stand on the decks of the Bos-
ton pilot vessels.
AS the autumn storms come whistling
down the coast. their exploits begin. To
go bobbing in a cookie some half mile
across a wintry sea to board an incom-
ing vessel is not regarded by them as
either spectacular or thrilling. 1t is
their every day work. They have been
trained to it from boyhood; they neither
invite nor enjoy the public stare-which
is why they point the moral to the pres
ent state of affairs on the New England
coast. And if they are asked to serve
the purposes of the picture, it is that
they may illustrate the text. The Bos
ton pilots are an extraordinary group of
men. They would not have been at one
time.
1t had come on to blow from the north
east-had been at it twenty-four hours.
At nine o'clock of the morning, fog shut
down, and Boston Light and the hills of
Hull vanished like an erasure. The breeze
was freshening even under the shelter of
the BreWsters, and steamers went to an
Choir just out of the main ship channel,
alike unwilling to venture out or in. The
pilot boat was lacking back and forth off
Stony Beach, waiting for the signal which
would say that pilot had come down
from Boston to be taken aboard. Lean
ing on the wheel stands the captain in
boots, oilskins and sou 'wester, glisten-
ing already from their drenching in the
scud. Astern bangles a squat, round
canoe" Two of the crew put off to
row ashore at the captains orders; for
he has heard shout from the shore,
though it was inaudible to the others.
They are back, after an interval, with
the pilot, reporting such a sea running
on Stony Beach that he could hardly
have been taken aboard but for the i'm
promptu pontoon bridge of handy dory.
The pilot was destined to the schooner
which happened to be keeping the light
ship station. 1t was then ten o'clock
the vessel lay somewhere in the mist
about six miles to eastward, and the
mornings work was to set him aboard.
The schooner stood out past Point Aller-
ton and at the harbor's mouth caught the
wind. The shore line was looming and
vanishing in drifts of travelling vapor.
Near at hand Shag Rocks gnawed the
breakers to mouthfuls of white foam, and
gulls flew low, screaming like rusty
blocks. Just outside, the mainsail was
dropped and the crew sprang to the
boom, fighting the Tapping canvas to
take reef; then, with the sail hoisted,
the schooner stood out for the lightship,
Wind strummed a continual buzz on he1
rigging.
The long low rank of cottages on AL
lerton beach emerged once, then fog
closed over, and the pilot boat became
the center of a little moving tract of
troubled water which slid past with a
wash and hiss, while the fog horn of
Boston Light howled fainter. In the
cockpit stands the captain and the pas
senger pilot; forward OF the main rig
ging, a young sailor in yellow oilers.
The queer part about him is that first
you look up sharp incline to his heels;
next, down a steep grade at the top of
his head. Another queer thing about
him is that he stands lightly balanced on
his toes, describing these thirty foot
arcs through space without hanging
on. ''She walks as easy as an old shoer'
remarks the pilot, and so she does. Fol-
when she mounts, the eye catches whole
ranges Of waves rushing in under the
lash of the northeaster, hollow beyond
bnl1ay4, nd ol, h.
rainy murk which shuts out distance
armament. Swash and she is worry
ing downhill like dog in a snowdrift.
The equllibrist of the yellow oilers tucks
his head around the mainmast to remark,
Steamer on the port bow, Sir" 1t may
be. At any rate, something shapeless
and shade grayer and the gray rears
to summit, and is caught back into the
obscurlty. Schooner, sir" So the
yellow oilers again. Well, rather. Fish, -
observes the captain, which is pilot s
telegraphy for "a fishing schooner.
Out of the fog she swoops, without a
reef, every rag set except topsails, rae
ing before the wind; snatched to the top
of running wave almost blown along
the crests. She seems to be hitting moth
ing but the high places She shoots past,
gray shape fitting before the blast, or
bird Of storm Swimming the billow tops,
fleet hound, running low to the ground
and bounding in long, graceful leaps.
seen on a quarter, her every sail is a
bulglng crescent, straining cordage.
She's there, she's here; she's gone
More fog and more wind, and no pilot
boat. The two men in the cockpit and
the yellow oilers are keeping sharp look
out. Then, somewhere down the welter,
new voice begins to bawl, presumably
the lightship horn. A dark patch spots
the fog. Its shapes into trim schooner,
with the figure ''3'' plain on reefed
mainsail. Il want you to put me aboard
as if she was one of the old briggs" says
the pilot, twinkling cts going to be
DONE" says the captain. There is still
maneuvring to be gone through. But
what gyrations on the part of that other
schooner She saws the horizon line with
her whole hull; she kicks stern high out
OF water to an exposure of her red paint
and half of her rudder; she lifts her
streaming bows for another plunge; she
skates, she slants, wallows, climbs,
pounces. ''Quite hobbe on COM
ments the pilot. 1t was interesting to
learn that this, among the brotherhood,
was not considered fiat calm.