EASTWARD IN MONA
Robert Barrie
There are many advantages in
sea-voyaging,
but security is not one of them.
-- Saadi.
IN the winter of 1893 I found and bought the cutter
Mona, ten-tonner, built in the most substantial
manner by Lawley, of Boston, after lines of the
Richardson May; a splendid sea boat, and good at
windward work; awfully wet, but sure to get you
somewhere. She seemed quite a vessel to me, this, my
first decked boat, forty-two feet over all, thirty-six
feet waterline, eight feet beam, seven feet six inches
draft, and was truly palatial, with after stateroom,
saloon, toilet, and forecastle and galley combined. She
was flush-decked, with a circular hatch to sail room that
served as a steering well. There was all the apparatus of
long tiller, housing topmast, reefing bowsprit, runners,
and backstays, dear to the heart of the Englishman, that
gave a distinction and style to the type. Her great fault
was diving forward, common of course to all straight stem
boats; if she had a flaring clipper bow I would take her
back today. She was coppered like a ship, and altogether
a most delightful little packet, and I had a lot of
pleasure and valuable experience in her.
I could not wait for March to be gone before I should
go to get her, so I sent an old fellow who said he was a
yacht hand to Larchmont to scrub her down, inside and
out, and get the lower sails on her. I arrived one frosty
afternoon and found old Banks getting the last of the
gear on her as she lay in the "Gut" in the yacht club
grounds. I slept in the house that night as Banks hadn't
had the stove going that day and the ship was cold, but I
was out early next morning and got everything ready
preparatory to hauling out of the gut. This job was
superintended by the club hand, who, after the manner of
his kind, made a great to-do of a small matter so as to
be sure of his tip.
I gave him a V, so he condescended to help make sail,
and then dropped astern and stood shouting unintelligible
directions. It was a fairly bright day, but not a sail in
sight. As we slipped along under the light westerly
breeze, Banks went below to make coffee and get something
for my lunch, and I put her through her paces, coming on
the wind, going about, etc., etc., which made Banks stick
his head out of the forehatch in amazement. Everything
was satisfactory, and I liked sailing her so well that I
was rather disappointed when we got down near Whitestone
and the tug picked us up.
The breeze had freshened and came down hard from the
northwest, and our mainsail, with the tug rattling along
at its best, made an awful clatter, but as I wanted to be
ready for anything when we got to the Battery, I kept it
on.
Of course, as luck would have it, we arrived at Hell
Gate and Blackwell's Island as the big eastbound Sound
steamers came along, and we were showered with icy spray
unmercifully. Banks stood in the well and steered, and I
stood on the companion steps with my head out of the
cabin slide and shivered.
Just west of Governor's Island the tug dropped us. A
cold, blustery March afternoon, the red sun going down,
and dark coming on, is not the best time, by any means,
to try to navigate the Kills, so looked out for a tug,
and managed to get one that would take me to Perth Amboy.
Off we started, the breeze so strong that close-hauled,
under mainsail alone, we ran along to windward of and
abreast of the tug, with the tow line in a big bight
between us; so we crossed the harbor, but furled mainsail
as soon as we headed to the breeze in the Kills.
IONA. THIMBLE ISLANDS, 1885
IONA ON THE HARD. [Governor in the punt.]
It was a slow, cold journey, with ice forming on deck.
I steered and Banks tried to get the stove red hot, but
with little success. Anchored at Perth Amboy at eight,
and after a poor meal I went ashore to hunt up a tug to
take us the next morning up the Raritan to the canal.
Finally found the owner who called out of his bedroom
window that he would have to charge twelve dollars as it
would be Sunday work. Back on board and burned all the
cabin lamps all night in the effort to keep warm. Next
morning the little, toylike tug came along side, out of
the fog, and managed to get us to New Brunswick at noon.
I arranged for help for the journey through the canal,
and boarded a train for Philadelphia. I went up and met
the boat at Bordentown, at the western end of the canal;
the journey through forty-four miles and fourteen locks
having taken almost two days.
It was still March, with northerly wind, raw and
blustery, but youth and enthusiasm made it all a joy to
me. We slipped out of the canal and down the Delaware
with the ebb like a steamer; but alas, snow came on, and
in one of the thickest squalls I ran on the bar at
Kinkora so hard that she reared up and almost submerged
her counter, and then swung around and lay on her side. I
was in an awful stew, and thought she was going to lay
over at low water and fill, but reason reassured me. I
saw that nothing we could do on the falling tide would be
of any use, so I had Banks put me ashore on the Jersey
side, and finally got a train to Camden; and, at the
shipyard at Cooper's Point, arranged for a tug to go up
and get her. Of course they promised to do so at once,
but, as a matter of fact, Mona had floated off at flood,
and was anchored in the cove when the tug arrived.
TINICUM HARBOR, DELAWARE RIVER, 1896.
Nur-al-Deu /
Lenni / Mona
MONA AT COOPER'S POINT, 1894.
That spring was a busy one. I had her scraped inside
and out, and of course had the changes made that every
new owner feels are indispensable. When warm weather came
we had some trials on the river and upper bay, all of
which made me better satisfied than ever. We even won
some prizes with her. But the great event of the year was
the cruise to the eastward.
Banks, while a good hand at refitting, etc., had
proved sullen and grumpy while cruising, so I parted with
him, and was lucky enough to get Alec; a fine, big
fellow, a splendid sailor and a fine specimen of a man,
both physically and mentally, who had never been in a
yacht, but who quickly learned the routine, which after
all, though a desirable tradition, a simple enough
matter. As a cook I got a cockney Englishman who was
clever in every way, but who always got seasick if it was
at all rough.
With these two in the forecastle, on July 11, 1894, I
left the Corinthian Yacht Club Station at Essington, on
the Delaware, twelve miles below Philadelphia,
accompanied by a couple of friends who were to spend the
night on board and be put ashore next morning at the most
convenient place. It was a bright night, and we slipped
along under a light air from the Jersey shore, but
by-and-bye the breeze headed us and we beat down, but the
ebb was with us. About ten o'clock we had ale, Edam
cheese, and crackers, with the result, Joe Jeanes
claimed, that when we tried to find a quiet spot for the
night at New Castle, I, at the lead, called three
fathoms, and next moment we were aground in mud.
Managed to work off however; all slept soundly until
late the next day, and after late breakfast my friends
left me. Getting the spinnaker pole, which was thirty
four feet long and unusually large for such a boat, on
deck, I got under way about noon and by one o'clock was
off the red buoy at Port Penn. Here I set log and
barometer, and slipped down the bay with light air. Off
Ship John Light at three, Elbow Ledge at five, and
abreast Brandywine Shoal at eight. The patent taffrail
log, which I had set at Port Penn, here registered
thirty-eight miles.
It was now getting dark, and to be in accord with the
old fellows in the storybooks, I took in my jib- and gaff
topsails which had been doing good work all afternoon.
Cape May Light was off southeast, and I kept, as I
thought, well off to round it, but must have kept closer
than I intended, for about nine o'clock I ran into a
considerable tide rip which must have been the Overfalls.
There was quite a little breeze just then, and the strong
ebb shoved me up against it, so that it was just as well
I had been careful about the light sails. Some water came
on deck, but nothing heavy, and we soon shot through the
rip and went peacefully out to sea. Barometer steady
about 30.1.
Except for a slight haze it was clear and pleasant
with a very slight breeze from the southeast. Bound to be
far enough off shore, I went out close to N.E. End
Lightship before heading up. My old logbook shows we got
along faster than, at the time, we seemed to, for at two
o'clock, July 13th, we logged seventy-two miles. Then it
got very light, and we used up an hour and a half doing
seven miles. It was then four o'clock, and not far from
dawn, and perfectly quiet, so I had Albert, the cook,
who, by the way, was seasick in the Overfalls, make
coffee; and then I turned in and slept until I was
awakened by hails exchanged with a fishing smack.
Going on deck, found a lovely morning, and several
fishermen about. We were then just off Absecon, and had a
nice, cool, little breeze off shore. This carried us
along until after breakfast, but gradually died out. When
below Beach Haven a chum, Harry Jeanes, came out, some
distance astern, in the Irex, cutter, a little
shorter, but wider and more powerful than the Mona. He
brought a spanking southwest breeze with him out of the
inlet, and rapidly overhauled us. We kept together for
awhile and exchanged messages with code signals for a
time; but when he signaled, "follow my movements," and
headed inshore, I mutinied, and set signals for the
course, and went off on my own hook for Barnegat sea
buoy. When we met at Bay Ridge next day I learned that he
had run inshore to salute his sister at her cottage.
Barnegat Shoals at eleven o'clock were a mass of surf.
Log here showed one hundred and eighteen miles: at four
o'clock we were off Long Branch Pier, log one hundred and
fifty-two, which, if correct, was thirty four knots in
four and a half hours, or about seven and a half knots an
hour. There was probably some "set" up the beach in our
favor; except in northerly weather there generally is.
However, the run was not to be sneered at, as we passed
in Sandy Hook about five o'clock, and I was anchored off
the Atlantic Yacht Club House at Bay Ridge, sails furled,
dressed, ashore, and stowing a tenderloin and modest pint
of claret at eight o'clock.
If all runs around could be made as this was, in
twenty eight hours from New Castle to Sandy Hook, it
would be very pleasant; but there are stories of fellows
fog- or windbound at the Delaware Breakwater for a week
before an opportunity for a run occurs. Undoubtedly the
best way for a small boat is to pass out the capes in the
afternoon, then there is a good chance to arrive at New
York in daylight, if wind proves favorable. If headed by
northeasterly one can then always run back. All the
inlets are bad enough for strangers in daylight, and
dangerous, on account of absence of leading lights, at
night. Even the skippers of local, light draft craft have
come to grief in daylight in bad weather.
My wife, who had gone over by rail, was waiting for me
at her people's in Brooklyn. Next morning, Saturday, we
went down to the club, and Jeanes and I bargained for a
tug to take us through East River and Hell Gate, and we
had a fine run through, one boat on each quarter, so that
we were abreast. It was a bright, sunny afternoon, and
the panorama looked its best. We dropped off at
Whitestone, and Irex went on to Piepgras' Yard, at City
Island, for improvements.
We had dinner at the Frenchman's, and in the evening
had showers and mosquitoes. Sunday, bright and hot, and
no breeze all day. Friends, who had been phoned for,
came, and two of us had a swim. After luncheon we set
mainsail, but had not a breath of air. As we had
forgotten the ensign halyards, Alec gave us some
amusement by going out on gaff to reeve them, and then
sliding down the leech as we used to do the banisters
when children.
About five o'clock our friends left us, and we up
anchor and managed to get to the Stepping Stones with the
tide. Here a nice little breeze came off the southern
shore, and, all sail set, we slipped along. It was a
beautiful, moonlight night, the black hills of the Long
Island shore in strong contrast to the bright sky and
glittering water. After dinner we lay on the sloping deck
looking to the south and intent on the beauty of the
night, when suddenly we were taken aback by a sudden
shift of wind from a squall in the northwest that we had
not noticed coming down on us.
I was certainly caught napping: the boom came over
against the preventer, and the headsails, including jib
topsail, were aback. I at once kicked down the tiller
with my foot, drove my wife into the companion way, and
had the men get off light sails and staysail. We were
fairly caught, and driving along towards the entrance to
Oyster Bay, where I had never been; and could not believe
that one was expected to go between the light and the
black, cliff-like hill which seemed to touch it. My chart
did not show red-sector, and I had not time to look up
the sailing directions, so was puzzled by the red. I
noticed a working schooner cut in between me and the red,
so I took a chance and followed him, and got through
successfully. I have since, to avoid tide, done the same
thing in daylight.
We boiled up to the anchorage under head of mainsail.
Of course, as soon as we were anchored, it cleared off;
and we had a beautiful evening. It was then about nine
o'clock; fortunately there had not been any rain, so we
sat on deck, and by-and-bye ate watermelon.
Next morning, the sixteenth, we went ashore and up to
the Seawanhaka Club; there was not a breath of air, and
it was hot and uncomfortable, so back on board, and
managed to work out of the harbor with the last of the
ebb about noon. That day was one of the most tiresome
that it has ever been my lot to endure on a boat; we had
the faintest airs all day and night, and only anchored in
Morris Cove at four o'clock in the morning: it was almost
as bright as day with the moon. I tumbled below and into
bed the minute the anchor was down. Mosquitoes all day,
even in the middle of the Sound.
What was left of Tuesday morning, after we had had
breakfast, was used in visiting friends in New Haven. In
the afternoon we ran, in a nice southerly breeze, around
to the Thimble Islands, twelve miles east of Morris Cove.
At the western entrance to the islands we met Mr. Wayland
in a naphtha launch, and he told me where best to anchor,
but I wanted to run in near the village to be near
friends, and disregarded his advice with the sad result
that I got ashore in mud, but hauled off and finally
anchored just astern of Viola's mooring, with
mainsail standing.
After spending the afternoon and evening ashore we
rowed back in the moonlight. When on board my wife at
once went below to bed. It was perfectly still and
bright; the men lying on deck forward sucking at their
pipes. I remembered the trouble yachts had beating out of
the western entrance, and thought it would be a good plan
to tow out and anchor for the night outside; so the men
got ahead in the boat, laughing and talking. When we were
out near Outer Island, at what I thought would be a good
place to anchor, I went to the side and put over the
lead, leaning over and feeling for mud. Just then the
boom came over ever so gently, and slowly but firmly put
me, all clothed, and watch in pocket, overboard. When I
came up I was laughing so I could do nothing, and had
taken in some water when the men came along in the boat
and hauled me out. We anchored there, and had a quiet and
peaceful night.
Wednesday we had another drifting match -- with
mosquitoes. Finally had a little breeze that carried us
down to the mouth of the Thames at dark, and there left
us. With the faintest airs we managed to get inside the
breakwater at Noank, but went ashore on the mud in trying
to go up the Mystic River, a foolish thing to attempt at
night, as it is bad enough in broad daylight and low
tide. Low water is the best time as then the grass on the
mud banks gives warning.
Next day towed up to Mystic, and stayed there three
days, painting, varnishing, and giving a party. The party
was on Saturday night; the regulation thing, with Chinese
lanterns and claret cup on a table on deck. Just as the
ice cream was about to be broached along came a squall,
whipped up the awning, and smashed the Chinese lanterns
hung along the edge. This created excitement among the
twenty-three people, mostly young women, but all,
including the claret cup and ice cream, were saved and
taken to a large studio nearby and stowed one inside the
other. Albert, the cook, wrote a pathetic and
melodramatic account of the party and secretly sent it to
the New York Tribune, where it actually appeared
in print, and set us all roaring.
Sunday, the twenty-second, it rained and blew; so,
having nothing else to do, I took Colin Campbell Cooper
and a friend for a sail around to New London; came back
too late to sail up to Mystic, so left the vessel at
Noank. Next morning there was a spanking northwest
breeze, and a lot of women thought it was too fine a day
for a sail to be missed, so we set out from Noank and ran
out to The Race, where, when we came on the wind to turn
up to New London, we got it, butt end first, and the
party was drenched, but quickly dried in the fierce hot
sun when we got into the Thames.
We discharged passengers at New London. The little
packet seemed almost lonely with just my wife and self on
board; so, when we had run down to the Pequod, we left
her and spent the balance of the afternoon and night with
friends in their cottage at Eastern Point. Next morning
it was very foggy, so we did not go back on board until
about noon, when it had cleared up. The afternoon breeze
finally came along at three o'clock and we started for
Newport.
I would not nowadays commit the folly of leaving New
London in a small boat at three o'clock in the afternoon,
not knowing when I'd get to sleep; but in those days I
did not know what discretion or discomfort was. We had a
nice run through Fisher's Island Sound, but found more
sea than I expected when we got outside: the breeze began
to die out, and soon we had nasty rolling and
boom-jerking. However, what breeze there was, was free,
and we rolled along pretty well considering. Got in by
the Dumplings just as the Fall River steamer came along
to annoy me; to make matters worse a government
searchlight was kept on us for a long while, almost
blinding me: this seems a favorite trick. My wife, below
in her bed, heard me growling about this and the port
sidelight, which would not burn, in a way that she said
was swearing. Managed to get in at the upper entrance to
harbor and found it full of yachts; so full that they
looked like horses in stalls. I had to potter around for
awhile before I could find a place to squeeze in. Next
morning the harbormaster came along and said I was half a
length too far out in the fairway; so, after breakfast, I
had to kedge ahead.
After a couple of days here my wife left me, and my
brother George joined me for the run back to New London.
We made an early start with a nice southeast breeze so
that we could just stand down to Point Judith. The breeze
held, and we had a quick run to New London, where my
brother left me.
I had had such a poky and tiresome trip down the Sound
that I called it names, and said I would go back to the
Delaware capes outside, so the next day, Saturday the
twenty eighth, I left New London about noon, first taking
on fish and fruit, and a new chart of the coast. Just as
I was about to sail had a visit from Withers, of the
Muriel, who had been staying in New London ever
since he got there, which was before the boat races. Had
no wind at all; dipped our ensign to friends in passing
Eastern Point. Reached Race Rock at lunch time, and there
got a spanking breeze, which kept increasing so that we
had to take in jib topsail, then topsail, then foresail,
and got so strong, as we neared Montauk, that I tried to
house the topmast, but the boat was pitching so much that
I was afraid we would snap the stick when it got half way
down, so gave up the idea.
Passed Montauk at five o'clock in the evening, having
made thirteen and a half knots in two and a half hours;
it was blowing awfully hard as we neared Montauk, and we
prepared for very heavy weather outside, but, strange to
relate, there was hardly any wind at all on the ocean,
and we set all sail again, including jib topsail. What
wind there was, was from the southwest, dead ahead, so I
started to tack along the south shore of Long Island, but
finding there was such a strong northeasterly current
running there I started on a long tack to the south about
nine o'clock; soon the breeze began to get stronger, and
we had again to shorten sail, and the wind and sea rose
so that about one o'clock it was blowing what seemed to
me, half a gale; at any rate, every sea was a comber, and
it was like sailing up and down little mountains. Just
before daybreak, in a very heavy squall, we burst the eye
in the starboard side of the cranse iron. The bowsprit
was going under every sea; but by at once lowering the
jib we saved it.
I reckoned we were now twenty-five miles south of
Montauk. I hove to and waited for daylight, and then
started to repair damages; the jib-topsail, which had not
been taken on board during the night but stowed in a wad
at the bowsprit end, had got adrift, and was so wrapped
about the stay, bowsprit, and bobstay that Alec had to go
out and cut it adrift, the bowsprit burying him up to his
neck nearly every sea. After the wreck was cleared away I
decided that we would reef the bowsprit, as I was afraid
it would snap; after reefing it we set the storm jib and
reefed mainsail, and started for the Long Island shore
about seven o'clock, and did not sight it until lunch
time; then we headed west, and soon reached Shinnecock
Light; all this while it was so rough we were all kept
soaked and could not light a fire, so had only fruit,
crackers, and whiskey. About four o'clock the wind,
killed by thunderstorms which were over Long Island,
suddenly died away. Of course, there was a big sea on,
and one can imagine how we pitched about. I thought the
boat would wrench apart -- the sun came out terribly hot,
and soon I felt seasick. Alfred, the cook, had been
actively so most of the time. About six o'clock the
thunderstorms drew off; we got a little breeze, and at
once stood off shore, as the strong northeasterly current
there had been setting us on shore all the while of the
calm, and I was afraid we would go aground. As we had two
reefs in mainsail, having had to put in another, we did
not make much headway, and still remained near shore.
About nine o'clock the thunder squalls came back: as
soon as the first struck us, we lowered mainsail and
drove southward under headsails; but soon the wind died
away, and we got the rain and lightning, both of which
were wholesale. Of course, when the wind died out, the
boat was pitched about terribly by the seas, and so
furiously that the boom took charge of the deck, and we
had to lie on the deck to escape being crushed by it. It
burst several lashings and tore out cleats, and we only
got it under control by lashing it with heavy lines to
the mainsheet bolts on each side. Meanwhile, this
pitching about had so stretched the main rigging that it
slapped about so much that the side lights were jerked
out and could not be kept burning. Just as luck would
have it, plenty of steamers came along, and we were kept
busy showing lights. This thunder squall excitement was
repeated five times during the night, and I never was so
thankful to see daylight; when it came we headed for the
shore again, but, as the wind was very light, we did not
make much headway. About one o'clock, however, we passed
Fire Island Light, and here got a good breeze from the
southwest, which drove us along at the splendid rate of
eight knots for an hour, which was very fast traveling
for a small boat. This breeze was right ahead for a Cape
May course, and the nearest we could point was for Sandy
Hook, and we boomed along in that direction for a couple
of hours, then the wind died out when we were off East
Rockaway. Here the current, which runs very strong in an
easterly direction all along the Long Island shore, drove
us in so far that we struck a bar off one of the inlets,
thumping three times so hard as to knock us off our feet.
Fortunately, we got a light breeze just at this moment,
and managed to claw off shore.
This was just at sunset, so I kept going southwesterly
all night until I sighted the Navesink lights and the
glare of Long Branch about three o'clock, having missed
the Sandy Hook Light Vessel on account of a rainy haze
over the water. I stood about until daybreak, keeping
well out to sea. At daybreak there was not a breath of
wind. It was now Tuesday, and we had been three nights
and days at sea without decent meals and very little
sleep, and we were all pretty well disgusted with the
weather, the breezes having been persistently dead ahead
whichever way we pointed. I made up my mind my people on
shore would be worried if we were not heard from soon, so
I decided to go into Sandy Hook and telegraph. As we were
without breeze, could not even do this. About six
o'clock, however, a spanking breeze came blowing up the
Jersey coast, dead ahead, so even if we had kept on for
Cape May we would have made very little headway.
I therefore headed for Sandy Hook, and passed in about
ten o'clock, but concluded to send the ship home through
the canal, and so sailed through the crooked channel
across the bay to South Amboy, which is at the mouth of
the Raritan River; anchored there about one o'clock, and
at once went ashore and sent telegrams, and had a big,
fat, country dinner at a hotel. As Alec was going back to
the boat a heavy thunder squall came up, immediately
raising an awful sea, so bad that the tugboatmen wanted
to stop him going out. It was very lively for awhile,
three big schooners driving ashore, although they each
had out two anchors; tugboats increased the excitement by
tooting and shrieking. When the squall struck the Mona it
threw her on her beam ends, although everything was
snugly furled, and shook up everything on board and
spoiled the crew's dinner. She dragged a little, but
Alfred had sense enough to pay out chain, and so she
held.
I was delighted with the way she behaved in the nasty
weather we had during the trip, and she was none the
worse for it, except that she had such a washing with the
seas that the varnish was worn off nearly everything. The
bowsprit was perfectly white, and the copper brightly
scoured. I left her at South Amboy, and the men brought
her home through the canal. I joined them at Bordentown,
and had a fine but uneventful sail down to the club
station at Essington, and so ended a pretty good four
weeks' cruise.
I went east again in the Mona in 1895, but it was over
practically the same ground, or water, except that I made
New London my headquarters for a couple of months while
suffering from eye trouble, and there gave Mona an
entirely new cabin arrangement, new rail, etc., and
pottered around Fisher's Island a good deal. The next
year I could not get away for any length of time, and so,
as I was "Rear" that year, there was a flagship in the
station all summer, which is something very unusual. We
sailed up and down the river and bay, and sailed some
races, and even won a couple of prizes, but nothing much
in the way of cruising came off until the next year when
we discovered the Chesapeake.
..
© 2000 Craig
O'Donnell, editor &
general factotum.
May not be reproduced without my permission. Go scan your
own damn article.