By-and-by we are glad to think of a return to town.  Why is it that pleasure excursions seem to ravel out?  They never stop short after a brilliant achievement nor conclude with an imposing tableau; they die out gradually.  Someone gets out here, some-one else falls off there, and there is a general running down of the machinery that has propelled the festival up to the last moment.  They flatten unmistakably, and it is almost a pity that some sort of climax cannot be engaged for each occasion, in the midst of which everyone should disappear, in red fire and a blaze of rockets.

Our yachting cruise was very jolly.  We hauled in our lines and our anchors, and spread our canvas, while the wind was brisk and the evening was coming on; white-caps danced and tumbled all over the bay.  It looked stormy far out in the open sea as we crossed the channel; thin tongues of fog were lapping among the western hills, as though the town were about to be devoured by some ghostly monster, and presently it was of course.  The spray leaped half-way up our jib, and our fore-sail was dripping wet as we neared the town; there was a rolling up of blankets, and a general clearing out of the debris that always accumulates in small quarters.  Everybody was a little tired, and a little hungry, and a little sleepy, and quite glad to get home again, and when the “Lotus” landed us on the old wharf at the north end of the town, we crept home through the side streets for decency’s sake.

The young “Corinthian” would scorn to recognize a yachting exploit such as I have depicted.  The young “Corinthian” owns his yacht, and lives in it a great part of the summer.  He is the first to make his appearance after the rainy season has begun to subside, and the last to be driven into winter quarters at Oakland or Antioch, where the fleet is moored during four or five months of the year.  The “Corinthian” paints his boat himself, and is an adept at every art necessary to the completeness of yachting life.  He can cook, sail his boat, repair damages of almost every description; he sketches a little, writes a little, and is, in fact, an amphibious Bohemian, the life of the regatta, whose enthusiasm goes far towards sustaining the healthful and amiable rivalry of the two yachting clubs.

These clubs have charming club-houses at Saucelito, where many a “hop” is given during the summer, and where, on one occasion, “H.M.S.  Pinafore” was sung with great effect on the deck of the “Vira,” anchored a few rods from the dock; the dock was, for the time being, transformed into a dress-circle.  Sir Joseph Porter, K.C.B., made his entree in a steam launch, and all the effects were highly realistic.  The only hitch in the otherwise immensely successful representation was the impossibility of securing a moon for the second act.