And if a man is a born sailor, and has gone to the school of the sea, never in all his life can he get away from the sea again.  The salt of it is in his bones as well as his nostrils, and the sea will call to him until he dies.  Of late years, I have found easier ways of earning a living.  I have quit the forecastle for keeps, but always I come back to the sea.  In my case it is usually San Francisco Bay, than which no lustier, tougher, sheet of water can be found for small-boat sailing.

It really blows on San Francisco Bay.  During the winter, which is the best cruising season, we have southeasters, southwesters, and occasional howling northers.  Throughout the summer we have what we call the “sea-breeze,” an unfailing wind off the Pacific that on most afternoons in the week blows what the Atlantic Coast yachtsmen would name a gale.  They are always surprised by the small spread of canvas our yachts carry.  Some of them, with schooners they have sailed around the Horn, have looked proudly at their own lofty sticks and huge spreads, then patronisingly and even pityingly at ours.  Then, perchance, they have joined in a club cruise from San Francisco to Mare Island.  They found the morning run up the Bay delightful.  In the afternoon, when the brave west wind ramped across San Pablo Bay and they faced it on the long beat home, things were somewhat different.  One by one, like a flight of swallows, our more meagrely sparred and canvassed yachts went by, leaving them wallowing and dead and shortening down in what they called a gale but which we called a dandy sailing breeze.  The next time they came out, we would notice their sticks cut down, their booms shortened, and their after-leeches nearer the luffs by whole cloths.

As for excitement, there is all the difference in the world between a ship in trouble at sea, and a small boat in trouble on land-locked water.  Yet for genuine excitement and thrill, give me the small boat.  Things happen so quickly, and there are always so few to do the work—­and hard work, too, as the small-boat sailor knows.  I have toiled all night, both watches on deck, in a typhoon off the coast of Japan, and been less exhausted than by two hours’ work at reefing down a thirty-foot sloop and heaving up two anchors on a lee shore in a screaming southeaster.

Hard work and excitement?  Let the wind baffle and drop in a heavy tide-way just as you are sailing your little sloop through a narrow draw-bridge.  Behold your sails, upon which you are depending, flap with sudden emptiness, and then see the impish wind, with a haul of eight points, fill your jib aback with a gusty puff.  Around she goes, and sweeps, not through the open draw, but broadside on against the solid piles.  Hear the roar of the tide, sucking through the trestle.  And hear and see your pretty, fresh-painted boat crash against the piles.  Feel her stout little hull give to the impact.  See the rail actually pinch in.  Hear your canvas