In a stark calm and heavy tide in the Carquinez Straits, where anchors skate on the channel-scoured bottom, we were sucked against a big dock and smashed and bumped down a quarter of a mile of its length before we could get clear.  Two hours afterward, on San Pablo Bay, the wind was piping up and we were reefing down.  It is no fun to pick up a skiff adrift in a heavy sea and gale.  That was our next task, for our skiff, swamping, parted both towing painters we had bent on.  Before we recovered it we had nearly killed ourselves with exhaustion, and we certainly had strained the sloop in every part from keelson to truck.  And to cap it all, coming into our home port, beating up the narrowest part of the San Antonio Estuary, we had a shave of inches from collision with a big ship in tow of a tug.  I have sailed the ocean in far larger craft a year at a time, in which period occurred no such chapter of moving incident.

After all, the mishaps are almost the best part of small-boat sailing.  Looking back, they prove to be punctuations of joy.  At the time they try your mettle and your vocabulary, and may make you so pessimistic as to believe that God has a grudge against you—­but afterward, ah, afterward, with what pleasure you remember them and with what gusto do you relate them to your brother skippers in the fellowhood of small-boat sailing!

A narrow, winding slough; a half tide, exposing mud surfaced with gangrenous slime; the water itself filthy and discoloured by the waste from the vats of a near-by tannery; the marsh grass on either side mottled with all the shades of a decaying orchid; a crazy, ramshackled, ancient wharf; and at the end of the wharf a small, white-painted sloop.  Nothing romantic about it.  No hint of adventure.  A splendid pictorial argument against the alleged joys of small-boat sailing.  Possibly that is what Cloudesley and I thought, that sombre, leaden morning as we turned out to cook breakfast and wash decks.  The latter was my stunt, but one look at the dirty water overside and another at my fresh-painted deck, deterred me.  After breakfast, we started a game of chess.  The tide continued to fall, and we felt the sloop begin to list.  We played on until the chess men began to fall over.  The list increased, and we went on deck.  Bow-line and stern-line were drawn taut.  As we looked the boat listed still farther with an abrupt jerk.  The lines were now very taut.

“As soon as her belly touches the bottom she will stop,” I said.

Cloudesley sounded with a boat-hook along the outside.

“Seven feet of water,” he announced.  “The bank is almost up and down.  The first thing that touches will be her mast when she turns bottom up.”

An ominous, minute snapping noise came from the stern-line.  Even as we looked, we saw a strand fray and part.  Then we jumped.  Scarcely had we bent another line between the stern and the wharf, when the original line parted.  As we bent another line for’ard, the original one there crackled and parted.  After that, it was an inferno of work and excitement.