Abington High School - Abhis Yearbook (Abington, MA)

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8 THE ABHIS remote chug-a-chug of a nIotor. Laboriously quickening my pace, I plodded past the boat house and Fish hut to the end of the point. By this time, the noise had increased in volume to a blatant staccato clatter, and Tom Laf- ford's fishing boat emerged from the conceal- ment of a heavy blanket of fog and pulled up offshore. A large figure behind the cabin cut the engine, and a powerful voice boomed. Are you there? I replied in the aflirmative, waded out to the bow of the craft, and hoisted myself .to the deck. Tom immediately maneuvered his boat around the point and headed for the mouth of the bay. Tom Laffortl, tall, middle-aged, sun-bronzed, is a robust fisherman of a healthy six-foot, four. When excited, he is given to excessive Stain- mering. He has a reputation of devouring in one meal as much as an ordinary person con- sumes in a day. The reason for my rising at so premature an hour was to Hsh, of course, but more specifi- cally to jig for mackerel. Consequently, while I held the wheel, Tom ground a number of' salt herring into bits, to be employed in at- tracting a school. He then instructed me in steering by the use of the compass, and I held the boat to course, through the fog, until almost five knots out, we reached the fishing waters off the Horseheads , sheer rock cliffs of an unusually great height, at the summit of which a solitary lighthouse stands its eternal vigil. There, when Tom had heaved the anchor over the side and scattered a sufficient amount of powder-like remnants of the her- ring, we baited our hooks and CZISI out our lines. XfVe repeated this process, rapid-fire, for approximately twenty minutes. After that, nothing whatsoever hindered the routine of flinging out the line, watching it sink from sight, iigging it for a time, hauling it up, scattering Inore bits of herring, then redupli- rating the process. The sun, high over the horizon, had long since risen and the fog had mysteriously van- ished. It was at this period that I commenced to notice the motion of the boat. The sea rose and fell. The vessel rocked up and down, up and down, amid swirling white-caps. My stomach tossed up and down, turned flip-flops, and then seemed to fall flat on its face, if stom- achs do that sort of thing. I eventually became accustomed to the continual swaying, however, although for the remainder of the trip I felt a sort of dizzy, sickening sensation in the pit of my stomach and hiccoughed regularly. Thus the morning wore on. Finally, when signs of dogfish appeared, we decided that the mackerel had been driven away by these ocean scavengers. IfVe therefore stowed our gear and headed for home. Al- though in the eyes of a seasoned mariner our miserly catch would most probably be labeled a poor one fthe preceding morning many boats had passed well over the four hundred markj, it not only proved for me an interesting and practical experience but provided a number of tempting repasts. WILLIAM GRooM, '53 A DAY WITH THE F.B.I. Three years ago I had a chance to accom- pany my brother, an F.B.I. agent, on his daily chores. The Federal Bureau of Investigation is the special police of the United States Gov- ernment. To start any routine day, an agent must report in the morning to a certain headquar- ters building. In this case, my brother had to report to the United States Court House in New York City. Here he found on his desk the agendum for the day. Each special agent is placed on a squad. A squad is made up of a group of men who are assigned to a specific job. Such squads are: the Communist Squad, the Criminal Squad, and the Robbery Squad. It happens that my brother was on the Communist Squad. He and I started off the day by going to the bureau garage, where we obtained a car equipped with a two-way radio and other accessories. The car appears like any common car. My brother's job for the'day was to go to some parts of New York City, mainly Brook- lyn, and look up people who were on the bureau's records as being Communists. I-le had to find out whether they still lived at the address on the records and, if not, where they could be found. This checking is done so that in case of an attack upon the United States all the Communists could be quickly rounded up. Because of the great number of Communists in the United States today, the F.B.I. is on the move both day and night, in order to keep tabs on these anti-American people. I think that this visit with the F.B.I. was most beneficial to me and therefore I consider myself most fortunate to have been able to have such a privilege. Anyone who has not actually seen the bureau in action could not realize how effective it is. - DAVID BRADY, '54

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THE ABHIS 7 LITERARY THE JOURNEY . I 21:1 '. .I 9, ' ' ' C : ' . 'yi v:'. ' -S' ' .:gls:?qu,Q.,vu- : 'x 4 , . are . . TNQ. Al o 71.92 9, ' if.. ' 'H S. Q It was late one foggy winter afternoon. A lone Figure, walking down a narrow path, came to a halt and gazed about in wonderment at the gorgeous scene stretching before him. Every blade of grass was a tiny knight sheathed in glittering iceg the once ugly weeds, now transfigured into exquisite glass trees, proudly took their places in this strange new worldg even the rough path covered with a glimmering crust, looked like a magic carpet twisting and turning into eternity: the tops of the domi- neering trees, lost far up in the fog, peered down through their shiny branches at the transformed earth. As if overwhelmed by this magnificence, the figure moved on with bowed head and aimless step. Suddenly, he slipped and fell. After lying still for a while, he clambered to his feet, staggered on, then, regaining confi- dence, hastened forward. VVhen he sighted a fallen tree looming in the path ahead, he became discouraged and almost gave up. Some instinct, however, seemed to guide him and to help to surmount this barrier. Following his ordeal he sat down on a stump to rest, but suddenly realized that he was caught between the tides of day and night. He glanced fur- tively down the path, stretching far behind him, but the fog had covered his passing: he looked ahead, only to see that the future was also obscured by the fog. The traveler hurried onward, until he came to a fork in the path. VVhile he paused pensive and uncertain, night won the battle, and his form was no longer enclosed in dusk but blanketed by darkness. Guided by the same instinct'that had previously helped him, he chose the right way. Then, when it seemed that he must drop from complete exhaustion, he saw a warm and welcoming light ahead. The figure showed no more uncertainty, fatigue, or fear but proceeded with exhilarated step. As he approached the end of the path, a large gold door swung open and a blinding light poured forth. INhen this brilliance touched the air, the fog disappeared and, with the stars and moon, the earth was bright and clear. The traveler stumbled joyously into the embrace of the one he loved most. The journey was overg he had reached home. -IOANNE WRIGHT, '53 A DAY'S SPORT IN NOVA SCOTIA I raised a weary arm and groped blindly through the darkness for the button that would shut from my ears the shrill blast of the alarm. Then, in the silence that followed, I forced myself reluctantly from the warmth and secu- rity of bed, dressed in a hasty, haphazard fashion, and tiptoed downstairs. After con- suming a hearty breakfast, and donning a heavy hunting jacket, I quietly slipped from the house into the nipping air of an early Cape Breton morning. For some curious reason my uncle, sword- hshing in waters off Glace Bay, had estab- lished his home on the tip of a secluded stretch of wooded land which jutted into St. Peter's Bay, at the entrance to the beautiful Bras d'Or Lakes. The residence of his nearest neighbor lay at least a mile to the west, the intervening distance being occupied by a sylvan stretch of firs and hemlocks, the lumber of which sup- plied him with one of many means of liveli- hood. I lumbered down through the cow pastures to the shore, clumsily scaling a series of wooden rail fences, being impeded in this by the con- stant interference of my bulky hip rubber boots and the enveloping darkness of an early morning hour. The only noise penetrating the tranquil stillness of before dawn were the methodical clomp of the boots on the beach gravel and the frightened screeching of gulls, curlews, and yellowlegs as they scurried from the direction of my approach. Because of the fog which had rolled in and the obscurity of the hour, only the misty outline of the opposite side of the bay was discernible, which in the brilliant radiance of the midday sun presents a striking illustration of the vivid beauty for which Cape Breton is noted, the landscape being charac- terized bv the symmetrical checkered pattern of multi-hued fields, the seemingly infinite stretches of verdant woodland, the uniform layout of typical country villages and farms, and the shapely contour of rolling hills in every direction. Suddenly, from a small cove in a natural inlet some distance to my right resounded the

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Tl-IEABHIS 9 ALL IN A DAY'S PLAY The morning lay before me, a glorious de- light. There was only a slight breeze rufiling the diamondstudded bay, which awaited my pleasure. The sky was azure blue except for a few cotton thunderheads which added to the mighty panorama surrounding our island nestled in Onset Bay. The question now arose as to whether I should take advantage of the silvery white sand which seemed to defy the foaming breakers or explore the great vastness of the surrounding water. I chose the latter. I nosed my little boat out into the bay, with oars dipping, like galleons of old, disturbing the jewel-clear water. I rounded the southern and more heavily populated end of the isle and set course for the mouth of the bay. As I approached the two guarding peninsulas, two old castles of an empire and age built on paper credit came into view. They had now fallen to decay, as had the fortunes and the people who built them. They looked down upon me silently with an almost foreboding look. They seemed to send out a warning cry from their once proud walls. Directly in view and just across the canal lay some golden rolling bluffs crowned and majestically laced in summer green foliage. Encrusted at the foot of these were innumer- able rocks of greatly varying shapes. These guardians made impossible intrusions by any boat larger than mine. ' I ventured closer. This peculiar rise of land seemed to beckon me like the glowing spectre of a swamp. It sent out a challenge: Dare you invade my domain? I asked myself why there were no roads, or people, or homes on this scenic spot. My thirsty curiosity had to be quenched. My hunger for knowledge of this beautiful, yet somehow mysterious place had to be satisfied. The full thrill and exhilaration of adven- ture were upon me like dawn through mist. I could no more have turned back then, than a hound could turn from pursuing the hare. And why not? Everything appeared to favor my expedition. The wind was with me, and I had ample time. I crossed the canal with amazing ease and speed. The bluffs were even more imposing than I had first imagined them to be. I de- cided to explore what I might on the southern side, and drifted with what little current there appeared to be. On rounding the bend, I saw nothing but a sloping hill and trees. Hardly of any interest or value was it to an adven- turer of my talents and imagination! I swung my worthy but somewhat frail craft about. The result was like charging into a stone wall. My boat caught, paused, shivered, quacked, then receded reluctantly from the contest. For the first time I was aware of the speed and strength of the canal currents. Even before the full realization was upon me, I was yards from shore, going faster and faster. Yet pres- ence of mind had not deserted me. I began to pull on the oars with all my strength. Again, again, and still again I pulled. Yet I was getting nowhere. Quite to the contrary, I was slipping back towards open seal I could hardly believe my eyes. Those friendly, gurgling, laughing and sparkling waters were now a black, yeowling torrent of whirlpools and death, yearning for a victim. They were bent on making that victim me. Another boat with a small outboard motor approached. I held the oars with one hand and waved frantically for help. The man in the boat waved back with a rather puzzled smile, no doubt thinking my hardy greeting a bit strange: all is business to anyone crossing the canal. I yelled to him in near hysteria, but the wind was an ally of the currents. As my last hope sped on his way, panic gripped me by the heart like a steel vise. Sweat began to pour down my face. The oars slipped off their locks several times. My shirt ripped and blisters grew on my hands. The sun beat down umnercifully. I paid little heed to these things as I rowed desperately. Thinking back, the incoherent thoughts which flashed through my mind strike me strangely as I recall having thought of Gordon Bates and myself swim- ming and racing at College Pond. I wondered if Mom had got my post card, how Mary Joan was making out with those kids in Maine or somewhere. Little did I realize that none of these things would matter to me if I failed to reach shore. I renewed my effort. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw a cement buoy. I headed for it as best I could. It was 500 feet away, then 300, then l00, and at last I was there. Rest! This feeling of safety was lost in an instant's time. There were hundreds of little whirl- pools and currents around me, grasping and tearing at my position. My boat offered re- sistance. Soon water began to splash in. At once I realized that in a few minutes I should be ankle-deep in water. I must go on. My arms and back ached as I picked up the oars. I had now covered one-half the distance and from now on it was torture e'very inch. The currents became less strong, but the dis- tance covered had taken its toll in strength. I shifted left, then right, as I gradually entered calm waters.