Ipswich High School - Tiger Yearbook (Ipswich, MA)

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points.” The wind blew his voice back into the house so loud that it woke up the sleeping Captain. He came out of his cabin, closed the doors, and then leaned out the open window on the starboard side. He watched the passing boat for a while and then commented gruffly, “Frenchy’s goin’ home early. Only been out seven days. Must have some fish. Fd like to speak to him.” How he ever knew whose boat was passing in the darkness was more than I could figure out. He came over and stood behind me then and watched the compass for awhile. “Pretty good for a lubber,” he said. “Ever steer a boat before ?” “Nothing bigger than a yawl,” I answered. Silence for awhile, then, “Think- ing of going to sea?” “Yes,” I said, “Why?” “Stay away from it,” he advised, “it’s dirty business.” “Yeah! Then why are you here?” He looked at me in a queer way for awhile, for I had forgotton whom I v as speaking to ; but he probably realized that I had risen to the defence of my chosen profes- sion, and he turned away without reprimanding me. He fell silent. I stared moodily at the compass, busy with my own thoughts. As out of a dream I heard him speaking, as much to the wind as to me. Short and squat he was, and inarticulate he seemed from long silence. So I was surprised by his fluency when he began. “I was born in Charlottetown on Cape Breton Island. I stayed home and helped the old man with his lobstering until I was about twenty. I had him and my Mother pretty well fixed by that time ; so I decided to go and see something of the world I was living in. With a good supply of money I journeyed to Sid- ney. There I stayed for awhile to take in the sights. The place I liked the best was the wharf, with its forest of masts and spars and an occasional steamship. While wan- dering amongst this hustle and bustle one day, I met a fellow of about my age who had come from St. Johns on a Yankee trader. He told me that the Capt’n of his ship wanted another hand, and so I went and signed up with the brig, ‘Barbs.’ That start showed me the road I have traveled ever since. It has always been a bumpy one ; but, my lad, once the sea gets you, you can never leave her and live. It’s things like that accident on the old “Wycoff” that make you love the sea and exult in your power over it. That happened when I was third mate on her.” “What was that, sir?” I asked. “You haven’t told me about that!” “No?” A moody silence, then: “Well, we were bound for Cape Town from New York and were four days out when a northeasteV came up and slapped down on our port side. Having plenty of sea room, the skipper of the old “Wy- coff” up and decided that he’d hold his course for Cape Town ’stead of running off before the wind. For 15

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Editorial W E now end our enjoyable days of high school life. Forty strong we go to swell the ranks of college students or youthful work- ers. With no regrets we face a new and larger problem, one which has faced the graduates of high schools for the last six years. Where can ' e find a place in a world already flooded with surplus hands and energy? How can we finance our advances into higher education? For four years we have had thrust at us the best Ipswich could give in the way of education. We have not found it lacking, and we have profited by it according to our i n- dividual mentalities. We have been the loudest protesters against the poor facilities for education in Ipswich, yet we are grateful for what has been given us. We only hope we shall be able to make our mark in the world and once again prove the mettle of Ipswich gradu- ates. Literary Tales from the Fo’castle II By John Alexander, Jr. T STOOD upon the whale back in -L the bow of the “Donald” staring fixedly ahead through the dark- ness. The wind ran playful fingers through my hair, and the salt spray kicked up by the “Donald’s” bow stung my cheek. The Chatham buoy with its whistle and light lay behind, and ahead was the open sea. The “Donald” met the long surge of the Atlantic on her port bow and rolled through them with long leaps. Muffled sounds of laughter came from the open fo’- castle hatch, and the stars winked know ingly down at me. Mat came I walked slowly back over the worn on deck and took the lookout, and decks to the pilot house. Malu hated wind ; so he always kept the door and windows of the pilot house closed when he had the wheel. When I went in, it was pretty stuffy in there. I opened the doors and the side windows. I closed the door to the Skipper’s cabin because he, too, didn’t like much air. None of the sailors seemed to, in fact. I guess they’ve had too much during their life. The “Donald” handled easily, and I nursed her along through the rising waves on a south, south east by a quarter east course. Fifteen minutes later Mat called out, “Light off the starboard bow. Four 14

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while things went along all right; • ,ut when that old northeaster really got ablowing, we felt it and felt it plenty. Loaded down with machin- ery as she was, the “Wycoff” was taking a lot of punishment. Every time one of those heavy seas hit her side, she had to stop and shake off the effects of its blow like a punch-drunk fighter. Every time the waves rolled her stern out of water, the engines raced like mad, and she shook from stem to stern. Every- thing on deck not lashed down was washed overboard. It was almost impossible to cross the deck from the fo’castle hatch to the bridge, f didn’t think she would stand that terrible battering long, but for ten weary hours we three mates and four helmsmen held her on her course. “We were all watching a big wave hit the side when we heard a crack like the sail of a square rig- ger makes when it explodes in a heavy gale of wind. Rushing to the aft windows of the wheel house, we saw the cargo derrick, that great tall mass of steel and wood, laden with its booms and gear trailing over the lee side broken off barely five feet above the deck. The stern began to sink and the bow to rise. High into the howling wind it went, and the sea began to wash freely over the after deck. She swung swiftly off her course. The First and the Second jumped to hel p the men at the wheel but it was no use. All our strength together couldn’t have pulled her back again. She wallowed deep in the trough of the sea and pitched madly over the crests. The next four seas, big fel- lows they were, smashed our boats to bits and rolled the tangled mass of derrick and rigging half off the stern. There the hoists and falls held it fast. Each new wave smashed down on us with more fury than the one before it. We either had to cut loose that derrick or go for a long visit to Davy Jones’s Locker. “Leaving one fellow at the wheel, we grabb ed the axes stationed in the wheel house for emergencies and started for the door to the deck. We just got there when another billow went over us, and after it passed, we rushed out and down to the wreckage. We hacked away madly at the ropes. The axes struck sparks from the iron deck. We sweated and strove to get that derrick loose before the next wave came. Some of the men threw away their now dulled axes and fell to with their nails and teeth. Of a sudden the First yelled ‘Hang on, for .’ “Men scurried for safety like rats. I sunk my axe into the splintered butt of the derrick and hung on grimly. An avalanche of frothy green water came rushing down on us and reached out hungry hands to tear our fingers from their holds. The flood passed ; I looked up to find all the fellows safe, but not an axe left in the whole bunch. While they ran for the bridge, I hacked away frantically at what remaining ropes I could see. Fairly heaving mv blunted axe at the last strand, I turned and ran for the bridge. I reached it just in time to turn and see the water wash away the last of the broken derrick. I ascended to the wheel house, where the men 16