Wethersfield High School - Elm Yearbook (Wethersfield, CT)

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SIXTY MILES AWAY It was a black and windy night on the sound, and in a little bay rocked the forty-foot cabin cruiser, May. Her tall mast bobbed as she rode over the top of each green swell, while taut anchor cables held her from the rocks. On the beach all was quiet save for the crash of breakers on the rocks and the howl of the lashing wind as it flung the salt spray back into the sea. Not a light shone in the cottages, for it was 2 o'clock in the morning. While the rain pelted on the roof of the craft, and she tugged at her ropes, quite a different scene was pictured below. The warm yellow light of an electric lamp flooded the little cabin in gold, and at a table operating his radio transmitter sat our hero. He was talking to his father, John Blair Sr., who, at his home sixty miles away, was operating another station. John Jr. was taking the family yacht, May, to dry- dock at Essex for her winter overhauling, and he had decided to spend the stormy night in the little bay. He threw shut a switch, and picked up a microphone as a motor generator let forth its hum. John was speaking into the transmitter. This is station IBBC on the motor yacht May talking with station IZO at Hartford, Connecticut. Hello, dad! It certainly is a bad night here, the old scow is tugging at her ropes in great style. If the weather clears by tomorrow afternoon, I'll run her over to Essex and come home by train. What say? This is IBBC standing by. Again he threw the switch, and the hum of the generator died away, in its place came the voice of John's father, at home sixty miles away. This is IZO at Hartford talking to the motor launch, May. Good evening, son. If I had known the weather was going to be so bad, I would have sent someone to help you manage the boat, but I guess you can do it O. K. I,m glad you put in on a night like this. Where are you anchored? IZO off-go ahead. Once more the switch was closed, and again the hum of the gen- erator filled the cabin. Oh, don't worry, dad, yours truly can run this scow one hand. I've put in at Half Bay, and we're sitting pretty. Holy smokes, dad, stand by, I hear some one calling. Hello, IBBC! Hello, IBBC! S. O. S.! S. O. S.! came the voice through the phones, for God's sake, hurry. Feverishly John closed the switch and shouted, This is IBBC, the motor yacht, May. Who are you,'and what do you want?', This is the motor yacht, Joy. We have run on the rocks off Fisher's Island. We are stove in and in danger of being washed against the rocks into deep water. We have no small boats and cannot get to our life prcservers. For God's sake, hurry.

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TICKLISH BUSINESS When Izaak Walton left his famous advice to anglers, he neglected to include in it all of the methods by which fish can be enticed to grace the dinner table. Ever since the day when, in the Fisherman's Guide, I read of the newest manner of catching fish, namely, of tickling them, it had been my desire to try out this novel method of the ultra modern sportsman. Last summer, it was my fortune to embark on an extended trip to the north, where a man's a man, peanuts are five cents a bag, and where three-foot trout spring out of sparkling waters just for the sole pleasure of being caught. Upon arriving, Jack and I pitched camp, looked to our tackle, and otherwise prepared for the big sport of the morrow. An early ,supper was planned, and what was our displeasure to find that everything but supper had been provided for us by nature. A trip to town was the only means of allaying hunger, and so we started along a path' which ran parallel to the bank of our chosen trout stream. It was near twilight time, just after the sun, like the actor of a great drama, had bowed his way to the wings and awaited the dropping of the curtain of evening. Near at hand the insects eheeped out their nocturne, while far off the calling of a night bird shrflly proclaimed its awakening. Proceeding along the trail, I chanced to glance into the stream, and there, not a yard away from the bank, was the largest trout I have ever seen, just awaiting to be caught. I had neither hook nor line, but, happy thought, as my hands twitched to touch the trout, I remembered the treatise on tickling fish! Carefully, I stretched out full length over the edge of the bank, which at this point was about two feet above the level of the water. With more care I slipped my hand into the water, and edged it out toward the trout. The cautious Indian, seeking to work his charms on his pet cobra, was never more apprehensive. Now I could almost touch the creature-and it moved, ever so slightly, but just out of reach. I stretched farther out over the brook. Again I tried, and failed, as the fish, alarmed by an incautious movement, wriggled away a bit more. I could not reach it now, but by having Jack sit on my feet, thus holding me to the bank while I reached for the fish, contact was again estab- lished. Now, to tickle the trout, I had only to move my hand an inch to touch him. It was going to be too easy! Then, with a mucky sough, the edge of the bank caved under our combined weight, and a moment found us flung into the brook. Believe it or not, the charm of that incident tickled the fish to death! -E. Malcolm Sftllllldflli, 28. T0 A TERRIER You're just a shaggy little mutt, A grey haired bundle of rags. Yours is a weeny bit of a tail, Spasmodic in its wags. Two eyes, a saucy, button-y nose, Paws turning in, out and up, But alas! I love you just the same, You adorable Irish pup! -Virginia Becker, '30.

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How many have you aboard and how long can you stay up? cried John. We have three men and two women and cannot stay up longer than an hour and a half, came the voice. Stand by a second,', yelled John- Dad, there is-- 'II know, the voice of john,s father broke in, I have been listening. That is Judge Fort's yacht and Winnie is aboardg you know her-go get them. I'1l stand byg and, he added, 'tlooks like you're going to get a chance to run the scow one handf, Winnie Fort on that boat! thought John. That was enough, for John adored Winnie. I'm comingf' he yelled at the transmitter, send up rockets. The next moment he was in the engine room and had the big Deisel running like a sewing machine. Slipping into a slieker he dashed upon deck to the windlass and hauled the anchors up. Then he made his way across ,the slippery deck to the pilotis cabin so that he could get under way before the wind drove the craft upon the rocks. He switched on all the lights and started the automatic fog horn sending out its hoarse bellow. He threw her into gear, and the May's powerful propeller shoved her over the first swell on her fifteen mile journey to save the lives that clung to the rocks off Fisher's Island. The May could do eighteen miles per hour in a calm sea, and john estimated that now she could do the fifteen miles in somewhat over an hour, and they could stay up only an hour and a half. He grasped the tugging wheel, shoved the throttle to its limit, and headed into the swell toward the blinking light just visible, which marked Fisher's Island. In his haste John had forgotten to turn off the transmitter and back home, sixty miles away, his anxious family was listening to the bellow of the fog horn and the howl of the wind, while miles out on the black sea a huddled group expecting death listened to the same sounds. Swell after swell passed on their journey to the land and the light on Fisher's Island was near, but still no sign of the rockets. Then off to the left, very near, came the yellow glare which marked the. spot where the ill-fated Joy lay. John crammed the wheel hard to the right lest the May also be run upon the rocks. He knew that this side of the rocks was treacherous, but on the other side there was deep water. No more rockets appeared, and John began to fear he was too late and that the boat had slipped from the rocks. He switched on the powerful searchlight which was mounted on the cabin top and controlled from the inside by a swivel. And just in time, for in another minute the May would have been rammed headlong into the jagged rocks. He threw the motor into reverse, and for a moment the May rode motionless. 1 Y., . 77, 1