Evening Star Newspaper, July 20, 1930, Page 78

THE SUNDAY STAR, WAS “She’s Roarin’; Boy—She’s Roarin™"—77ril When the Sailing Craft of the Bay G Aboard One of the Contesting Boat Day on the W ater—T his Articld a Lover of the Sea and an Adm On the course! The schooner Ella Cripps in the foreground, Burgey. trial and tune-up spins on the leg to windward, the marker being a fish in- spection boat anchored three miles off W. ashingtonian Annual Chesapea toward the Virginia shore, and many short impromptu races were staged by roaring crews anxiously awaiting the starting gun. In past the Coast Guard The gallant “Mattie Dean,” winner in her class. The “Mattie” is of indeterminate age, her builder being unknown. Many years ago, probably 50, the “Mattie” ran in the trade to the Bermuda “Onion Patch,” and also carried pineapples and bananas from Central America. The style of carving on her transom indicates her age to be about 70 years in spite of which the old girl is still sound and true as the day she was built. 66 OLD her to it!” “Sock her, N Charley!” “Ease the jib sheets!” “Steady as she goes!” “You've got him, cap’n, you've got him now!” “Sock her, Charley!” “All down to looward—snatch that jib—watch the boom! Heads down —everybody down flat—crowd up to the rail there, keep down!” “Lookit her fly! She’s roarin’, boy— she’s roarin’!” If you thrill to the heel of a ship on the wind, if salt spray from a hard- driven bow is nectar to your taste, if you delight in real red-blooded competition with living ships and living men, if these - three “ifs” are to your liking, then you will appreciate the meaning of the words so flatly written above, for type cannot simulate the salty roar of an old bay skipper as he cons his ships on a day of frolic, a day of racing that comes but » once a year to the folk and ships of the Bay of the Chesapeake. Racing with oak and canvas, racing with brain and skill and courage, the kind of racing possible only to those born and nurtured near and on the sea. Here there is no roar and clatter of engines, no grease-smeared faces of drivers and mechanics, nothing is for sale or being advertised—except possibly that bay folk are happy at any time, and especially happy when on the deck of schooner, bugeye or bateau, a lively sea running, a stif wind blowing, sail set and some one of their kind to beat. are here from everywhere, rac- b ing craft, visiting craft, excursion boats, fishing boats, seiners, power boats, yachts—all of them gathered to race or to-look on. There are few lookers-on, however, when race time comes For bay hospitality never wavers or fails, and a man or woman without acquaintances soon becomes acquainted and is invited aboard one of the craft. No bay skipper is content to race alone; he must needs have his clan, his friends, his acquaint- ances and all others caring to come . along, on board, for he's proud of his " ship and anxious to show her off. L Then, too, when the wind’s up and the sea’s stiff ballast is required, and what is better than to have ballast that moves and places itself by command, ballast that cheers and encourages, ballast in skirts, in trousers, in holiday regalia? But getting the crowd aboard and hoisting sail and away is far from being all of it. For a week before the races preparations are being made Every marine railway for miles is busy. haul- ing out the many boats, bottoms are be- ing smoothed up and fresh paint ap- plied, new straps are forged for center- boards, a weakened or doubtful chain- plate or eyebolt is removed and replaced, new rigging is rove on and sails gone over and replaced if necessary. Then, too, the tribes must gather. From Norfolk and Baltimore, from Washington and Philadelphia—aye, even from great- er distances they come, the sons, the daughters and grandsons and daughters —all taking a day or two from their jobs to join with the ship and patriarch for the big race And if half a hundred are aboard a boat as she crosses the starting line and the skipper be brown-eyed or hawk-nosed it may be safely wagered that the greater percentage aboard will also be the same—a grandad at the wheel, sons at the sheets, grandsons sprawled on deck with their mothers, brown-eyed, hawk-nosed. So rally the clans. And so we, though not of the clans, knowing all this and more, made our way to Piney Point to join them. And being fortunate to be in possession of a boat (though an automobile might do just as well) we arrived by water, down the Potomac from old Breton Bay, our anchorage for the night preceding the races. As we approached the Point from northward we could see the masts and sails of the already arrived racers tower- ing high over the trees that name the Point and bearing away to southeastward the white sails of late arrivals could be seen beating up for the course. As we drew impatiently nearer many of the craft slipped their moorings and running up their headsails ran out for cutter Apache, past the stake boat all gay with flags, threading our way through the anchored and excited fleet, we came finally to anchor close aboard a great schooner later destined to win in her class, whereupon all was great activity, for race time was drawing near, the warning signals for the first race were up and it lacked but 15 minutes of starting time. EAT excitement reigned also aboard our own craft, for we had come to race and not to gaze, and the ship of our choice had not yet been sighted. Grave doubts assailed us. Maybe the skipper had withdrawn! Possibly he had been disqualified from racing, for he had al- ready won four times, two of them in succession! Anxiously we scanned the assembled fleet, glasses were called into play, questions were shouted to adjacent craft, all without avail. Just as a string of call flags were seen to flutter toward the tall masthead of the stakeboat notifying the skippers of the schooners to prepare, a glad shout from a neigh- boring and neighborly craft indicated a tall ship hard on the wind and coming great guns from the point below St. . Georges Island and her speed and wind- ward qualities made us certain of her identityelong before we could identify figures on her decks or see her name. Soon enough we recognized the tall figure of Cap’n Charley Chesser, his broad countenance wreathed—no, that's wrong—split with a grin as he recog- nized we of the Swan standing hopefully and expectantly upon her decks. As she tore past we hailed her, asking for pas- sage, and a voice from her bows answered to make ready to jump, for they would pass close by on the next tack. And make ready we did with a venge- ance! And here a lowly Chinese laundryman must intrude for a moment, important only because his week gone efficiency al- ost marooned your renorter on his own ship while all others 'ent away racing. A matter of pants. White pants. Ice cream pants heavily starched and not yet put on. Pants that as the great bugeye slid by with paralyzing rapidity Is a Loss to Washi Man, Armed Wit Aboard One of th Here You Have On deck of the Florence, refused to open and receive their owner, pants that struggled and stuck and hif] back, perfidious and traitorous pants. At last the outrageous trousers were