And here I made what might have been a serious error in judgment. Along the way the shelter of the land prevented my realizing just how hard the wind from the Sou’east was blowing. Suddenly I found myself out in the Straits facing a heavy chop caused by the strong wind fighting the tide running strongly against it. For about 3/4 of a mile, being afraid to turn back lest in doing so I should be swamped, I drove Tota forward at top speed in order to give maximum control and response. All the while the sight of huge waves smashing half-way up the cliff just below the lighthouse set my nerves a-tingling. To be swamped and have to swim ashore here would mean being smashed to bits on the rocks. One false stroke of the paddle and I’d have “had it”. At last I reached the curved beach in the little cove just East of Seacow Head. I lay exhausted on the shore for a half hour, thankful to be still alive and grateful to my little canoe for safely seeing me through.

Skirting the shore I approached Borden just as the Carferry S.S. Charlottetown was pulling away from the Pier, where some men were busily fishing mackerel. The crew of the Ferry waved frantically for me to keep away from the churning water behind her. I wondered whether they were afraid that I might sink their ship (such is the audacity of some boyish minds.)

From Port Borden my next port-of—call was just beyond Cape Traverse at Augustine Cove. Here I was almost overwhelmed with kindness from the McWilliams family (strangers to me) who made me stay for the night and next morning pressed a lunch upon me to eat along the way on the last lap of my voyage.

From Cape Traverse with an early start and determined to make time, I paddled steadily beyond Tryon Head, stopping for only a moment to chat with some men operating a dredge at the entrance to Victoria Harbour and as courteously as possible refusing their invitation to dinner; then by Brocklesby Head and Sable River, going ashore briefly at Argyle Shore to eat my lunch, past Canoe Cove and across the bar at St. Peter’s Island; and then, Holland Cove behind me, emerging from the gut of Charlottetown Harbour just as the Town clock struck the hour of seven distinctly heard across the water in the still evening; and finally, a half-hour later, arriving at Lutie MacDonald’s Summer cottage at Langley beach just in time to eat the delicious supper of fried sausage which Mrs. MacDonald had been keeping hot for him. I thought, “that will teach Lutie to be late

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