impulse as that which drives the nomad out of his winter quarters in the
springtime or brings the wild geese back to their summer feeding
grounds. To one who really loves the ocean, the return to it after a
period of exile on the land, is an indescribable satisfaction. There was
at least one of our crew who experienced this emotion as our staunch
little craft turned her nose to the blue water, and with all sail set
and lee rail almost under water, leaped away from the petty restrictions
of the shore into the practically limitless expanse of the Atlantic. In
a week we were on the fishing ground and sentiment gave way to business.

Our schooner was a trawler, equipped with six dories and a crew of
fifteen, including the skipper, the cook, the boy and two men for each
boat. Each trawl had a thousand hooks, a strong ground line six thousand
feet long, with a smaller line two and a half feet in length, with hook
attached, at every fathom. These hooks were baited and the trawl was set
each night. The six trawls stretched away from the vessel like the
spokes from the hub of a wheel, the buoy marking the outer anchor of
each trawl being over a mile away. I was captain of a dory this year,
passing as a seasoned fisherman with my experience of the year before.
My helper or "bow-man" was John Hogan, a young Irishman about my own
age, red-headed, but green at the fishing business. John's mother kept a
little oasis for thirsty neighbors, in a city adjacent to my home town,
and his father was a man of unsteady habits. But John was a good fellow,
active and willing, and, though he had not inherited a rugged
constitution, he could pull a good steady stroke.

Soon after we reached the Banks, a storm swept our decks and nearly
carried away our boats. As a result, the dories, particularly my own,
were severely strained and leaked badly. For two weeks, however, we had
no fog, but on the morning of the second of June, just as we went over