cruised single-handed, or sometimes with one friend on board, for thousands of miles along the shores of several European countries, visiting out-of-the-way creeks, remote islets (as on the Baltic) inhabited by primitive folk, fishing havens, shallow estuaries and straits, and winding fiords, inaccessible to larger yachts, which have to make their passages from one well-known great seaport to another, missing the most interesting features of the coasts by which they sail.
And how the single-handed sailor comes to love his little vessel! He takes such a keen pride in keeping her smart without the assistance of others, and he is indeed jealous of their interference. Those who know not the delights of small-boat sailing sometimes dub the amusement a monotonous one; and, occasionally, it may certainly appear to be so to the ignorant spectator—much as golf does, for the matter of that, to the uninitiated. But there is no monotony for the true sailor alone with his yacht. Loving his craft, he does not find the time hang heavy, even when she floats idly in a calm—a position trying to the temper of those who are not enthusiasts of the sea. There is always some work to be done on board, repairs, painting, and so forth—a labour of love that he accomplishes with affectionate thoroughness; and when that is completed he awaits the wind patiently, contemplating his vessel over his pipe, admiring her, and thinking how he can do this or that to improve her; or he
