Image provided by: University of Oregon Libraries; Eugene, OR
About The Sunday Oregonian. (Portland, Ore.) 1881-current | View Entire Issue (July 5, 1908)
THE SUNDAY OREGONIAX, PORTLAND, JULY 5, 1908.. Twenty-Two - Foot Racers That Carrv Over Thirty-Four Hundred Square Feet of Cansras and In volve Great Skill and Daring 6 nr CTIVE preparations made by the J enthusIaKtic yachtsmen or the Ore- gon Yacht Club lo promote small boat sailing this season promises lo eclipse the doings of the past, especially among the mosquito fleet. Sailing crafts have been "tuned up," and are looking speck and span from truck to Keel, many new types of craft, will be tried out in competition with former cracks; crews are well drilled and good sport is antici pated by those that love things aquatic. It may be stimulating to local yachts men to learn that our cousins in Aus tralia have developed a type of sailing boat, not seen but little known of else where, although admirably adapted to our waters, being "quick In stays,'" so declared by Captain Hatch, once a famous skipper In old-time races of the sandbagger days, who has recently re turned from a cruise to the antipodes. While In Australia he took great inter est In witnessing sailing regattas, re marking that the Australian sailing boats beat creation for carrying canvas. Such remarks are substantiated by the well-known aquatltc writer, Charles Mc Laren. In writing of these length chas ers, .as they are known in Australia, he says: i ney are extraordinary affairs alto gether. There are six sizes: 8, 30, 14, IS, 20 and 22 foet. The type Is similar" In all broad, shallow boats, with powerful bodies to carry the most colossal sails surely ever put upon mortal fabric of wood, Iron and topper." To give American yachtsmen some Idea of what the size of these sails really are. I append the dimensions of a 22-foot champion racer, which carries 3425 square feet of canvas aloft when she is running In a slightly quartering breeze, which certainly eclipses the record of even our own sandbaggers: Length over all, 22 feet; beam. 11 feet; depth, 2 feet 8 inches. Sail areii. mainsail. 700 snuare foot- ih -60 square feet, spinnaker ringstail. ii'9 square feet; topsail. Jo square feet; Jib topsail. 108 square feet. Spars, mast. 34 feet 6 inches; boom, 33 feet 6 inches; gaff. 21 feet; bowsprit. 18 feet outboard' spinnaker pole. 44 feet outboard. One need hardly remark that to handle these glpantic masses of sail, extraordi nary skill Is necessary, and as the sails have grown. o does the skill seem to have kept company in their development. Imagine one of the crew standing on a tiny platform like the forepeak of a 22-footer to handle a 44-foot spinnaker boom, shove it for'ard In the tack of the spinnaker and run up the sail a thousand square feet. Should he get a puff at the wrong moment it would carry him flying In the nlr, Yet he has the canvas set and drawing in 15 seconds after round ing the weather mark. I assure you I am not the least exag gerating, it has always S3emed to me to be one of the crowning feats of the ath le tlr. If he were to make the slightest mistake, even a momentary hesitation, nothing could save the staggering craft trom turning turtle, and baptizing her crew. These little crafts show superiority In construction, beautiful models that call for admiration even from the land-lubber. They have good floating ahllitv to carry their crews, and are fitted with huge dag ger center-boards to enable them to "stand up" under the pressure of such spreads of canvas. The sails are made of special fabric, being closely woven to stand the strain. They are treated and lestod by a process that Insures drawing and driving power under all conditions of weather, being beautifully cut and re flecting much credit on the sail-loft. Boat sailing as indulged In by the Aus- TO REBUILD CITY OF ST. PIERRE Men of Martinique Work Above Their Buried Town Regardless of Threatening Mount Pelee New York Kvenlng Post. ps- CITY rising from total rulm Is what the traveler now beholds whose path lies beside the once flourishing St. Pierre, at the foot of the famous Pelee. In Martinique. Time Is gradually effacing the once popular belief that St. Pierre would never again be the home of living things, and nature, with her cloth of green, by slow . ly blotting out the evidence of the fear ful devastation of five years ago, Is bringing back to hills and basins the beauty which once made St. Pierre the garden spot of the West Indies'. Still living In respectful fear of the peak which in an hour snuffed out the lives of 30-odd thousand of his fellow-Islaiul.-rs. the pioneer is not hasty in en roling the fallen city, but builds his home just beyond the limits of the green cowrcd ruins. Today the new settlement can be de scribed only as a fishing village. There are probably a dozen bouses just to the south of St. Flerre. bordering on the Caribbean, where the more adventurouJ of the pioneers have located to take ad vantage of the excellent catches to b had near the great clifts of Aux Abymes. The never-failing dread of a return of the n nnster which, in the popular super Ktitutlon,. came out of the mountain and laid waste to the city shows itself In the nw architecture. Instead of the artistic little domicile of stone with their attractive red-tiiu ! oofs, the newcomer has built for him self an inexpensive thatched hut. bare of everything but absolute necessities, air of -which he can leave at a moment's notice and suffer little loss should occa sion demand it. Tile fisherman's1 boat Is moored at his very door and his mast is always stand ing and his sail is always ready for work, should Mont Pelee give the slight" est sign of unrest. But. despite all hl fears, his superstitions and his precau tions, the rebuildcr of St. Pierre is con stantly gaining neighbors. ' fciich day the little Steamboat from Fort do France carries touris-ts to thi new settlement, landing them at the first of the jetties, to grow on the site of the old. These people must have guides They pay well, and so the guide follows the tourist and places his hut among the fishermen. The rirst New Building. A businesslike government has- built a fairly satisfactory hotel Just In the mid dle of the mass of ruins. This was thu first new building to rise on the founda tion of the old. Next barracks for hou-ti-g gendarmes were built and then, el couraged by this, one of the mercantile .Viusts of Foit da France erected a I s . ...-. - -.y f'.::.i.f.:-;il ' . - - v'4 1 him -k-i .22 x5y.ETTI13g -AFJER 1 JS FOOTER tralians Is regarded as a diversion rather than a financial proposition. But the generosity of the regatta committees, in giving such liberal prizes, is an incentive to the daring skippers of these little racers to crowd on every stitch of .canvas possibr,', calling for a marvellous amount of nerve and skill from the man at the tiller, and the spinnaker hand to keep their spunky little clipper from capsizing. The sailing races are crowded with ex citing incidents, scudding before the wind and carrying as many sails as the pro verbial "Flying Dutchman." They call for a dare-devil nature and an inborn knowledge of the tricks of the wind and sea- branch adjoining the police station, a' thus the nucleus of the new St. Pierru was formed. The determination of the native 'to re build his beloved city Is worthy of one of greater cultivation and civilization, for a single view of the city makes it apparent that his task is to be no easy one. Over the greater part of the ruins is spread a layer of volcanic mud and ashes, from 10 to SO feet deep, which ex tends up the valley, covering the former aqueduct which supplied the city wif.t water for all purposes. To replace this waterway must be the first task of the rebuilders, and in this nature will aid them, for where the mountains about the town formerly gave it a few streams now there are hundreds pouring down from every part of the volcano. Already in the little village beside the ruins one can see the beginning of such water runs as existed formerly throughout the city, from which in the morning the house wife drew her supply for the day. Next one will note the beginning -of what in time will probably be another great cathedral. There on the hill back of the new-born village stands the little shrine, protecting from wind and sun the miniature crucifix which has survived through the most turbulent times, to be a guiding post and a source of comfort to traveler and settler alike. Here the trav eling priest occasionally gathers his lit tle flock, with rough volcanic rock for benches and the shrine serving for an altar. . This is the beginning of the new city a city being founded in' fear and yet in love. Memories and associations are gradually drawing back the people of St. Pierre, who turn from the work of re building a hundred times a day to rest their eyes on the crater of the great vol cano, hoping against it, but yet fearful of seeing against the great cloud of smoke and ashes which they remember was the forerunner of the former city's destruction, Mount Pelee Quiet. But the mountain gives no sign. , Day after day it stands there, gray and silent as before its terrible outburst. Far up at its very top light clouds of steam now and then come forth, hang a moment on the side of the mountain and then dis appear in the blue atmosphere. Bare of verdure as though It had never known a green leaf, the great bill has attractions which it did not possess when its palm covered slopes were the picnic grounds for a multitude. The guide who greets one as the lltt boat lands at St. Pierre makes it almost imperative to -climb the mountain and. having won his point, he soon returns with some sort of conveya-nce to carry the party up the gentle slope of Morno J4 p Most of the owners' of these crafts are game racing men, who have been reared with tillers in their hands, and thoroughly understand the boats which float under them and ultimately develop into some of the finest sailors that the world knows. The crews are composed of a manly set of young fellows, typical athletes who participate in field sports during the Winter, and return to their old love, boat sailing. In the Summer season when the northeast tradewlnd blows. They are always pleased to entertain any yachts men from abroad and wi.i always find a seat In their racers for his pleasure. Such courtesy was extended to the writer. The sailing races are hotly contested Rouge, and then around to Calabasse, where the climb begins. Ready for the start, the traveler is armed wlthia stout staff, while the guide buckles about his waist a sharp cutlass, the reason for which is not disclosed until after the ascent begins. Other na tives Join the party to carry the -bread, fish' and cake, which they arrange on trays and carry balanced on their heads. From Calabasse the ascent is a sheer climb of 3500 feet. Before half a mile Is traversed the worst feature of it is encountered. In every hollow and seemingly under every rock one comes upon the deadly fer-de-lance, the scourge of Martinique. Snakes from two to six feet long curl up along the way. ready to spring, and here the guide makes use of his cutlass. To feel the fangs of one of these creatures, he tells you, would mean death within an hour. On the slopes the heat of Je sun is intense; no vegetation has taken root here, and what formerly existed i3 burjed to a depth of hundreds of feet in volcanic matter. Climbing for the North erner is nothing less than a hardship; there is a narrow footpath, distinguish able only to the guide, sometimes run ning into deep caverns where the fer-de-lance abounds, and at other times skirt ing the edge of a precipice of volcanic rock, which momentarily seems about to crumble and drop its burden two or three hundred feet below. Innumerable streams, some almost boil ing hot and others icy cold, .cross the path at frequent Intervals. At times the ascent is up precipitous walls and again it is on all fours over giant rocks, which tear the clothes and scratch the skin. So the climber goes on until through his exertion in the heat he is ready to rest and take nourishment. He has now gone, say, to an elevation of 2000 feet, and below him the whole Island of Mar tinique lies in panorama. Its hundreds of peaks standing out clear and distinct in the blue atmosphere. Once more the climb begins. The air grows rarefied and a chill comes over the climber. Snakes no longer infest the path, which now' even the guide has difficulty in following. At a thousand I leet Irora the top steam occasionally rises trom a crevice in the rock. Again, a cloud of sulphurous hydrogen makes breathing difficult, but otherwise thg climbing is just as before; there is no sound, no motion, only the intense quiet where no life of any kind exists. Five hundred feet more and the party is drenched by a mist that chills to the bone. Rum is taken to ward off pleurisy and to again limber the joints that the sudden i cold has made stiff. Courage, which may have faltered an hour ago. is now revived, for the summit is in sight. Now there is no path, and with each step CHAMPION 22roori!RS' ON THE -HOME -CTRETCH. ZlaD;R JRA.CIKT& eZXVAiS', and finishes at the line are extremely close. Many events are only won by 1 or two lengths, on two occasions dead heats were the result in championship events. Thousands of enthusiastic lovers of things aquatic are carried on steamers specially chartered to followvthe races over the picturesque triangular course of 15 miles in beautiful Sydney harbor. For racing purposes these are admira bly classed from 8 to 22 footers over all. giving each boat a good chance In up there is a shifting of fine volcanic ashes, as when one walks through the fine sand on the beach. The ascent is so steep that walking erect Is impossible and for the last few hundred feet of the trip the travelers go on all fours. Once the summit Is reached the view is ample reward for ali the efforts of the climb. Far below, the red roofs of the three new buildings of St. Pierre give the only key of location. Their red has turned to a hazy pink, and through the misty distance the rest of the island lies shrouded in a deep blue, so profound that land and sea seem to merge into one. To the other side lies the volcano's crater, derise with fog and mist, unapproachable and forbidding. Now and again, as the strong wind moves the cloud, the bed of the crater appears in fleeting visions. There is no desire to go further, and the desolation produces a feeling of the most utter de jection. So quiet in it that' the wind passing through hollow and over height in the crater seems to issue a mighty sigh, the voice of the souls liberated by the demon of the mountain, at the sound of which the guide kneels in rev erent pVayer.' The Able Seamim. Washington (D. C.) Herald. "A. B.," the papers call him, with a num ber; - But he nas a name, the same as you and I, And if you're told he's ornamental lumber, Or lives abroad for pleasure trips. Just try To do his work awhile; swab down the decks. Clean the big' guns, and hose the cable through. You'll find enough In one day's Job to vex Your ornamental soul, and body, too. He has points that any landsman in crea tion Might be proud of order, muscle, pluck and grlt. Whether home or on some reeking foreign station, - Be can spltce and sing, keep watch (and smoke a bit). He will spot a liner miles away, and tell Her tonnage long before you know she's there: And he's none the worse because, when all goes well. He gives himself the pleasure of a swear. Pacing the wind and spume on some ' far ocean, "With ehaggy, sheltering eyebrows, shining eyes. He owns to no superfluous emotion. But squares his shoulders as -the wet decks rise. Stands the gale, and feels the engines beat Their confident pulsations down below; 8ees the signal, "Pull atiead," pass down the fleet, Leaves the reckoning to those who run the show. Up the tideway, through the morning splen dors, - Comes the great gray warship, home at last. Ropes are hauled to the busy, powerful tenders Round she swings, till the Iron dock gates are passed. Trains are full, the smiling porters fagged Jack's oft home, with lots of cash to spend. Well, when all the grumbling tongues have : wagged. Jack, nid chap,, we're proud, of ou. no end! its respective 'class, doing; away with time allowance. "Anniversary. Regatta," the aquatic carnival of the year in the Antipodes, is carried out with great success over the regatta course in Sydney harbor a yachtsman's dream champions meet champions, both In sailing and rowing contests, and about 30 events are billed for the day's sport. At this regatta it is a beautiful sight to behold every type of craft repre sented, from a canoe to an ocean AT WHAT HOUR WILL YOU DIE? Speculation and Fact Concerning the Temerature of the Body in Reference to the Vital Spark THE hour that kills! How strange the idea seems that there should be any hour of the day or night particularly fatal to human beings! And yet such would appear to be the fact. It Is, Indeed, a truth sufficiently fa miliar. For it has long been a matter of common, observation that people, when they come to die, are most liable to succomb to the grim destroyer just before daybreak. It is as if the Angel of Death, whom men call Azrael, made a circuit of the- earth every 24 hours, flying a little ahead 'of the dawn. But the reason why? As, that is the question. It is a problem which sci entific men have set themselves to solve, though as yet only with partial success. They have been making an elaborate series of experiments in re gard to the matter, and have arrived at the conclusion that the phenomenon in question Is mainly, if not wholly, one of temperature. . r People die Just before daybreak be cause at that hour the body tempera ture is lowest a circumstance which implies that their vitality is then at a lower ebb than at any other time th' the 24 hours. It Is most curious and interesting, this matter of human temperature. No body can say with certainty how it that is to say, the warmth of our bodies is produced, or how maintained at the level requisite ' for the continuance of life. All that we know positively is that Is thatit has a direct relation to what we call, vitality, and that if It falls only a little below the normal point, death arrives. Any physician will tell you that the normal temperature of the human body is 98 6-10 degrees Fahrenheit. But. as proved by recent scientific investiga tions, this is not correct, strictly soeak- Jng. There Is, indeed, no point of the thermometer that can be indicated as representing such normal temperature, because the latter in any man or wom an Is continually moving either up or down. And while moving downward or upward It is contantly making little zigzags, being never exactly the same for 10 minutes together. Some of the most valuable of recen? experiments in this line have been made by Professor Armsby. of the State Uni versity of Pennsylvania. He has found that during 24 hours the temperature of a person in normal health may vary as1 much as 2 degrees Fahrenheit. But the oddest thing about it Is its rhythmic movement that is to say. its regular rise and fall, like that of the tide. Its lowest ebb is between 3 and 4 A. M. the hour at which so many people pass away. Its highest point Is reached about 111! lIWflllM I -13 TOOTER OZOaSaSIIZG THE JUNE cruiser, each one displaying racing col- ally enthusiastic as the speedv little ors. the hundreds of snow white sails racers come flying over the line with flitting over the blue waters, making their sails like giant wings spread out, a (marine spectacle long to be remem- and the crews almost awash in their bered. and the spectators get frantic- gallant little cockleshells. S P. M.. Apparently its ebb and flow dd not vary at all with the time of year, and certainly they are not affected by the habits of the individual. Experiments have proved that if a person turns the routine of his life upside down, sleeping all day and working all night, the fluc tuations of his 'temperature are unal tered, going on Just the same. It has been ascertained, too. that when a person travels around the world, changing his1 longitude at the rate of ha: an hour a day, perhaps, the rhythm of his temperature goes on just as in ordi nary circumstances. But It will be no ticed 'that this implies a change of time so that there really is a radical altera tion in the ebb and flow. What, then, is the Inference from this fact? Why. sim ply that the whole matter is governed and controlled by the sun! We are, all of us, as one might say. children of the sun. All of our vital and other activities are derived by origin from the energy of the solar orb, which grows the plants that furnish, whether directly or in the form of meat, the fuel for our bodies. Furthermore, ' it is the sun that gives the necessary warmth to the flui.f element in which we live i. e., the atmo sphere. Thus It is by no means surpris ing that it should exercise control over our temperature. The ebb and flow of this temperature has to do with the waxing and wanirg of the day and with nothing else. It reaches' Its lowest point just before day break, merely for the reason that at that hour the sun has been longest away from the earth. Apparently, for the very op posite reason, it attains its highest point at about 6 o'clock In the evening. One might imagine that the hours of lowest and highest would vary with the seasons. Inasmuch as the sun rises later and sets earlier in Winter than in Summer. That such is not the case is a puzzle which the scientific investigators have not yet been able to solve. The whole problem, in truth, is far from a final and complete solution. There is still a good deal of mystery about the temperature of the human body. We speak of this warmth as "animal heat," and recognize it as a manifestation of vital activity. But this does not suffice to explain it. As a matter of fact, even the scientists are not sure what it is ex actly. Your body is a stove. The food you eat is its fuel. This fuel is1 consumed by a process that is supposed to be some sort of chemical combustion, taking the place of fire. But the real nature of the process -in question is still a puzzle. Doc the chemical burning produce heat? Ap parently . not at all events, not in the ordinary snse of the term. So far as the investigatorshave been able to find out, the .food we eat, apart from its employment in the making of muscle, blood and bone. Is utilized in the production of what is called chemical en ergy. There are ever so many kinds of energy, of course. Light Is one of them, mechanical energy is another, and heat is another. What we term muscular exer cise is a form of mechanical energy. Th chemical energy produced In the body Is utilized in all of our physical activities not only In walking or throwing a ball, but also to drive the heart pump, work the lungs, and operate .the rest of the vital machinery. Now. after the chemical energy of the body has been converted Into mechanical energy for such purposes as these, It is transformed into heat, and serves to keep the body warm. Such, at. all events. Is the latest theory on the subject. If. as seems likely, it is correct, one may easily understand why 4he human body is so extraordinarily economical as an engine, far surpassing in this respect any type of steam, oil or gas engine yet invented. It so happens that you feel cold, and there is no fire or other' artificial heat handy, what do you do? Why, you exer cise your body as vigorously as possible, walk rapidly, and perhaps flap your arms. Why? Simply because the muscular move ment seems to produce heat though the fact Is that the heat is merely the energy employed to work the muscles, which, having thus been used, manifests itself by raising the temperature. The temperature of a frog, or of a fish. Is the same as that of the water In which it swims. With such animals, as well as with turtles and snakes', neither cold nor heat seems to make any particular dif ference, so long as it is not very ex treme. But one rather curios fact that has been ascertained Is that the rate of beating of a frog's heart varies directly, with - Its temperature. If the ereaturo b put Into warm water, its heart will beat more rapidly.' or vice versa. In the Winter time it burlep itself in mud. and under such circumstances Its vitality is reduced to a very low ebb. the pulsations of its heart being exceedingly slow. But, unlike a warm-blooded animal, it does not suffer any inconvenience. How different it is with a human being! There is nothing the physician dreuds much as a lowering of the temperature of a patient who is seriously ill. The fever which In typhoid or other maladies pushes the clinical thermometer up sev eral degrees' beyond the 100 mark, does not necessarily excite alram. But let It fall only a degree or two below the nor mal, and the presence of imminent peril Is recognized. It would seem as If the preservation of the life In us depended upon the maintenance at all times of that amount of warmth which repre sents the full vital flame, even a slight flicker of .which, as marked by a drop of the mercury. Is damjerotuv
