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