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Updated: May 26, 2025
"Good sport. I must take you out in the Merry Andrew," he said. "She's a peach of a sailer and my very own." "Oh! do you own the sloop, Mr. Tapp?" "I guess I do! And no money could buy her," he cried with boyish enthusiasm. "She's the best lap-streak boat anywhere along the Cape. And sail!" "I love sailing," she confessed, with brightening visage. "Say!
She knew the rig! she could see the familiar white lap-streak as the vessel careened on the starboard tack it was her husband's schooner slowly creeping out of the Golden Gate! Her first wild impulse was to run to the cove, for the little dingey always moored there, and to desperately attempt to overtake him.
"That ain't a dory or a skiff," shouted Ben, raising his voice as I pulled away from him. "Way she sets out of water I'd call her a lap-streak dingy. If that feller's takin' his girl out rowin' he'll have to work his passage home against this tide . . . Well, so long, Ros. Come again." I nodded a goodby, and settled down for my long row, a good deal longer this time on account of the ebb.
"Good skiff for her place, but no good for this yere river!" and so on. She is a lap-streak, square-sterned craft, of white cedar three-eighths of an inch thick; fifteen feet in length and four of beam; weighs just a hundred pounds; comfortably holds us and our luggage, with plenty of spare room to move about in; is easily propelled, and as stanch as can be made.
The whole vast sea shone and twinkled like another firmament, against which the figures of our men, sitting with their faces toward us, were outlined darkly. The grim, set features of our first mate, sitting beside me, were faintly illuminated. There was no sound but the whisper of passing waves against our lap-streak, and the low, murmuring conversation of the men. I had my face toward the shore.
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