The boatmen had realised our dangerous straits, and failing at the pinch, as I have seen Chinamen do before and since, crouched down with faces blanched to putty and almost too terror-stricken to bail out the water which we shipped in ever-increasing quantities. A thick mist of driven spray covered the surface of the lake, and the boat rolled wildly in the waves, which although not very high were short and heavy and hissed as if in a rapid. We should have been swamped over the stern again and again had it not been for the hood, which more by good fortune than by design I had left standing. The tiller happily was a long one, and by exerting all my strength we kept a fairly straight course, eventually dashing through clouds of driven foam into the creek, though in a half-swamped condition. We had got off scot-free, but it had been touch and go. If the hood and tarpaulins had failed to keep out the seas we should have been pooped, and if the jib-sheets had carried away or the rudder become unshipped we should have broached to, when immediate destruction would have been our lot. The remainder of the journey was simple enough, and in a few hours we were safely back in port. Both at Hongkong and Shanghai, where the European population numbers several thousands, there is a yacht club, each containing several up-to-date classes, ranging from half-raters to fifteen-tonners, and regattas under various conditions are of frequent occurrence. These clubs, as well as the yachts, being practically identical with those in this country, it is unnecessary to enter into details. At Hongkong the sailing is on a bright, blue sea, whether in the magnificent harbour or amongst the numerous lovely islands, while at Shanghai it is on the muddy waters of the Whangpoo, which, except for the fact that it is the harbour of this thriving settlement, where scores of vessels of all sizes and nationalities ride at anchor or are berthed alongside wharves, is a small and uninteresting river flowing into the estuary of the Yangtse. From the ancient Portuguese colony of Macao, distant forty miles from Hongkong and celebrated as the home of the poet Camoens, come fleets of fishing-boats, which, in pursuit of their calling, cruise amongst the islands in the delta of the West River. These "Macao junks" are about the best sea-boats and the fastest sailers of all Chinese vessels. Built on graceful lines, and of light material, they possess the buoyancy of a duck, rarely shipping water even in the heaviest sea, while with two masts carrying well-shaped sails of matting, immense perforated, balanced rudders, and being of light draught, they handle so well that they can turn a complete circle in their own length. While unable to sail as close to the wind as a yacht, their chief point is in running, when with huge sails set on either side they will tear along at a pace perfectly astounding for craft of their unpretentious build and rig.