A GOOD CRAFT FOR THE BALTIC " 317 TOWING HEAD TO WIND " 319 A DROGUE " 321 CHART OF THE DUBLIN, KINGSTOWN, AND MERSEY COURSE 327 'FREDA' _R. T. Pritchett_ 336 'CHALLENGE,' 1876 " 339 'MINERVA,' 1888--LINES AND MIDSHIP SECTION _Fife of Fairlie_ 368 'NATICA,' 1892 _From a photograph by Adamson, of Rothesay_ 374 IN THE CHANNEL _R. T. Pritchett_ 406 CHAPTER I [Illustration: Yachts.] INTRODUCTION BY SIR EDWARD SULLIVAN, BART. [Illustration: VICTORIA CUP. 1893.] It is related that Chrysippus, a cynic, killed himself in order that he might sooner enjoy the delights of Paradise. Philosophers do queer things sometimes. Many who are not philosophers kill themselves in order to avoid the miseries of this world; but, as far as I know, this is the only case on record of a man killing himself from impatience to enjoy the pleasures of the next. Ideas of Paradise are exceedingly various. To the ancients Paradise meant a _dolce far niente_ in the Elysian Fields; to the North American Indians it means happy hunting grounds and plenty of fat buffalo. The Scythians believed in a Paradise of immortal drunkenness and drinking blood out of the skulls of their enemies, and the Paradise that to-day influences the belief of one-fourth of the human race is contained in Chapter X. of the Koran. To Madame de Chevreuse it meant chatting with her friends in the next world. To one friend of mine it was galloping for ever over a grass country without gates. To another it meant driving four horses, with Tim Carter seated at his side. To some, I believe, Paradise means yachting, and for my own part, I think a 200-ton schooner, a ten-knot breeze, and a summer sea hard to beat. Whether yachting approaches one's conception of Paradise or not, I think there are very few of us who, if they do not suffer from that hopeless affection the _mal de mer_, do not more or less enjoy a life on the ocean wave; it is so fresh and life-giving and so various. 'A home on the stormy deep' we won't say so much about. I have seen two or three storms at sea, but I have never found them pleasant; very much the contrary. There is grandeur, if you like, but there is also terror and horror. As black as night she turned to white, And cast against the cloud A snowy sheet as if each surge Upturned a sailor's shroud. This is poetry; but it is true. You look to windward, and you look to leeward; you look ahead, and you look astern, and you feel that, if you are not already engulfed, you probably may be in the next minute.